The Merry Monarch's Wife

by Jean Plaidy

  Lord Feversham smiled. “It is what he has been waiting for since the death of Charles.”

  “I trust the King will come safely out of this.”

  “I promise Your Majesty that I shall do my best to assist him in that.”

  November was with us when news came that William of Orange had landed at Torbay.

  WILLIAM AND MARY

  THERE FOLLOWED A TIME OF UNCERTAINTY WHEN THERE was chaos in the streets of London, and mobs were always eager to find an excuse to attack the homes of rich and well-known Catholics. I wondered if they would turn on me.

  I think James must have realized from the first that he was going to lose his throne. It was typical of him that, after the first shock, he would accept this in an almost resigned manner as the inevitable sacrifice he had had to make for his faith.

  I was filled with pity for him and his Queen, so recently proud of their little son.

  James would have been desolate by the news of the desertion of those on whom he had relied. John Churchill was the first, and he had most of the army with him; others followed. James’s son-in-law, the Prince of Denmark, had declared for William.

  The most cruel desertion was by his daughter Anne. He had called on her for comfort, only to find that, in the company of Sarah Churchill, she had left, which meant that she too was not on his side.

  I remembered well his love for his daughters. I had often seen him playing with them when they were little more than babies. Now Mary, who had been his favorite, was the wife of the man who had come against him. He would expect her to stand with her husband. But Anne…his little Anne…influenced no doubt by Sarah Churchill, had left him and gone over to the enemy.

  It may have been that after that he had little heart for the fight. How could he, with only a few friends to help him?

  Perhaps even then, if he had given up his faith, he might have reinstated himself; but that was something he would never do. Knowing how precarious his position was, he had sent the Queen and her little baby to France.

  I wondered what would become of me. Charles’s niece Mary would now be Queen. I remembered her as she had been on her wedding day—a tearful bride, dreading marriage, particularly marriage to William, Prince of Orange. I knew a little about him now, for he had made himself an important figure on the continent and had become a man of some significance. I wondered if Mary was reconciled to her marriage.

  Then I began to question the wisdom of staying here. Perhaps I should have left when I had first planned to do so. I knew that William was a Protestant, a Calvinist, and I believed somewhat puritanical, though there had been rumors that he had not been entirely faithful to his wife. Not in the blatant manner of Charles, of course, but secretly, which suggested that he liked to keep his vices hidden. Elizabeth Villiers, who had gone to Holland with Mary at the time of her marriage, had been his mistress for years, according to rumor, while outwardly he maintained a strict moral attitude. I wondered whether Charles’s way was more acceptable.

  Perhaps I was prepared to judge William harshly. For some time he had had his eyes on the English crown. He had a claim, of course. His wife, Mary, had been in line for the succession before the birth of the new baby; William himself was the son of another Mary, daughter of the first King Charles. At the birth of James’s son, William must have heartily approved of the story of the baby in the warming-pan. In any case, it was clear that he had long decided that the throne of England should be his.

  I had been fond of James…as Charles had, but how much wiser Charles had been! He had always known that he must never admit the religion he would have preferred to follow…at least not until he was on his deathbed. He had made that agreement with Louis that he would change his religion when the time was ripe, knowing that it never would be. If only James had had his brother’s foresight. People would say that James deserved his fate, but being fond of him, I could not bear to see him brought so low, deserted by his own daughters. And I must dislike those who had brought him to this state.

  It was December. James had fled from the capital and I heard that Lord Feversham had been captured by William’s men. I was horrified by the circumstances in which this had taken place, for he had come to William with a message from James, and they had made him a prisoner.

  It was evening when one of my ladies came to me in dismay.

  “Your Majesty, King William is here. He has come to see you.”

  I was astonished. “He…he must not be kept waiting,” I stammered. “Bring him in at once.”

  There he was. He had changed little from the young man who had come to marry Mary. That must have been ten years ago. He was a small man with little grace, yet I sensed in him great strength.

  He bowed rather stiffly. I inclined my head, trying to assume a coolness I did not feel. I was not going to accept him as King yet. If he succeeded in taking the crown, I should have to leave.

  He was somewhat tight-lipped and pale; there was a certain fragility in his body which belied the determination of the firm jaw and the piercing alertness of the eyes.

  Charles’s nephew! I thought. There is no resemblance between them whatsoever.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have no doubt that you are disturbed by events, and I have come to tell you that my wife and I feel nothing but kindness for you.”

  “That is gracious of you,” I said, with perhaps a touch of asperity.

  He feigned not to notice my tone and went on: “I trust you are comfortable here.”

  “Thank you. I am.”

  He waved his hand. “I have heard that you like to listen to music and play the cards.”

  “I do.”

  “I myself like a game. ’Tis a pleasant pastime, is it not? I see no tables here.”

  I replied: “My Chamberlain, Lord Feversham, looks after the tables. Since he departed I have not had the heart for cards.”

  “That must not be. I would not care to think that you are missing so much of what you enjoy. Your Majesty’s diversions must continue.”

  I stared at him in astonishment, and his face twisted into a smile almost reluctantly, as though it were a position in which it rarely found itself.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He bowed and took his leave. I could not understand why he had come to see me. He was a man who would always have motives. In this case it was the matter of Lord Feversham. It must have been others who had detained him, and it was not ethical to arrest an emissary. William was precise, very much aware of the orderly conduct of diplomacy and he would not tolerate any departure from the rules.

  It must have been the reason for his visit, for he was incapable of sentimental feelings. Lord Feversham should never have been detained; therefore he was released, the excuse being that I needed him to organize my card games.

  It was a pleasure to see Lord Feversham again. I learned from him something of what was happening throughout the country, and it was far from reassuring.

  THOSE WERE UNEASY DAYS. I was never sure what was going to happen next. It seemed certain that James would leave the country. It would be the best thing he could do, but it was hardly likely that he would not make some effort to return.

  Louis would receive him as he had received Mary Beatrice and the Prince of Wales. Once over there, perhaps James would gather a force together and come back to challenge William. I hoped he would not do so, for I was sure such an action could only result in disaster for him. I knew nothing of warfare but instinct told me that in a conflict between them, William must be the victor. Moreover, for years the people had been indicating that they would not accept a Catholic king. Throughout the country they were welcoming William and Mary.

  I came to the conclusion that I must delay my departure no longer when a Bill was introduced into the Commons to limit my household, and many of my servants were sent away because they were Catholics. I was angry, but I had to obey. It was distressing to part with so many of my old friends.

  James landed in Ireland where he had
some support.

  I feared for him. I feared for myself, because two or three days before William was due to leave for Ireland, there to do battle with James, I had a visit from Lord Nottingham, Queen Mary’s Chamberlain.

  He came to Somerset House and asked for an interview…perhaps not so much asked as demanded.

  He did not treat me with the respect to which I had become accustomed, and when I asked him what his business was he said I was to move from Somerset House to Windsor or Audley End, as it was understood that at Somerset House there were meetings where certain Catholics were “caballing” in a manner opposed to the King’s government.

  I pointed out to him that Somerset House was my residence. It had been given to me as part of my marriage settlement and, although I had not received all that was due to me, at least I intended to keep this.

  “It is His Majesty’s wish that you leave here,” said Nottingham.

  I refused to be intimidated. I knew that I was unpopular in the country and people did not care what happened to me. I was of no use to William and Mary. I was, in fact, an encumbrance. I supposed that since it was William’s policy to remove all privileges from Catholics, I, being one of them, must expect such treatment.

  But I would not give in easily.

  I said: “Will you please return to King William and tell him that I desire to leave his dominions. If he would provide ships for the voyage, I should be ready to leave without delay. If he does not do this, I intend to stay in this house, which is undoubtedly mine by treaty.”

  Nottingham was astounded, but not more so than I when I received William’s reply.

  Here again he showed his respect for law. He knew that, by right, Somerset House belonged to me.

  He was apologetic. There had been a mistake. If I wished to stay at my residence of Somerest House I must do so and not think of leaving.

  It was a triumph—though a small one.

  I had expected Mary to remember me with affection. We had, as I thought, been fond of each other in the past, but she was beginning to show a certain animosity toward me.

  Although she had gone into her marriage with great reluctance, she now seemed devoted to her husband, and was urging the nation to pray for his success in Ireland, and caused a prayer to be circulated throughout the country which she ordered to be said in all churches.

  I could not pray against James. I regarded him as my brother and he had always been a good friend to me.

  “I will not have it said in my chapel,” I said to Lord Feversham.

  “Then,” he replied, “it shall be excluded.”

  All might have been well but for the gossip. There were a number of Protestants in my household since the expulsion of my Catholic servants, and it was not long before Mary heard that prayers for her husband’s success had not been said in my chapel.

  Questions were asked and the priest in charge was arrested.

  He confessed that he had acted on the orders of Queen Catherine’s Chamberlain.

  As a result of this Lord Feversham was summoned to an audience with the Queen.

  How I wished she had asked me to visit her instead of Lord Feversham. I was very anxious that he should not be blamed for what was entirely my decision.

  Lord Feversham returned in a state of some concern.

  “Queen Mary is very angry,” he said. “Alas, she blames you. She says a closer watch should be kept on you because she doubts your loyalty to King William and herself.”

  “Why does she behave so?” I cried. “She used to be so different. She sounds as though she hates me.”

  “She stands beside her husband now,” said Lord Feversham. “Everyone who is not his friend is her enemy. Your Majesty will have to act with care.”

  How right he was.

  I must get into touch with my brother. I knew most definitely now that there was no place for me here.

  IT WAS THREE YEARS before I was able to leave.

  During that time William was victorious in the famous battle of the Boyne and James retired to France. His defeat was final. William and Mary were the acknowledged King and Queen of England. The country settled down. The people had determined they would not be ruled by James and they had had their way.

  Indeed, there was no place for me in England, and I knew I must leave as soon as possible.

  But it was not until the March of that year 1692—thirty years after I had first set foot in England—that I was able to leave.

  PORTUGAL

  IT WAS WITH MIXED EMOTIONS THAT I WENT. I WAS TORTURED with memories of my arrival all those years ago, and Charles was often in my thoughts.

  It was hard to accept that I wanted to leave—but England was a new country under William and Mary. It was no longer Merry England. Morals had changed. If the King did have a mistress this was discreetly hidden. He was never seen dallying with her in the apartments or sauntering in the park. That behavior belonged to another age. There were many who said the change was good for the country, and they may have been right.

  Yet how I longed for those earlier days—but I had to look ahead.

  I was taking a few of my household with me, among them the Countess of Fingall. It showed the depth of their affection for me that they wanted to come. They could not be sure what would happen in my native land—and I was not able to tell them.

  On landing in France, I was received with honor at Louis’s command. He invited me to break my journey with a stay at his court.

  I sent a grateful message back to him, but I told him I could not stay with him, as I must not disappoint my brother who was expecting me. I knew Louis’s methods. He would want to control me in matters of state.

  I must be free of that. I wanted peace. I often thought of the Villa Viçosa and how my father had longed to return to it. I understood his feelings well—more now than I ever did. I, too, just wanted to live quietly.

  Moreover, I had not been in the best of health. During the journey I suffered from an attack of erysipelas—a most distressing, disfiguring disease which made me feel that I wanted to shut myself away and see no one.

  My brother had sent a party to meet me and accompany me across Spain, so when I felt so ill I had help at hand. Pedro had had news of my indisposition and sent Dr. Antonio Medes, his chief physician, to me. That was a great relief, for I soon recovered under his care, and by the time I reached Lisbon I was entirely well.

  I was greeted with great acclaim by the people of my homeland. I was deeply moved. It was wonderful to know that they wanted me here. The people of England had never really liked me. How different this was! Here they still remembered that it was my marriage to England which helped free Portugal from the grip of the tyrant Spain.

  And there was Pedro. He had changed…naturally he would, in thirty years. He had become a man with cares and responsibilities, and this had left its mark. There was a new dignity about him, though.

  We gazed at each other in silence for a few moments before we embraced.

  “Catherine,” he said. “I am so happy to see you. At last you have come home.”

  “And you, little brother, you have become a king.”

  He lifted his shoulders…and a look of regret crossed his face. I guessed he was thinking of Alfonso—as I was.

  He said: “There is much to talk of. First I must present you to the Queen.”

  This was not the wife of Alfonso, whom he had married when Alfonso was sent to the Azores, leaving his kingdom and his wife to Pedro. She had died some years before, and he was now married to Maria Sophia of the Palatinate of Neuburg.

  We exchanged greetings. She was very pleasant and I felt that I could be her friend.

  Then Pedro insisted that I must sit in his coach with him and his Queen so that we might ride into the capital together.

  What a triumph that entry was! I knew then that I had been right to come.

  Later my brother and his Queen took me to the palace they had prepared for me. I was delighted with the Quinta de Alcantara,
and when I saw how eager my brother and his wife were that I should have every comfort there, I believed I could be at peace.

  AND SO I CAME HOME.

  The years are passing, as they do quickly as one grows old.

  I am surrounded by good friends. My dear Countess of Fingall left me at the turn of the century. She was longing for her home but she wept at our parting. I shared her sadness, but I understood her need to return. In her place there came my dear Donna Inez Antonia de Tavora, who has become very close to me.

  My brother’s wife, Maria Sophia, has become a dear friend, and we spend much time together. Pedro is determined that I shall have every comfort and be treated with honor wherever I go. He need have no concern about this. The affection shown me by my countrymen and women is spontaneous and comes from the heart. They have known the horrors of war and they can never be grateful enough to me, for they always consider that it was due to my marriage that we emerged from the yoke of oppression.

  I am happy now…in my way. Frequently I think of Charles. It is almost as though he is with me. I often say to myself: “What would he have said to that?” And I try to conjure up some witty remark. But of course, I could never match his wit.

  I try not to think of him, laughing with Barbara Castlemaine, joking with Nell Gwynne, gazing longingly at Frances Stuart, in deep conversation with Louise de Keroualle. Instead I remember him by my bedside when he thought I lay dying. I remember his tenderness when my enemies sought to destroy me. I would think of the song he once wrote, and I felt that the last verse was meant for me:

  But when I consider the truth of her heart

  Such an innocent passion, so kind, without art

  I fear I have wronged her, and hope she may be

  So full of true love to be jealous of me

  O then ’tis I think no joys are above

  The pleasures of love.

  I was the innocent one. He wanted my love. He could never be faithful to any one woman, but that did not mean he did not love.