The Three Crowns epub

by Jean Plaidy

  James felt triumphant. He conducted his affairs, he believed, as successfully as his brother. Barbara Villiers created scandal enough and so did the playgirls, but he at least had chosen his mistresses from a higher social scale than the latter.

  His Duchess was angry, but that was natural. He would give way to her in some ways and she must perforce give way to him in others. For one thing, she was reading books, constantly talking with priests, and was arousing suspicions that she was leaning very close to Catholicism. That would scarcely bring her popularity and was a more serious matter than taking a mistress or two.

  James’s visits to Scotland Yard were growing more and more frequent. He was deeply involved with Margaret and now that her husband had, as he said, overcome his folly and accepted this truly natural state of affairs, there was no need for them even to be discreet. Lady Denham was the Duke’s mistress and that was an end of the matter.

  But one day when he made his way to the Denhams’ residence he was met by one of Sir John’s servants who attempted to bar his way.

  James was astounded; then it occurred to him that the fellow did not recognize him.

  But he did, for he stammered: “Your Grace … you should not go up there …”

  Should not mount the stairs to his mistress’s room when she was expecting him, when he had been there a hundred times!

  “Stand aside, fellow,” he began; then he noticed that the servant was trembling and trying to tell him something.

  “Your Grace … a terrible tragedy …”

  “Lady Denham?”

  “Your Grace … Lady Denham is … dead.”

  “Dead! It’s not possible. I saw her yesterday. How can it be?”

  “They say, Your Grace, that it was chocolate. A poisoned cup of chocolate.”

  The Duke pushed the man aside. He ran to his mistress’s room and throwing open the door stood aghast, staring at the bed.

  Several people, who were in the room, stood aside as he slowly advanced and stood looking down at his murdered mistress.

  The great topic of conversation at Court and in the streets was the Denham affair. Rumor ran wild. Sir John Denham had poisoned his wife because she was unfaithful to him with the Duke of York. The Countess of Rochester, another of the Duke’s mistresses, had poisoned her because of jealousy on account of the Duke of York. No matter what the rumor, the name of the Duke of York was always mentioned and because of this there was greater interest in the affair than there would otherwise have been.

  A few puritans condemned the Duke of York and the manners of the Court, but those who were in favor of the new freedom—and these were the majority—turned suddenly against Sir John Denham, who had married a young woman and murdered her, her only sin being that she was in the fashion.

  As a result, crowds gathered outside Sir John’s house brandishing sticks and knifes.

  “Come out, John Denham,” they chanted. “Let’s see how you like the same medicine that you gave to your wife.”

  When Sir John’s life was in danger as if by magic all signs of his madness disappeared. He had the rumor circulated that if he lived long enough he would give his wife a magnificent funeral at St. Margaret’s Westminster at which burned wine would be distributed to all who cared to partake of it.

  Public feeling toward Sir John immediately changed. He now became a generous man, a wronged husband. The Duke of York was the real villain of the story—he and Sir John’s slut of a wife. Those who had previously waved threatening weapons, now drank his burned wine and commiserated with him. But there had to be a culprit, for someone, the crowd was certain, had put poison into Lady Denham’s chocolate. There had been rumors of the Duchess’s jealousy, so what more natural than that a jealous woman should seek to rid herself of her rival? This was the best story so far. An erring husband; a jealous wife.

  The people were eager to believe they had discovered the murderess. It should be the Duchess of York.

  The elder Villiers girls were whispering together, every now and then glancing at Mary who sat with her sister Anne trying to interest her in writing her name. Anne was smiling as Mary guided her hand. She did not greatly care for the task, but she loved to be with Mary and tried to do all she could to please her and their heads were close together as they bent over the table.

  “There were such crowds,” whispered Elizabeth. “They were going to kill him. And they would have … if he had not promised them wine at the funeral.”

  “It would have served him right,” put in Katherine.

  “Oh no, it wouldn’t. It wasn’t his fault. He was just angry.”

  “But if he poisoned her …”

  “Don’t talk so loudly.” Significant glances were sent toward the Princesses at the table. Anne did not hear them; the tip of her tongue slightly protruded from the corner of her mouth showed that she was trying hard to do what was expected of her. Mary was listening intently, because she knew by the tone of Elizabeth’s voice that she was talking of something which was unpleasant and which in some obscure way, concerned her, Mary. “Our mother would punish you if she knew you talked of such matters … especially …” A quick look in the direction of the two at the table.

  So it is before us, that she must not speak of this, thought Mary.

  “If a wife takes a lover,” went on Elizabeth speaking very distinctly, “her husband has a right to poison her, even if …”

  “But the people are angry that he poisoned her?”

  “Don’t interrupt. Even if her lover was … someone in a high position.”

  “But if …”

  “Katherine! You know you must not speak of it … here.”

  Mary leaned over her sister so that Anne’s soft hair caressed her cheek. How happy she would be, she thought then, if there was no one in her nursery but her dear sister. They could have been happy together—perhaps Barbara might stay with them. Barbara was the Villiers girl she liked best, and was more gentle than the others.

  “No, Anne,” she said, “that is not good. Just look at that second ‘n’.”

  Anne put her head on one side and smiled adoringly at her sister.

  “You do it, Mary. You do it so beautifully.”

  Mary wrote “Anne” firmly in the script of which she was rather proud.

  “It’s a much nicer name when you write it,” commented Anne, snuggling close to her sister. “I don’t think I should learn to write it when you do it so well.”

  “Oh, Anne, you are lazy!”

  The Villiers girls were still whispering together; but Mary wanted to go on laughing with Anne; she wanted to shut her ears for fear she heard so much of what they were saying that she understood. She was sure it was unpleasant.

  The Duchess of York was a proud woman. The passion which had inspired the Duke to shut his eyes to all obstacles when he married her, had perhaps made her expect too much from their marriage. She had certainly gained a great deal for, as wife to the heir presumptive, she was a powerful woman and as it was said that she led the Duke by the nose in all things but his codpiece, her significance was accepted by all.

  But her pride was deeply wounded by his constant love affairs. She was a fool to expect fidelity perhaps; but he might have used a little discretion. Of all his mistresses there was one who stood most firmly in his affections; and it was this very firmness which infuriated Anne. Arabella Churchill was a woman to be reckoned with. She was ambitious, Anne was sure; and the fact that she was no real beauty, made her all the more to be feared.

  Lady Southesk, Anne had forgiven him. The woman had, as Anne had remarked cuttingly to her husband, “passed through the hands of so many gentlemen that she must be slightly soiled by now.” Anne would not demean herself by showing jealousy of such a creature whose powers to amuse must surely be short-lived.

  Frances Jennings had succeeded in giving Anne a few anxious moments when the slut deliberately dropped the Duke’s love letters to her at the feet of the Duchess. There was Elizabeth Hamilton and of
course Margaret Denham who had come to an end which was unfortunate for her; but none of these worried the Duchess as the Churchill woman did. She was ambitious that one; already she had induced James to look after her family. George Churchill had been found a place in the navy and John in the army.

  She might rail against James; he would listen patiently, perhaps promise to mend his ways; but of course he had no intention of keeping that promise for more than a few hours.

  If she had the time and inclination for such an adventure she would take a lover. She almost had a few years ago. Henry Sidney was one of the most handsome men in the Court; he had been Groom of the Bedchamber and when he had become her Master of Horse Anne had been thrown constantly into his company. How wounded she had been at that time, knowing that her husband was turning more and more to his mistresses and understanding that she would never be able to divert his attention from them! It had been more difficult in those days to accept humiliation.

  And how furious James had been when he suspected Sidney of being her lover! How he had ranted and raged—which was so unlike him. His jealousy had been gratifying but he refused to agree that what was acceptable in a husband should be in a wife; and Sidney’s handsome face had not appeared at Court for a long time. The plague had followed quickly on that affair, but Anne was sure that Henry Sidney remained in the Duke’s mind, as memorable a disaster as the great sickness.

  She was thinking of this as she sat alone in her bedchamber, asking herself whether the recent Denham tragedy would make James a little more careful in his choice of mistresses when she noticed a paper which had evidently been thrust under her door.

  Going to it and, bending carefully as she must on account of her weight, she picked it up, and taking it to the window read it. As she did so the color came into her white flabby face. It was a verse … a lampoon directed against her, telling of her jealousy, of the Duke’s preference for another woman which had caused her to have a dose of poison put into that woman’s chocolate.

  This was too much. To endure his infidelities was one thing. To be accused of poisoning his mistresses was another. If it had been Arabella Churchill there might have been some reason in it. But to dare to accuse her of murdering the insignificant Margaret Denham was beyond endurance.

  Grasping the paper in her hand she went along to her husband’s apartment. Mary was with him, but she scarcely saw the child.

  “Look at this,” she said, thrusting the paper into his hands.

  James read it; and before he spoke he caressed his daughter’s head.

  “Go now, my dear,” he said, giving her a little push toward an ante chamber.

  When Mary had disappeared Anne said: “This is more than I will endure.”

  James lifted his shoulders. “There are always these lampoons.”

  “They would not be if your conduct did not give the writers what they are looking for.”

  “They would always find something.”

  “I suspect Rochester to be the author of this.”

  “That man! I would my brother would dismiss him from the Court.”

  “Dismiss his boon companion. He would rather see you gone, James … you with your scandals and your follies.”

  “I doubt I’ll ever make a scandal as great as my brother’s.”

  “He is the King. He can keep twenty mistresses at a time and the people will applaud him. You, my dear Duke, do not enjoy the people’s indulgence to that extent. And when your mistresses are murdered—well, that is a serious matter. Charles has not been involved in that sort of scandal.”

  “You are shouting,” said James. “You will be heard.”

  “Those who listen will only hear what they already know.”

  “I forbid you to talk in this way.”

  Anne laughed. “You forbid me. It is no use trying to cover up your indiscretions by playing the great duke and stern master. It will not do. I shall not endure these humiliations.”

  “You have not always been so virtuous yourself, if I remember rightly. What of Henry Sidney?”

  “Henry Sidney. He was merely my Master of Horse.”

  “And of you it seems.”

  “A fabrication which existed in your mind. It was so convenient to delude yourself that your wife was unfaithful—since you had deceived her with … how many? Or would it be impossible to count?”

  “You are overwrought.”

  “I have just been accused of murder. What are you going to do about that?”

  “I tell you, there will always be lampoons. They are written daily about Charles and Barbara Castlemaine.”

  “I do not think they have been accused of murder.”

  “Oh, come, that suggestion is not serious.”

  “Adultery. Lechery. They are to be expected in this Court. In fact, if one is not a lecher or an adulterer one is considered old-fashioned, behind the times. But murder has not yet been judged a virtue.”

  “Anne, be calm.”

  “I do not feel calm.”

  “We cannot talk with ease until you do.”

  “And you would rather leave me until I am calm? That is a good excuse. You would rather be off with that sly-eyed Churchill woman. Very well, go to her. I’ll warrant she has thought up some new request to ask of you in exchange for her favors.”

  “Is that what Sidney did? What did you have to grant him for his?”

  “You are insulting.”

  “And are you not?”

  “I have reason to be. Oh, you make a great show of being an irate husband. Banishing poor Sidney from the Court. It was such a shocking thing he did. Smiled at your wife. Showed her some pity because she must continually suffer the degradation of her husband’s infidelities paraded daily before the Court under her very nose with little regard for her feelings …”

  In the anteroom Mary listened. She did not want to listen; but her father had forgotten that the door through which she had gone led only to the anteroom and once there, there was no escape.

  She wished they would not talk so loudly. As she listened she kept seeing Elizabeth Villiers’s sly face. Elizabeth was right then. There was a shocking scandal about her father and her mother.

  It was so hard to believe. A short while ago he had been laughing with her; she had sat on his knee and he had been telling her stories of his adventures as he loved to. Now he was quite different. She could not believe that the kind and gentle man was the same one who was shouting at her mother. To discover that people could change so quickly was alarming; it made the world seem an insecure place.

  She did not want to hear their quarrels; she did not want to know of them; she wanted to live in a world where there were only herself and her sister Anne, where everything was pleasant and comfortable, and there were no grown up people with their sly furtive secrets which she only half understood.

  She was afraid that one of them would come into the anteroom and find her there. She would not be blamed because they rarely blamed her, they were always kind to her; it seemed that it was only to each other that they were unkind. But she knew instinctively that they would be upset if they knew she had overheard their conversation, and that was why she remained.

  After a long time they seemed to tire of the quarrel. She heard the door open and shut, and she wondered whether her father was now alone.

  She opened the door of the anteroom cautiously and looked out. With great relief, seeing that the apartment was empty, she tiptoed away.

  A postmortem showed that there was no poison in Margaret Denham’s body but the rumors still persisted and many were certain that the Duchess of York had murdered her for jealousy.

  Sir John Denham continued to write his pieces which gave pleasure to certain members of the Court. It was beginning to be said that the affairs of the Duke of York were as notorious, though not nearly so skillfully managed, as those of his brother.

  FAITH AND DEATH

  It was the thirtieth of January, a very solemn day for members of the royal family and
therefore throughout England.

  Mary knelt on the window seat watching the snowflakes falling down. Every now and then the bells could be heard. All over the country they were tolling for Charles the Martyr.

  Mary did not know why her grandfather was a martyr; she only knew that she had to be very solemn when she spoke of him. Her father’s eyes grew very bright when he mentioned Charles the Martyr; and she did not like to ask questions because it saddened him to talk of the subject. She had heard whisperings about the Dreadful Day. In Whitehall she averted her eyes at a certain place because that was where it had happened. It was a dreadful shadow which hung over the family, and which must never be mentioned all the year, only on that cold and dismal day which was the thirtieth of January.

  Mary breathed on the glass and rubbed a hole in the mist. It was very cold outside. Perhaps one day she would ask her father to explain. It would be when he was in a merry mood. Then perhaps he would tell her quickly and it could be forgotten.

  She started suddenly because someone was standing behind her, and turning she saw Elizabeth Villiers, smiling her secret sly smile.

  “How long have you been standing there?” demanded Mary.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I know, and I asked you one.”

  “It is not good manners to answer a question with a question.”

  Elizabeth laughed; she had a habit of laughing at ordinary remarks as though they were foolish in some way which Mary was too young to understand.

  “When I was riding this morning I saw the King with my cousin, Barbara Villiers,” volunteered Elizabeth.

  Mary sighed. Elizabeth brought her cousin Barbara Villiers into the conversation whenever possible. When she called her sister Barbara she always called her Barbara Villiers, although the others were merely Katherine, Anne, or whatever the case might be. Mary herself had never seen Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, but she was constantly hearing of her; and she was a little tired of the woman.