A Health Unto His Majesty

by Виктория Холт

  “If I had been less beautiful,” she murmured, “it would have been easier.”

  He said: “Let us talk of other matters. I will tell you of the fashions of which I hear from my sister. The French are far in advance of us and I will ask her to send French dresses for you. How would you like to come to Court in a dress from Paris?”

  “With a mask over my face, mayhap I might,” said Frances bitterly.

  “Frances, this is not like you. You used to laugh so gaily when the card houses of others collapsed. Do you remember?”

  She nodded. Then she said sadly: “Now my house has collapsed, and I see that cards were such flimsy things … so worthless with which to build a house.”

  He pressed her hands; and she turned to look into his face, hoping for what she could not possibly expect to find; the tenderness of his voice deceived her.

  How could he love her—hideous as she had become? She thought of the flaming beauty of Barbara Castlemaine; she thought of the dainty gamin charm of the player with whom she had heard he was spending much time. And how could he love Frances Stuart who had had nothing but her unsurpassed beauty, of which the hideous pox had now completely robbed her?

  She had caught him off his guard.

  She had allowed him to see her once beautiful face hideously distorted, and he knew and she knew that, whatever remedies there were, nothing could restore its beauty; and she also knew that what had prompted him to visit her was nothing but the kindness of heart he would have for any sick animal. Thus would he have behaved for any of his little dogs or the creatures he kept in his parks.

  Of all those who had courted and flattered her in the days when she had enjoyed the power her beauty had brought, there was only one who came now to visit her—the King himself; and, because of this, when she was well and no longer a danger to them, others would come, not because they cared what became of her, but because it was the custom to follow the King.

  He had come in her affliction; she would always remember that. He had risked grave sickness and possibly death by coming to her when she had felt prepared to take a quick way out of this world.

  Now he sat there on the bed and was trying to act a part; he was trying to be gay, trying to pretend that soon she would be back at Court, and the old game—she evasive, he persuasive—would begin again.

  But although he was a tolerably good actor, there had been one moment of revelation when she had seen clearly that he had no feeling for her but one, and that was pity.

  SIX

  It was springtime, and Catherine was filled with new hope. If all went well this time she might indeed present an heir to the nation. It was seven years since she had come to England, and she was more deeply in love with Charles than she had been during that ecstatic honeymoon. She no longer hoped to have his love exclusively; it would be enough for her if she might share it with all those who made demands upon it. He had so many mistresses that none was quite sure how many; he had taken a fancy to several actresses whom he saw at the theater; and, although his passion for these women was usually fleeting, he had remained constant to Eleanor Gwyn, who was affectionately known throughout the Court and country as Nelly. Barbara kept her place at the head of them, but that was largely due to Barbara herself; the King was too lazy to eject her from the position she had taken as a right; and until there came a mistress who would insist on his doing so, it seemed that there Barbara would remain.

  As to Catherine, she allowed the King’s seraglio to affect her as little as possible. She had her own court of ladies—among them poor, plain Mary Fairfax, who had suffered through her husband as Catherine had through hers. Catherine had her private chapel in the Queen Mother’s residence of Somerset House; she had her own priests and loyal servants; the King was ever kind to her and she was not unduly unhappy.

  Mary Fairfax, gentle, intelligent, and very patient, would sometimes talk of her childhood and the early days of her marriage which had been so happy, and how at that time she had believed she would continue to live in harmony with her husband all the days of her life. They had much comfort to bring each other.

  They talked of pleasant things; they never mentioned Lady Castlemaine, whom Mary Fairfax regarded as her husband’s evil genius almost as much as Catherine regarded her as Charles’.

  They talked of the coming of the child and the joy which would be felt throughout the country when it was born.

  Lying back in her white pinner, the loose folds of which were wrapped about her thickening body, Catherine looked almost pretty. She was imagining Charles’ delight in the child; she saw him as a boy—a not very pretty boy because he would be so like his father; he would have bright, merry eyes, a gentle nature and a sharp wit.

  They talked together and an hour passed merrily, but when Mary Fairfax rose to call her ladies to help the Queen disrobe, Catherine suddenly felt ill.

  Her women came hurrying in, and she saw the anxiety on their faces; she knew they were wondering: Is the Queen going to miscarry again?

  Catherine said quickly: “Send for Mrs. Nun. She is at dinner in Chaffinch’s apartments. I may need her.”

  There was consternation throughout Whitehall. Mrs. Nun had been brought away from a dinner party in great haste at the Queen’s command, and this could mean only one thing; the Queen’s time had again come too soon.

  Within a few days the news was out.

  Catherine came out of her sleep of exhaustion, and the tears fell slowly down her cheeks as she realized that, once more, she had failed.

  The Duke of Buckingham called on Barbara.

  When they were alone, he said: “So Her Majesty has failed again!”

  “The King should have married a woman who could bear him children,” declared Barbara.

  “Well, cousin,” said the Duke, “you have proved that you could do that. The only thing that would need to be proved in your case would be that the King had begotten them.”

  “It is only necessary for Queens to bear them,” said Barbara.

  “And does your rope-dancer still give you satisfaction?” asked the Duke.

  “I’ll be thankful if you will address me civilly,” snapped Barbara.

  “A friendly question, nothing more,” said Buckingham airily. “But let us not quarrel. I have come to talk business. The King is gravely disappointed. He had hoped for a son.”

  “Well, he’ll get over the disappointment, as he has been obliged to do before.”

  “It is a sad thing when a King, knowing himself to be capable of begetting strong healthy children, cannot get an heir.”

  Barbara shrugged her magnificent shoulders, but the Duke went on: “You indicate it is a matter of indifference. Know you not that if the King gets no legitimate son, one day we shall have his brother on the throne?”

  “That would seem so.”

  “And what of us when James is King?”

  “Charles’ death would be calamity to us in any case.”

  “Well, he is full of health and vigor. Now listen to me, Barbara; we must rid him of the Queen.”

  “What do you suggest? To tie her in a sack and throw her into the river one dark night?”

  “Put aside your levity. This is a serious matter. I mean divorce.”

  “Divorce!” cried Barbara shrilly. “That he might marry again! Another barren woman!”

  “How do we know she would be barren?”

  “Royal persons often are.”

  “Don’t look alarmed, Barbara. It cannot be Frances Stuart now.”

  “That pockmarked hag!” Barbara went into peals of laughter, which the very mention of Frances Stuart’s name never failed to provoke. She was serious suddenly: “Nay! Let the Queen stay where she is. She is quiet and does no harm.”

  “She does no good while she does not give the country an heir.”

  “The country has an heir in James.”

  “I’ll not stand by and see the King disappointed of a son.”

  “There is nothing else you can do abo
ut it, cousin.”

  “Indeed there is! Ashley and others are with me in this. We will arrange a divorce for the King, and he shall marry a princess who will bring him sons.”

  Barbara’s eyes narrowed. She was ready to support the Queen, because the Queen was docile. How did she know what a new Queen would do? Was her position with the King so strong that she could afford to have it shaken? And, horror of horrors, what if he looked about his Court and selected one of the beauties to be his Queen? It might so easily have been Frances Stuart. What if he should choose some fiery creature who would insist on making trouble for Lady Castlemaine?

  She would have nothing to do with this plot. She was all for letting things stay as they were.

  “The poor Queen!” said Barbara. “This is shameful. So you plot against her … you and your mischief-making Cabal. Keep your noses out of the King’s marriage; meddle with matters more fitting. I tell you I’ll do nothing to help you in this vile plot. I shall disclose it to the King. I shall …”

  The Duke took her by the wrist, but she twisted her arm free and dealt him a stinging blow across the face.

  “There, Master George Villiers, that will teach you to lay hands on me!”

  It was nothing. There had been quarrels between them before; there had been physical violence and physical tenderness; they were of a kind, and they recognized that in each other.

  Now they surveyed each other angrily, for their interests were divided.

  Buckingham laughed in her face. “I see, Madam, that your standing with the King is in such bad case that you fear a new queen who might decide to banish you forever.”

  “You see too much, sir!” cried Barbara. “I have given you great support during the last years, but doubtless you forget this, as it suits you to. Do not forget that I, who have done you much good, could do you much harm.”

  “Your wings are clipped, Barbara. The King but allows you to stay at Court out of laziness, rather than his desire to keep you there.”

  “You lie.”

  “Do I? Try leaving and see then how eager he will be to have you back.” Fear was in Barbara’s heart. There was some truth in Buckingham’s words.

  “Go and do your worst!” she cried. “See if, without my help—which you consider so worthless—you can rid the country of the Queen.”

  “So you have a fellow feeling with the Queen now,” sneered Buckingham. “Two poor deserted women! Mrs. Nelly, they say, is an enchanting creature. She is young; she is very pretty, and she makes the King laugh.”

  “I pray you, leave my apartment,” said Barbara with dignity; but almost immediately that dignity deserted her. “Get out, you plotting hog! Get out, you murderer! I wonder poor Shrewsbury does not haunt you, that I do. Get out and plot with Shrewsbury’s widow.”

  “So you refuse to help me?”

  “Not only that; I’ll do all in my power to work against you.”

  “Think awhile, Barbara. You’ll be sorry if you do anything rashly.”

  “You dare to tell me I shall be sorry? You’ll be sorrier than I could ever be.”

  “We Villierses should stand together, Barbara. You said that.”

  “Not when it means bringing dishonor to an innocent woman,” said Barbara in a virtuous tone which sent Buckingham into hysterical laughter. Whereupon he gave, for Barbara’s benefit, an imitation of Barbara—the real Barbara, and Barbara, virtuous defender of the Queen.

  Barbara was furious; she would have flown at him and dug her nails into his face, but he was quick, and before she could reach him he was through the door, and away.

  Buckingham sought out the King and intimated that he came from the Council with a matter of grave importance to discuss.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “your Council and your country view with alarm the Queen’s sterility.”

  Charles nodded. “It is a source of great disappointment to me. There was no reason for it. No accident. Nothing wrong. It is the same as that which happened previously. Again and again she loses the child she might have.”

  “It is the way with some women, Sire. You have but to look back and consider Henry VIII and what difficulties he had in getting an heir. It brought much inconvenience to him.”

  “And greater inconvenience to his wives, I fear,” added Charles.

  “There was much unrest regarding the succession, because of the sterility of those women.”

  “In my case I have a successor in my brother James.”

  “Your brother, Sire, has turned to the Catholic Faith. Your Majesty knows what dissatisfaction that causes in the country.”

  “James is a fool,” said Charles.

  “All the more reason why Your Majesty should make sure that he is not your successor.”

  “I have tried to make sure of that, George. God knows”—he smiled wryly—“I have tried very hard indeed.”

  “All know Your Majesty’s labors have been tireless, But … there is no child, and it would seem that the Queen will never have one.”

  “Alas, it is a sad fate.”

  “Your Majesty would seem to accept it with resignation.”

  “I learned in my early youth to accept with resignation that which could not be avoided.”

  “There are means of avoiding most things, Sire.”

  “Are you back to the divorce?” asked the King.

  “It is the only way in which we may reach a satisfactory conclusion to this affair of the succession.”

  “On what grounds could one divorce as virtuous a lady as the Queen has proved herself to be?”

  “On her inability to bear an heir to the crown.”

  “Nonsense! Moreover she is a Catholic and would not agree to be divorced.”

  “She might be urged to go into a nunnery.”

  The King was silent, and Buckingham was delighted. He did not press the point. He would wait awhile. He believed the King greatly wished to be rid of his wife; it was not that he hated her; he was, in his way, fond of her; but because of her mildness, because of her resignation, she bothered him. She made him continually conscious of the way in which he treated her. He could no more deny himself the pleasure of falling in and out of light love affairs than he could stop breathing; but such was his nature that, knowing this hurt the Queen, he was uneasy in her presence; and it was of the very essence of his nature that he should avoid that which was unpleasant.

  A divorce from the Queen! Catherine to spend the rest of her days peacefully in a nunnery!

  It was a good idea. And for him the pleasure of choosing a new wife. This time he would choose with the utmost care.

  When Buckingham left the King, the Duke’s hopes were high indeed.

  At all costs he must prevent his enemy, the Duke of York, mounting the throne—even if it meant making the bastard Monmouth heir of England.

  Wild schemes formed in Buckingham’s mind. What if Charles had really been married to Lucy Water! Then Monmouth would in truth be heir to the throne. What if a box were found … a box containing papers which proved the marriage to have taken place? An excellent scheme but a wild one.

  It would be far, far better for the King to divorce Catherine, remarry, and let a new Queen produce the heir.

  Well, he decided, he was moving forward. He had discovered something. The King would not be averse to a divorce. He sought out Lauderdale and Ashley to tell them the good news.

  Barbara’s spies quickly brought the information to her.

  She sat biting her lips and contemplating the possible danger to herself from a new and beautiful Queen.

  I am satisfied with the Queen, she mused. I like the Queen—a mild and sensible lady who understands the King and his ways.

  What if the King married? She pictured another such as Frances Stuart ruling the Court. The first thing such a woman would do would be to clear out the seraglio; and who would be the first to go? Those whom she most feared and whom the King was not determined to keep.

  Barbara would certainly not allow these
plans to proceed, for the deeper they were laid the more difficult they would be to frustrate, and it might well be that her persistent relative would set about making things so very uncomfortable for the Queen that she would sigh for the quiet walls of a convent.

  Barbara sought audience with the Queen and, when she was with her, told her that what she had to say was for her ears alone.

  She fell on her knees before Catherine and kissed her hand; then she lifted those bright flashing eyes to Catherine’s face and said: “I have come to warn Your Majesty.”

  “Of what?” inquired Catherine. She spoke harshly. She was tormented by hundreds of mental pictures when this woman stood before her. She saw her in the arms of the King; she thought of his passionate lovemaking; she thought of all she had heard of this infamous woman, of the numerous lovers she took, and how she kept some as servants in her household so that she might call them instantly when she needed them. She thought of those days during her honeymoon, when Lady Castlemaine had been merely a name to be shuddered over and never mentioned.

  Barbara boldly answered: “Of your enemies, who seek to destroy you. They would part you from the King.”

  Catherine turned pale in spite of her determination to remain controlled before this woman.

  “How … how could they do that, Lady Castlemaine?”

  “Madam, you have failed to give the King children.”

  Catherine winced and thought again of the many times this woman had been brought to bed, as she said, of the King’s child.

  “And,” went on Barbara, “there are certain of his ministers who seek to have him set you aside. They talk of divorce.”

  “I would not agree.”

  “Your Majesty should never … never agree to that!”

  “Lady Castlemaine, you have no need to urge me to my duty.”

  “Madam, you misunderstand me. Nor do you understand how wicked, how determined are these men who scheme to displace you. They will try persuasion at first, and if that fails they will seek to compel you.”

  “They dare not compel me. If they harmed me, they would have to answer to my brother.”

  Barbara raised her well-arched brows, indicating that Pedro of Portugal already had too many commitments to leave his country and sail across the seas in what would be a feeble attempt to defend his sister.