Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 10]

by The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II

  Lady Derby smiled in agreement.

  “The Princess was very upset. She was thinking of the little Duke, of course. He dotes on Mrs. Pack and all know that it is for his sake that Lady Marlborough has had to endure her all this time. The Princess was most unhappy, for the woman’s reading her correspondence was a very grave matter indeed. Mrs. Pack herself then asked for an audience and, before the Princess could speak—Your Majesty knows Mrs. Pack’s way—she said she could no longer remain in the Princess’s service.”

  “The Princess must have been very relieved,” I said. “I suppose Mrs. Pack realized she could not stay after what she did had been discovered.”

  “It may have been that she thought her usefulness was at an end. But, of course, there was the little Duke to be considered. Mrs. Pack said her health was not good. I think this may be the truth, because she would never tell a lie. However, she insisted on going. Lady Marlborough is delighted and the Princess, of course, is happy to please her friend.”

  “And what of little William?”

  “He has been strangely quiet about the matter and did not protest as he was expected to.”

  “He is a strange child—so unusual. I have never known another child like him. There are times when I think he is wise beyond his years.”

  There was something strange about the child. There were occasions when he spoke like a young man and then a few seconds later would become a child again.

  The unusual qualities of the boy were brought home to me afresh by an astonishing story.

  He was grave after the departure of Mrs. Pack, but he had not cried, and seemed to accept the story that she had to go away to Deptford for her health.

  “She is not well,” he was reputed to have said. “I would not have her ill.”

  In his grown-up way, he sent over to Deptford every day to inquire about her health.

  He went about his daily life, giving a great deal of attention to his favorite game of soldiers. He had now several boys a year or so older than himself whom he called his “men.” His mother was so anxious to please him in every way and the boys were fitted out as soldiers in miniature uniforms and William took them to the park and exercised them. People used to come and watch. It was one of the most popular sights.

  There he would command them—this little boy of four years or so—just like a general shouting orders as they marched to his direction.

  I always felt there was something strange about him.

  His head was long and there was a mature look in his eyes. Anne told me proudly that his hat was the same size as a man’s. His face was oval, his hair, doubtless inherited from his father, very fair; and his complexion was a glowing pink and white. His body was well-made and seemed to be strong, but he had difficulty with some movements; he always needed a rail when he went up stairs, and help to get up if he had been sitting on a low stool. In addition to this, he had an air of extreme gravity which accompanied certain remarks so that they seemed more like those of an adult than a child.

  So when I heard the story I was a little shaken, yet not altogether surprised.

  Lady Derby said the whole court was talking about it.

  “It is very strange, Your Majesty. But … how could he have known?”

  I waited for an explanation and Lady Scarborough, who was also in attendance, said: “Your Majesty knows how fond he always was of Mrs. Pack.”

  “Indeed I know.”

  “They were all amazed at how calmly he took her departure. The Princess had expected him to refuse to allow her to go, and in that case, she would have had to remain.”

  Lady Derby put in: “But he always sent every day to see how she was.”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  “This is the strange part of it, Your Majesty. Two days ago, when the messenger, in accordance with the practice, was about to take the message to her, the Duke said he would not send that morning. Mrs. Wanner—Your Majesty may remember her, she was in his household—asked him why he did not send. He just looked past her, as though he were staring at nothing, and said, “There is no need. She will be dead before the messenger arrives there.”

  “What a strange thing for a child to say!”

  “Stranger still, Your Majesty, he was right. It transpired that Mrs. Pack had died.”

  “He must have heard it.”

  “No, Your Majesty. It seemed she died just at the moment he was speaking.”

  “How could he have known?”

  There was silence.

  I was thinking of the little boy and Mrs. Pack. There had been a very special bond between them. I believed that without her he would never have survived.

  He was indeed a very strange little boy.

  I WAS UNWELL and had been for some months. I think it was due to the strain of perpetual war, William’s comings and goings, the burden of greater responsibilities taken up and then taken away. This was all having an effect on me. Sometimes I felt old and tired. I was only thirty years old and never free of remorse on account of my father.

  I was beset by continual anxiety. Every time a messenger came I would tremble and wonder what ill news he brought. If only there had not been this coldness between my sister and myself. My great consolation was little William. He seemed to be the only one who could lift my spirits. He did visit me often, and I could always be brought out of my melancholy to smile at his droleries.

  I looked back over the last months and thought of the torments I had suffered over the Grandval plot.

  Grandval was a French officer who had been hired to assassinate William. Fortunately, his design had been discovered in time and he was arrested by the English.

  At his trial it was revealed that, before he left Paris, he had had a meeting with my father and stepmother and that my father had told him that if he carried out his plan successfully, he, personally, would see that Grandval never wanted for anything as long as he lived.

  So … while I could rejoice in William’s escape, I was overcome with sadness because my father had given his blessing to this murderous plot.

  It made me very weary of life.

  I suffered from the ague, from heavy colds, from a weakness of the eyes and a swelling in the face. I longed for the war in Europe to be over; I wanted William to come home. Sometimes I felt myself drifting into fancy and believing that our troubles were over. William would come back a hero, the people would be cheering in the streets, my father would come home and announce that he realized he could never reign as a Catholic and it was right for William to take his place, William loved me, Elizabeth Villiers had married and gone far away and we all lived happily together. What a fantasy! What a dream! But dreams were useful at times when reality was hard to bear.

  There was no end to disaster.

  It was June when one of the greatest of them occurred. This was the expedition to Brest. It had been essential that this should be a surprise attack, but the plan had been foiled and the French had had warning and strengthened their defenses so that when the English landed they found the enemy waiting for them. General Tollemache was mortally wounded and four hundred soldiers were lost.

  It was a major disaster. But the most shocking feature of the affair was that the French had been warned, and there was a strong suspicion by whom. Lady Tryconnel, Sarah Churchill’s sister, was with my father and stepmother in France, and Sarah, it appeared, had written to her telling her of the activity in London concerning the coming attack in Brest.

  It was an act of treachery and left no doubt in my mind as to what the defeat was due to.

  When William questioned Marlborough on the matter, he swore that he had had no part in the betrayal. His wife? Well, women will gossip. She may have mentioned, casually, to her sister, that there was much activity in progress. These things happened.

  I knew William would like to have sent Marlborough back to the Tower for trial. But Marlborough had many friends and there was a lack of evidence against him.

  What a melancholy state of
affairs! So many deaths, so many disasters, suspected treachery all round us, and worst of all, my family in conflict. I was tired. I suppose it was because my health was deteriorating, and there was no end to the aggravation.

  When I think of my idyllic youth, I see that already in the household were those who were to plague me. Strange that they were already there, a part of my childhood. Elizabeth Villiers, who had caused me great grief, and Sarah Churchill, who had done her share.

  They were clever, those Marlboroughs. How could they be so blatantly treacherous and escape? They were devious, and Marlborough was undoubtedly powerful, so William must be careful when dealing with him, otherwise he would have been safe in the Tower and found guilty—as he undoubtedly was, and his wife with him.

  She was a malicious woman, and I was sure she was responsible for the scandal which arose about Shrewsbury and myself.

  It was quite unfounded.

  Charles Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury, was about two years older than I. He was very charming, tall, well-made and reckoned to be one of the most attractive men at court. He was very handsome, in spite of the fact that there was an imperfection in one of his eyes. This did not however detract from his charm—but rather added to it, and made him more distinguished.

  His early life had been overshadowed by the conduct of his parents. His mother, Countess of Shrewsbury at the time, was the mistress of the notorious Duke of Buckingham, who had created such a scandal during the reign of my uncle Charles. The Countess had lived openly with Buckingham after he had killed her husband in a duel.

  It had been one of the great scandals of a scandalous age.

  I liked Shrewsbury because he was a good, honest man, not afraid to state his opinions. After the disastrous defeat of Beachy Head, when he was out of office, he came to me and offered his services; and in March of that year, he had accepted the post of Secretary of State, which meant that I saw him frequently in the course of the country’s business.

  We had a great deal to discuss together; and in addition to state affairs, he liked to talk about his health and he was very interested in mine, and at that time, when I was suffering from a great many ailments, I found that comforting.

  And so Sarah Churchill circulated rumors that I was in love with Shrewsbury. She said that when he came into my presence it had been noted that I turned pale and trembled. If I did, it must be because I feared what news he might bring.

  It was a trivial matter and I suppose there will always be unfounded rumors about people in high places; such will always have their enemies and Sarah Churchill was, without doubt, one of mine.

  Of course, it was not all gloom. There were times when I could feel almost happy. At last I had begun to realize that I could be successful in my role. The people were growing more and more fond of me. Indeed, I think they no longer cared that the King was so often away fighting battles on the Continent. They had Queen Mary. She was a good Protestant; she was English and their rightful Queen; they had never wanted a Dutchman to rule over them. If only he had been different, they might have been reconciled. I knew he suffered pains in his back and arms, but he looked quite magnificent on horseback when his low stature was not evident. If he would have taken a little more care to make a more acceptable image of himself, it could have been so different; but he would consider such things frivolous and unimportant. I knew he was wrong.

  It began to dawn on me that I could have been a good queen. I understood the people. I had had my successes when I had been in charge. That was why the people chanted: “God bless Queen Mary. Long life to her.” Silence was usually what greeted William. Perhaps if I had gone my way, doing what I thought was best, with my ministers to help me, of course, the monarchy might not merely have been tolerated, but loved.

  After the action at La Hogue, which must have been a crippling blow to my father, I had made sure that the people realized what a great victory it was.

  We had had so many defeats, so much depression, that when there was something in which we could rejoice, I was determined this should be done wholeheartedly.

  I made it a great day when the ships, bringing the victorious men, arrived at Spithead. I sent £30,000 to be distributed among the common soldiers, and the officers received gold medals. I wanted them to know that their loyalty and bravery were rewarded. I would persuade William that it was money well spent, though I was sure he would not agree with me.

  I arranged rejoicing in the streets of London and I myself, attired in all my regalia, rode among the people.

  They cheered me delightedly. There were no complaints at that time.

  It was during William’s absence that the question of new coins arose. These were to have our heads—mine and William’s—engraved on them.

  There was a very fine artist named Rotier, who had made the engravings when they had last been done during my father’s reign, but, when approached, he said that he worked for the King, and as the King was across the water, he could not work for him. He had a son, Norbert, who offered to do the work in his father’s place, and as I was aware what trouble might grow out of disloyalty to William and me, I decided to forget the father and employ the son. I was rather horrified when I saw the result, for William’s likeness had certainly not been flattering. He was made to look satanic. I was disturbed, not only by the coins, but by the hostility of the people toward William.

  I did hear a little later that the Rotiers had fled to France, fearing some kind of retaliation.

  William returned from the Continent and I handed over the reins to him. Although I had felt some confidence in my own government, I was not sorry to do this, for I was beginning to feel quite ill and tired.

  I had hoped that William might compliment me on my rule, for I knew there were many who were pleased with it, but he did not. He just nodded without comment when I explained certain of my actions to him, and I was expected to slip back into my old place of consort.

  THERE WAS ONE HAPPY OCCASION which gave me great pleasure. Little William had, for some time, had his band of soldiers—youngsters of his own age with whom he played his game of soldiers. Every day he would drill them in the park.

  He had persuaded his mother to procure a uniform for him—and of course this request was granted. Mr. Hughes, his tailor, arrived and William was fitted out in a white camlet suit with with silver buttons and loops of silver thread.

  Young William himself told me about the incident of the stays. Mr. Hughes had said that if he would look like a general he would have to have stiff stays. The uniform demanded it. William was not very happy at the idea, but he was willing to try anything that was necessary for a soldier.

  He wore the stays, which not surprisingly he found to be uncomfortable. The tailor was summoned by William. The boys surrounded him and threatened him with dire punishment for having made their commander uncomfortable and insisted that he go down on his knees and promise to make the stays less stiff.

  The exploits of the young Duke never failed to amuse everyone and when I heard that he was to have a field day and had said he would be honored if the King attended in person, I rather timidly put the question to William, hoping that he might comply with the Duke’s wishes.

  To my delight, and amusement, he agreed. He had quite an attachment to his little namesake and I knew he often wished that this was our son.

  And so the day came. I shall always remember those little boys looking so quaint in their uniform, doing their drill, marching before the King. William did his part well, walking along the line to review them, young William proudly beside him.

  The toy cannon was fired and everything went off with military precision. William declared himself content to be assured of the loyalty of the Duke’s men. He gave the little drummer two guineas because he played so loudly.

  The parade over, young William stood before the King and said: “My dear King, you shall have both my companies to serve with you in Flanders.”

  The King thanked him and gravely accepted the offer. />
  I had rarely seen William relaxed and pleasant. Little William had the power to charm us all.

  That was a gloomy November. I could not rid myself of a feeling of foreboding. I was feeling listless and more unwell than ever before.

  I was in Whitehall Chapel when John Tillotson, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was preaching a sermon. I had always liked Tillotson. He was a courteous and tolerant man. It was not very long ago that he had been appointed Archbishop—some three years, I believe—and during that time he and I had become good friends.

  It was a shock, therefore, when, in the middle of his sermon, he suddenly stopped speaking, though it was clear that he was trying to, for his face twisted and his lips were alarmingly distorted. There was a tense silence throughout the chapel, and then suddenly the Archbishop slid to the floor.

  He had had an apoplectic seizure and, within four days he was dead.

  It was necessary to appoint another Archbishop of Canterbury and the choice should have been mine. I immediately thought of Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester, one of the most active men of the Church, handsome and vigorous, although not in such good health as he might have been.

  Wiliam objected to Stillingfleet. He maintained he was not well enough for such responsibility and the arduous duties which would be expected of him. He would prefer Thomas Tenison and, of course, he had his way.

  I was disappointed, but felt too tired to protest, but I suppose William would have had the man he wanted in any case.

  However, Tenison was a good man; he had always taken a great interest in promoting the gospel. My father had said that he was dull and a man who had a horror of levity in any form. But perhaps that was not a fault in a priest.

  Tenison was a popular choice, but I believed Stillingfleet would have been more so. There were many to remember that at the time of Nell Gwynne’s death, Tenison had preached a sermon in praise of her which, in view of the life she had lived, seemed not exactly fitting. Then it had transpired that she had left £50 in her will to the priest who would make her the subject of such a sermon when she died.