The Merry Monarch's Wife

by Jean Plaidy

  “Oh,” she went on, “I have great hopes of James. He has seen the Light. Charles perhaps will come to it in time. My little Henrietta—there has never been any question with her. She is truly Catholic, and now she is married into France as well. Of all my children, she is the closest to me. I cannot tell you what a blessing she has been to me all these years. She hardly knew her father. She was only five years old when he was murdered. She escaped to France and has become more French than English. Charles loves her dearly.”

  “Yes, he has spoken to me of her.”

  “His dear Minette! She adores Charles and he her. They have always loved each other dearly. She is married now to Philippe, brother of the King of France. It should have been Louis himself. I trust she will be happy.”

  “It is not often in royal marriages that happiness is found,” I said soberly.

  “That is true, alas. I was fortunate. I believe you can be, my dear, if you are careful. We all have to pick our way through life. Nothing is easy. Do not ask for too much and you may not be disappointed. Harken to me. When did I ever say I was satisfied? I have made so many mistakes in my life and I greatly regret that I could only see them after I had made them. I often ask myself how much I contributed to the tragedy, how much was due to me that I am a lonely widow and my dear Charles was cruelly murdered. Perhaps I was in some way to blame. Perhaps he might have been here now…sitting beside me…and I might be Queen of England still and you, my dear, Princess of Wales.”

  “You must not blame yourself,” I said.

  “I wonder. When we get old, we look back…our lives become overshadowed by memories of the past. But no matter how much one weeps, tears will not wash it out.”

  “I am making you sad.”

  “No, chérie, you make me happy. You are the wife I would have chosen for Charles. He is fond of you, I know.”

  “But fonder of Lady Castlemaine.”

  “No. No. That is a sort of fever, I know. I was brought up at the court of Henri Quatre. I know how my father felt toward the myriads of women who surrounded him. They were necessary to him, but it was not deep love. It is a surrender to the irresistible passion of the moment. Understand that and you will have nothing to fear. The crown is yours. You are the King’s wife. These women can do you no harm. Stand firm and remember that…and you have won the battle. You will be the Queen when they are forgotten.”

  “How wonderful it has been for me to be with you.”

  “For me too, my dear. I came to see you, and I have not been disappointed.”

  WE HAD LEFT HAMPTON COURT for Whitehall, that palace which for Charles must hold some very tragic memories, for it was there, before the banqueting hall, that his father had been cruelly murdered.

  Whitehall was a fine building. Its gatehouse, made of small square stones, glazed and tessellated, was most impressive. It had been a royal palace ever since Cardinal Wolsey had presented it to Henry VIII, hoping to soften that despotic monarch’s heart toward him for a little longer before he met his inevitable fate. It had been changed since then and, because some of the buildings which had been added were in white stone, it was called Whitehall.

  I could not be as happy there as I had been at Hampton Court, where I had gone in blissful ignorance with my romantic dreams.

  I had come a long way since then.

  I saw a great deal of Lady Castlemaine, who was frequently at court. I used to watch Charles walking with her or sitting beside her at the gaming tables. Everyone was aware of his passion for her.

  There had been one concession, though. She did not live as close to me as she might have done. Instead she had her apartments in what was known as the Cockpit, which was a part of the palace, though not exactly of it, for coming out of the palace one had to cross the road to reach it. It was situated next to the tennis courts and bowling green; and as there was cockfighting there, it took its name from this.

  Queen Henrietta Maria was now installed at Somerset House.

  The Queen’s friendship had cheered me considerably, and I think Charles was delighted to see us getting on so well together.

  It was necessary that I should be present on every occasion of importance, and as there were many such, for numerous entertainments were devised for the pleasure of the Queen Mother, I was constantly in his company. No one would have believed that there was a rift between us, but it was still there, and I supposed would be until I received Lady Castlemaine into my bedchamber.

  Both Maria and Elvira had been ill and had absented themselves on many occasions for this reason. Maria was getting feeble; her failing eyesight inconvenienced and disturbed her more than anything else; but she was deeply upset by the manner in which I had been treated.

  In spite of the language problems, Maria and Elvira had managed to pick up what was happening in the Castlemaine affair and were incensed by it. Together they talked of the dishonor and insult to their Infanta, and had been on the point of writing to my mother. I had prevented their doing this only by forbidding it. Naturally I did not want my mother to know. She had been adamant about my refusing to receive Lady Castlemaine; and that was exactly what I was doing. I could not return to Portugal, and if I were truthful, I must say I did not want to.

  The talk with the Queen Mother had brought me comfort, and I had faced the fact that seeing Charles now and then was at least better than not seeing him at all.

  Lady Castlemaine was always prominent at the functions, of course. She was the sort of person who had only to be at a gathering to be the most outstanding person there. She was always sumptuously dressed. She had some valuable jewelry—presents from the King, I imagined—her gowns were always more daringly cut than those of others; her magnificent hair was dressed to advantage on every occasion. She wore the most elegant feathered hats; and, hating her as I did, I had to admit she was splendid and the most handsome woman at court.

  One day I noticed a young man in attendance on her. He was scarcely more than a boy. I supposed he was about fifteen…perhaps even younger than that. He was exceptionally handsome, tall and dark, with an unmistakable air of assurance. Lady Castlemaine obviously thought highly of him. She was quite coquettish with him; and he seemed to enjoy this.

  Several people were with them, and they all seemed to be making much of the boy.

  A few days later I saw him again. We were at Somerset House, visiting the Queen Mother, and he was still in the company of Lady Castlemaine. I thought he must be some protégé of hers.

  I said to Donna Maria, who had recovered from her illness sufficiently to be with me: “Who is the young man over there?”

  She peered ahead, and it was brought home to me how quickly she was losing her sight. Poor Donna Maria, she was trying to hide how blind she was becoming. I turned to one of the women and said: “I should like to speak to the young man who is over there. Do you know who he is?”

  “I believe him to be Mr. James Crofts, Your Majesty,” said Lettice Ormonde, one of the women who had joined my service. “It is said that he has been long in France and has recently returned to England.”

  “He seems to be very popular. He has the dignity of a man though he can be little more than a boy.”

  Lettice Ormonde made her way to the group of which the young man was a part. She spoke to him. I heard Lady Castlemaine laugh and give the boy a little push. He looked slightly embarrassed and immediately walked to me with Lettice.

  “Mr. James Crofts, Your Majesty,” said Lettice.

  He knelt with the utmost grace. I held out my hand and he put his lips to it, and lifted his very attractive dark eyes to my face.

  “Please rise,” I said. “You may sit beside me. I have seen you here on one or two occasions.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Are you with your family?”

  “I am with Lord Crofts, Madam.”

  “He is your father?”

  “No, Your Majesty, but I live with him.”

  “I see.” I thought I must be misund
erstanding, for though I was improving rapidly, there were occasions when I was baffled.

  “And you have recently come to England?”

  “Yes, Madam, I came with the household of Queen Henrietta Maria.”

  “And Lord Crofts…your guardian…he is here today?”

  “Oh yes, Madam.”

  “You seem to know a number of people.”

  “Oh yes, Madam.”

  “And particularly Lady Castlemaine.”

  “The lady is a friend of mine, Your Majesty.”

  “Tell me how old you are.”

  “I am thirteen years old, Your Majesty.”

  “You have a tutor?”

  “Oh yes, Madam, Thomas Ross. He is the King’s librarian. Before that it was Stephen Goff. He died, and when I came to England, it was Thomas Ross.”

  “So great attention has been given to your education.”

  “Yes, Madam. I want to grow up, though. I want to be done with education.”

  Thirteen, I thought! At times he seemed much older, and then suddenly he was just a boy. I felt myself to be far more unworldly than he was.

  “Is Lord Crofts a friend of the King?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, Madam.” He went on to tell me that Lord Crofts had been with the King at the Battle of Worcester. “Do you know, Madam,” he cried with enthusiasm, “our forces were only thirteen thousand and Cromwell had thirty to forty thousand? It was small wonder we had to retreat.”

  He spoke as though he had been there.

  “You would have been a loyal supporter of the King,” I said.

  “Of a surety, Madam. I could not have been aught else. Alas, I was not born then. I wish I had been with the King…riding through the country…disguised…to Whiteladies…to Boscabel. I never tire of hearing of it.”

  “I, too, like to hear of it. The King has told me the stories…”

  I was transported to those honeymoon days when, like the simpleton I was, I had thought Charles cared for me as I did for him.

  “The King has been good to me,” said the boy almost shyly.

  “It delights me to hear it.”

  I looked up and saw that the King himself was coming toward us.

  “Well met!” he cried. He smiled from me to James Crofts. “So, sir, you have been entertaining the Queen.”

  The boy flushed slightly and lowered his eyes.

  “I trust you found him amusing,” said Charles to me.

  “I found him interesting company,” I replied.

  “Then that pleases me. Well done, James Crofts. I am leaving now,” he went on. “Come.” He took my arm. “Perhaps you would care to share our coach, James Crofts.”

  The boy’s eyes sparkled.

  “Then let us go,” said Charles. “I trust, sir, that Thomas Ross will give a good account of your diligence?”

  I marvelled that he knew so much about the boy, and I was very pleased that he had suggested I ride with him.

  My joy was short-lived, for as I was about to step into the gilded coach which was to take us to Whitehall, I saw Lady Castlemaine sitting in it.

  I was taken aback, although I knew that now and then she rode in the royal coach. I hoped the King would ask her to leave, as I was to ride with him, but he did no such thing, and I could not make a scene by refusing to ride with her. I had had my fill of scenes.

  Everything that happened to us was noted, and as we passed along the road, I saw surprise in the passersby to see me riding in the royal coach with the King, James Crofts and Lady Castlemaine.

  I WAS SOON TO DISCOVER why the sight had aroused such interest. There was something else besides the fact that Lady Castlemaine and I were riding together.

  It was Lady Suffolk who, after some pressure, enlightened me. She was my friend, I believed, and in this country I had need of friendship, so I treasured hers.

  While she was preparing me to retire for the night, I said to her: “Do you know the boy, James Crofts?”

  She paused for a moment with the brush in her hand and said, “Oh yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I found him interesting.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “I could not quite understand…though he spoke very good English…I believe he is English…but he has been a good deal in France.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “He is called Crofts and seems to be related to Lord Crofts, but I gathered Lord Crofts is not his father.”

  “No, Madam.”

  “The King seems to know him.”

  “Oh yes, Madam.”

  I turned and looked at Lady Suffolk intently. I saw that puzzled look in her face which, knowing her of old, indicated to me that she might be asking herself whether she should tell me something.

  I said: “What do you know about James Crofts, Lady Suffolk?”

  “Well, Madam, he is well known at court.”

  “So I gathered. I learned that Lord Crofts was at the Battle of Worcester.”

  “He has always been a loyal supporter of the monarchy and spent years in exile with the King.”

  “And the boy is not his son. Who is his father, then?”

  Lady Suffolk had turned away. I caught her hand. “You know,” I said. “Please tell me.”

  She said after a pause: “Your Majesty will know in time, and before long, I’ll swear. The King is his father.”

  “The King?”

  “Yes. His mother was a certain Lucy Walter. She is dead now. James was put into the care of Lord Crofts. The King has always been interested in his welfare.”

  I felt the room spinning round me. I clutched the table. I feared I was going to faint again.

  Why was it that I was always in the dark when others knew? Those people who had seen me riding in the coach knew; Lady Castlemaine knew; the whole court knew. I was the only one in ignorance.

  I had ridden in the royal coach with the King, his mistress and his bastard. It seemed significant in some way.

  I was shocked and bewildered.

  I COULD NOT SLEEP. I lay on my bed turning from side to side, imagining Charles with Lady Castlemaine. She had been giving birth to a son when I arrived. It was the reason why Charles had given so much time to me. Because she was unavailable.

  It was most shameful and humiliating.

  Could I endure it? I must. There was no going back. I remembered his voice with a hint of sarcasm: “You should discover first whether your mother would have you.” No, there was no turning back. I should have to accept my fate. And the question was in my mind: If I could go back to Portugal and never see him again, should I want to?

  The truth was that I wanted to stay. Unhappy, jealous as I was, I would rather be near him than apart. It was hard to set aside my pride and admit this, but it was true.

  I had an opportunity of talking to Queen Henrietta Maria about it. She loved to talk to me and give her advice; and, moreover, she was by now very fond of me.

  I told her that I had discovered that James Crofts was Charles’s son.

  “It’s true,” she said. “Mon Dieu, and who could doubt it! He has a look of the King…and the manners at times. Young James cannot forget that he is the son of a king. I like the boy. I advised Charles as to his education and he is being well cared for.”

  “And his mother?”

  “A slut without doubt…though not ill-born. Her father had a castle in Wales…Roch Castle, I think it was. She was just Charles’s age. They must have been about eighteen when they met. She was a beauty…though without much wit. But who looks for wit at eighteen? And Charles had enough for the two of them. She was no blushing virgin. Her favors had been somewhat freely dispensed. James once told me that Algernon Sidney had given fifty gold pieces for her, and was very aggrieved because no sooner had he paid the money than he was called away to his regiment and his brother stepped in and took the prize. She had had many lovers before and since Charles. The family’s castle had been destroyed by the Roundheads and Lucy had come by stages to the continent. It was at the
Hague where they met.”

  “And he fell in love with her?”

  “Well, perhaps. It was something more than a passing fancy. Jemmy—James Crofts—was born in ’49…that terrible year when my husband was murdered.”

  “And did Charles acknowledge James Crofts as his son then?”

  “Charles is by nature…accommodating. Is that the right word? But it seems certain Jemmy is his. I suppose one can never be absolutely certain…even in the most respectable circles.” She gave a light laugh. “But there seems little doubt. Jemmy is every inch a Stuart.”

  “And what happened to his mother? Where is she now?”

  “Where sinners go when they leave this earth. She stayed at the Hague while Charles went to Scotland, and when he came back she no longer attracted him. The boy was put with Lord Crofts, and Lucy slipped back into the life which suited her best. She was given a pension and returned to London. But her connection with Charles was known and Cromwell’s men soon discovered her whereabouts. She was arrested in some lodgings near Somerset House and spent a time in the Tower, so I heard. But they must have realized she would not have had the wit to spy, so they sent her back to the continent. She died in Paris about two years before the restoration. My son James told me that he has always been uneasy about James Crofts. There was once a rumor that Charles married Lucy Walter. Quite absurd, of course, but it alarmed James. Well, well, until you produce the heir to the throne, James is there…next in line…and if Jemmy were Charles’s legitimate son, as he would be if Charles had married Lucy Walter…well, you see what I mean. But do not fret. There was no marriage. Charles would not be such a fool…and Lucy is long since dead. James Crofts is a delightful boy…like his father in many ways. Let us hope that he does not take after his mother.”

  “I see that I have a great deal to learn.”

  “Ma chérie, we all have much to learn. When I think of the mistakes I have made in my life…poof!” She made a gesture as though to blow them away. “I could spend my time saying, ‘What if I had not done this, that?’ Oh, it is no good. Sacré bleu, one must not regret too much…concern yourself with what is…now. Make up your mind. Is this what I want? you say. Forget all that has gone before. It is now that matters.”