The Three Crowns epub

by Jean Plaidy

  Anne had been ill for the past year; she had suffered great pain and one evening this so increased that all those about her knew she was near her end.

  She asked for Mary who went to her at once and when Mary saw her friend’s condition she was horrified.

  She sank on her knees by the bed and took Anne’s hand.

  “My dearest friend,” she cried, “let me pray with you.”

  Anne said: “If I could but see my husband …”

  “Our husbands are together, Anne. I would I could bring yours to you, but he left Holland in the service of the Prince.”

  “They are in England now. Oh … do you remember …?”

  “I remember so much of England.”

  “I am going, Your Highness …”

  “Let us pray together, Anne.”

  “Later. There is much I have to say. My children …”

  “Do not fear for them. I will see that they are cared for.”

  “I thank you. I shall go in peace since you promise me that. Commend me to my husband and the Prince …”

  Mary looked up and through her tears saw Elizabeth Villiers standing some distance from the bed.

  She went to her and said: “Your sister is dying. Should you not make your peace with her before she goes?”

  “I do not know if that is her wish.”

  Mary went back to the bed. “Elizabeth is here. She wishes to be friends. You must not die unreconciled.”

  “Elizabeth …” murmured Anne.

  Mary beckoned Elizabeth to come to the bed, and she stood on one side, Mary on the other.

  “Elizabeth,” said Anne, “do you remember the days at Richmond?”

  “I remember.”

  “Come closer, so that I may see you.”

  Elizabeth knelt by the bed.

  “There is so much to remember … Richmond … Holland … I found great happiness in Holland. Elizabeth, you too, but you will not if …”

  She was finding her breathing difficult and Mary whispered: “Rest, dear Anne. Do not disturb yourself. All is well between us all.”

  The eyes of Elizabeth and Mary met across the deathbed of Anne Bentinck. Mary’s were appealing; Elizabeth’s as enigmatic as ever.

  But later, when they were still there and they knew that the end was very near, Mary saw the tears silently falling down Elizabeth’s cheeks.

  It was February—three months since she had said good-bye to William.

  There was no excuse for a longer delay. Admiral Herbert had arrived with a yacht to take her to England. And this was good-bye to Holland; this was the end of one phase of her life. She was going to England to be a Queen and she was uneasy.

  She had to take a Crown which, in truth, was her father’s; it was only because it had been forcibly taken from him that it was hers.

  What would she find in England? How would the people receive an ungrateful daughter?

  I shall be with William again, she told herself. What greater joy could there be for me than that?

  No sooner had she stepped aboard than a storm arose and it was necessary to stay in the Maas for the rest of the day; but at last they set sail and she stood on deck watching for the first glimpse of her native land.

  With what emotion she saw those cliffs; she tried to tell herself that this was the utmost joy.

  Then she was aware of Elizabeth Villiers; her eyes were fixed on the approaching land with a smile as though she too were asking herself what the new life would bring, and she was confident of her future.

  Mary dressed with care, for the first meeting with William. She wore a purple gown with a low bodice about which muslin was draped; her petticoat was orange velvet; there were pearls at her throat and her dark hair was piled high above her head and its darkness accentuated by the orange ribbons she wore.

  She was pleased with her appearance. She looked like a Queen returning to her Kingdom. There was no hint of sadness. There must not be, for that was something which would displease William.

  They were sailing up the once familiar river and there was the great city spread out before them. At Whitehall stairs William would be waiting to greet her.

  There was music coming from the banks, but she kept hearing the words of a lampoon which had reached her even in Holland and she asked herself how many of those people who had clustered on the banks to watch her arrival were singing it now.

  Yet worse than cruel scornful Goneril, thou;

  She took but what her monarch did allow

  But thou, most impious, robbest thy father’s brow.

  “Father,” she murmured, “it had to be. It was for William. You are to blame … you only. It need never have been. But now it is and I fear that even if William loves me as he seemed to promise—for have I not brought him what he most desired—I shall never forget what we have done to you.”

  Away melancholy thoughts!

  How gay was the scene—the air bright with frost and gay with music. Cheers for the Queen who had come from Holland to rule them!

  The new King was a mean-looking fellow—stooping, hooked-nosed, and small; he gave no sign of pleasure in his people; he did not care for shows and pomp; he had ridden into London for the first time in a closed carriage because it was raining. Not the man the English would have chosen for their King.

  But here was the Queen—buxom and beautiful, smiling and seeming gay, orange ribbons shining in her coiled dark hair.

  William had stepped forward to greet her. For the second time she saw the tears in his eyes. He embraced her, and the people looked on.

  She thought: For William’s sake, everything is worthwhile.

  So amid the cheers and the music they left Whitehall stairs—Mary and William, and somewhere in the company, Elizabeth Villiers.

  They had seen each other, Elizabeth and William; they had exchanged a glance, and Elizabeth was satisfied.

  Mary was not thinking of Elizabeth as she went ashore. She was reunited with William. They were together until death parted them.

  A great task confronted them which would draw them closer together.

  She would cease to listen to refrains about ungrateful daughters; she would not concern herself with the presence of Elizabeth Villiers.

  The bells were ringing out. The people were shouting: “Long live William and Mary.”

  A new reign had begun.

  Bibliography

  Aubrey, William Hickman Smith History of England

  Bathurst, Lt.-Col. The Hon. Benjamin Letters of Two Queens

  Bray, William, ed. Diary of John Evelyn

  Bryant, Arthur King Charles II

  Burnet, Bishop History of His Own Time, with notes by the Earls of Dartmouth and Hardwicke and Speaker Onslow, to which are added the cursory remarks of Swift Chapman, Hester W. Mary II, Queen of England

  Dasent, Arthur Irwin The Private Life of Charles II

  Loth, David Royal Charles: Ruler and Rake

  Oman, Carola Mary of Modena

  Pepys, Samuel Diary and Correspondence edited by Henry B. Wheatley

  Sandars, Mary F. Princess and Queen of England: Life of Mary II

  Sells, A. Lytton The Memoirs of James II (translated from the Bouillon manuscript, edited and collated with the Clarke Edition, with an introduction by Sir Arthur Bryant)

  Senior, Dorothy The Gay King

  Stephen, Sir Leslie, and Sir Sidney Lee, eds. The Dictionary of National Biography

  Strickland, Agnes Lives of the Queens of England

  Trevelyan, G. M. England Under the Stuarts

  Trevelyan, G. M. English Social History

  Trevelyan, G. M. History of England

  Wade, John British History

  Macauley, Lord, edited by Lady Trevelyan The History of England from the Accession of James II

  AN EXCERPT FROM

  Royal Sisters: A Husband for Anne

  The Princess Anne, walking slowly through the tapestry room in St. James’s Palace—for it was a lifetime’s habit never to hurry�
��smiled dreamily at the silken pictures representing the love of Venus and Mars which had been recently made for her uncle, the King. Tucked inside the bodice of her gown was a note; she had read it several times; and now she was taking it to her private apartments to read it again.

  Venus and Mars! she thought, Goddess and God, and great lovers. But she was certain that there had never been lovers like Anne of York and John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave, Princess and Poet.

  Her lips moved as she repeated the words he had written

  Of all mankind I loved the best

  A nymph so far above the rest

  That we outshine the Blest above

  In beauty she, as I in love.

  No one could have written more beautifully of Venus than John Sheffield had written of her.

  What had happened to Venus and Mars? she wondered idly. She had never paid attention to her lessons; it had been so easy to complain that her eyes hurt or she had a headache when she was expected to study. Mary—dear Mary!—had warned her that she would be sorry she was so lazy, but she had not been sorry yet, always preferring ignorance to effort; everyone had indulged her, far more than they had poor Mary who had been forced to marry that hateful Prince of Orange. Anne felt miserable remembering Mary’s face swollen from so many tears. Dear sister Mary, who had always learned her lessons and been the good girl; and what had been her reward? Banishment from her own country, sent away from her family, and married to that horrid little man, the Orange, as they called him—or more often Caliban, the Dutch Monster.

  The exquisitely sculptured Tudor arch over the fireplace commemorated two more lovers whose entwined initials were H and A. Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn had not remained constant lovers. That was indeed a gloomy thought and the Princess Anne made a habit of shrugging aside what was not pleasant.

  She turned from the tapestry room and went to her own apartments. Delighted to find none of her women there, she sat in the window seat and took out the paper.

  Soon, the whole Court would be reading the poem, but they would not know that those words were written for her. They would say: “Mulgrave writes a pretty verse.” And only she would know.

  But it was not always going to be so. Why should they hide their passion?

  Her father had always been indulgent, and she preferred to believe he would continue so. Her uncle too, but state policy could come into this—as it had with Mary.

  Anne was suddenly frightened, remembering that terrifying day when Mary had come to her, bewildered, like a sleepwalker. “Anne, they are forcing me to marry our cousin Orange.”

  Matters of state! A Princess’s duty! Those words which meant that the free and easy life was over. An indulgent father and a kind uncle were yet Duke of York and King of England; and matters of state must take precedence over family feeling.

  Anne refused to consider failure. It was a trait in her character which had often exasperated Mary. Anne believed what she wanted to believe, so now she believed she would be allowed to marry Mulgrave.

  Reaching her apartment she went at once to the window and, as she had expected, she saw him in the courtyard below, where he had been walking backward and forward hoping for a glimpse of her.

  They smiled at each other. He was not only the most handsome man in her uncle’s Court, thought Anne, but in the world.

  “Wait!” Her lips formed the words; he could not hear, of course, but with the extra sense of a lover, he understood.

  She turned from the window, picked up a cloak, wrapped it round her, and pulled the hood over her head. It would help to conceal her identity. Unhurriedly she went down to the courtyard.

  He ran to her and took both her hands.

  “We must not stay here,” she said.

  “But we must talk.”

  She nodded and drew him to an alcove in the stone wall; here they could remain hidden from anyone crossing the courtyard.

  “My poem …” he began.

  “It was beautiful.”

  “Did you understand what the lines meant?”

  “I think I understand,” she said.

  He quoted:

  “And therefore They who could not bear

  To be outdone by mortals here,

  Among themselves have placed her now.

  And left me wretched here below.”

  “It sounds as though she’s dead,” said Anne.

  “It is symbolic. I daren’t tell the truth. You are so far above me … a Princess. What hope have I …”

  “You should always hope.”

  “You cannot mean …”

  “I think they want me to be happy.”

  “And you would be happy?”

  Anne never troubled to hide her feelings; she was always frankly herself.

  “I want to marry you,” she said.

  Mulgrave caught his breath with joy, and surprise.

  Marriage with the Princess Anne! That thought had entered his head, of course, but he scarcely dared hope. Why, if Charles had no legitimate child—and it seemed unlikely that he would—and James had no son, which also seemed a possibility, and Mary remained childless, well then it would be the Princess Anne’s turn. The prospect was dazzling. Married to the Queen of England! She was not an arrogant woman; one only had to look into that fresh-colored face, those eyes which, owing to some opthalmic trouble which had been with her since childhood, gave her a helpless look, at that body which was already showing signs of indulgence at the table, to realize that her air of placidity was an absolute expression of her true nature. She would be easy going, lazy—a comfortable wife even though she were a Queen.

  No wonder he was in love with Anne.

  He shook his head. “They would never allow it.”

  She smiled at him fondly. “If I begged and pleaded …”

  “You would do that?”

  “For you,” she told him.

  He drew her toward him and kissed her almost wonderingly. She was delightful—gentle, yielding, frankly adoring, and a Princess! He, of course, was a very ambitious man, but this seemed too much good fortune. He must not let her delude him into the belief that it would be easy to marry her.

  It was a pleasant state of affairs when ambition and pleasure were so admirably linked. Ever since he had become Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Anne’s father he had observed the royal family at close quarters and consequently knew a great deal about their weaknesses. No one in the country could help being aware of James’s position at this time for already his brother the King had thought it wise to send him into exile on more than one occasion and the Bill, the object of which was to exclude James from the succession, was being discussed not only in Parliament but in every town and village.

  Mulgrave had served with the fleet against the Dutch and been appointed captain of a troop of horse. The Duke of York was inclined to favor him; but what would his reactions be when he knew he aspired to marry his daughter?

  Looking into the eager face of seventeen-year-old Anne he believed she was too simple—or too determined to have her way—to see the enormous difficulties which lay before them.

  He caught her hands. “We must be careful,” he said.

  “Oh, yes. We must be careful.”

  “This must be our secret … for a while.”

  She understood that.

  “It would not do for His Majesty to know what is in our minds.”

  “He has always been so kind to me,” she told him.

  Kind, yes. Kindness was second nature to the King. He would smile at Anne, pat her hand, tell her he was delighted she had a lover; and immediately begin to arrange a marriage of state for her. In one respect Anne was a little like her uncle. There was a laziness in both natures which made them long for a peaceful existence and capable of doing almost anything to achieve it.

  Charles was not very pleased with the Earl of Mulgrave at this time because he knew that Mulgrave had helped to increase the strife which existed between James and Charles’s illegitimate son, the D
uke of Monmouth. It had become difficult for Charles to banish his brother and not send Monmouth away also; so Monmouth had been exiled too. Charles had seen the necessity, but he remembered that Mulgrave had helped to exacerbate relations between the two Dukes and when he knew of this greatest ambition of all, he might decide he had been too lenient.

  Mulgrave wondered how to impress on Anne the need to be very cautious while not letting her believe that marriage between them was quite out of the question. Gentle and yielding as she was to him, so would she be to others; and if it were pointed out to her that she must take a foreign Prince as a husband, would she placidly smile and accept her fate?

  “But you understand, my Princess, that we must be very, very careful …”

  He stopped and gave a little gasp, for someone had stepped into the alcove.

  A rather shrill voice said: “Ah, Madam, I have searched and searched for you.”

  Mulgrave was horrified. Here he was, caught with the Princess Anne in his arms; but Anne merely laughed.

  “It’s only Sarah,” she said. “My dearest Sarah how you frightened me!”

  “Apologies; Madam. But I thought I should warn you. You are being somewhat indiscreet.”

  “We thought no one would see us here.”

  “I saw you.”

  “Oh, but Sarah, you are the one who sees all.” Anne was smiling at her lover. “John,” she went on, gently, “all is well. It is only my dearest friend who would never bring me anything but good. Sarah, you, who are happily married yourself, will understand.”

  “I understand, Madam, but at the same time I tremble.”

  “Tremble! You, Sarah! When did you ever tremble?”

  “For myself, never. For you, Madam … often.”

  “You see, John, what a good friend she is to me? I am fortunate indeed to have two such … friends. John has been telling me, Sarah, that we have to be very careful not to betray ourselves. What say you?”