Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

by Виктория Холт

  The King had her sit beside him at the banquet which was held in her honor; he talked of his dear brother Louis and the French Court. All about them were saying, This will be the King’s newest mistress.

  The King himself believed it. But Louise, smiling so charmingly, looking so young and innocent, had other plans. Before her there was the shining example of Frances Stuart, the girl who had so plagued the King with refusals to surrender that, had he been able, he would have married her. She had seen the Queen—and it occurred to Louise that the Queen did not look over-healthy.

  The King deceived himself if he thought he could make Louise de Kéroualle his mistress as easily as a play-actress from his theater.

  He said to her: “So eagerly have I awaited your coming that I gave myself the pleasure of preparing your apartments for you.”

  She smiled into that charming face, knowing full well that his eagerness for her arrival was feigned. He had doubtless been so sportive with his play-actresses—and perhaps Madame Castlemaine too was by no means the discarded mistress she had been led to believe—that he had omitted to ask my lord Buckingham, when he arrived in England, what he had done with the lady whom he was supposed to be escorting.

  “Your Majesty is good to me,” she said with a smile.

  He came closer; his eyes were on her plump bosom; his hands caressed her arm.

  “I am prepared to be very kind,” he murmured. “I have given you apartments near my own.”

  “That is indeed good of Your Majesty.”

  “They overlook the privy garden. I am proud of my privy garden. I trust you will like it. You can look down on the sixteen plots of grass and the statues. It is a mighty pretty view, I do believe. I long to show you these apartments. I have had them furnished with French tapestries, because I wished you to feel at home. No homesickness, you understand.”

  “I can see Your Majesty is determined to be kind to me.”

  “Would you wish me to dismiss these people, that you might be alone and … rest?”

  “Your Majesty is so good to me that I crave a favor.”

  “My dear Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, you have given me the great gift of your presence here. Anything you might ask of me would be but small in comparison with what you have given me. And were it not, I have no doubt that I should grant it.”

  “I have had a long journey,” said Louise.

  “And you are weary. It was thoughtless of me to have given such a banquet so soon. But I wished to make you sure of your welcome.”

  “I am indeed grateful for the honor you have shown me, but my lord Arlington and Lady Arlington, who have been so good to me, have placed apartments in their house at my disposal.”

  “I am glad my lord Arlington and his lady have been so hospitable,” said Charles a little wryly.

  “I am very weary, and I fear that the etiquette of the Court, in my present state, would overtax my strength,” said Louise.

  Charles’ glance was ironic. He understood. Louise was jealous of her dignity. She was not to be sent for like any play-actress. She had to be wooed.

  Inwardly he grimaced. But he said with the utmost charm: “I understand full well. Go to the Arlingtons. His lady will make you very comfortable. And I trust that ere long you will be ready to exchange Lord Arlington’s house for my palace of Whitehall.”

  Louise thanked him charmingly.

  She believed she had won the first round. The King was eager for her; but he was realizing that a grand lady such as Louise de Kéroualle must be courted before she was won.

  Louise stayed with the Arlingtons. The King visited her frequently, but she did not become his mistress. Charles was often exasperated, but Louise attracted him with her perfect manners and babyish looks. There was in her attitude a certain promise which indicated that, once the formalities had been observed, he would find the waiting well worthwhile. Louise remembered other ladies from the past who, by careful tactics, had won high places for themselves. Elizabeth Woodville in her dealings with Edward IV. Anne Boleyn with Henry VIII. The latter was not a very happy example, but Louise would not be guilty of that Queen’s follies; nor did Charles resemble in any way the Tudor King. The poverty of Louise’s youth, the knowledge, which was always before her, that she must make her own way for herself had fired her with great ambition, so that no sooner did one goal appear in sight than she must immediately aim at another. King’s mistress had been the first goal. She could achieve that at any moment. Now she was trying for another: King’s wife. It might seem fantastic and wild. But there was the example of Frances Stuart. Moreover the Queen was ailing, and she could not produce an heir. These were the exact circumstances which had helped to put Anne Boleyn on the throne. Anne had had the good sense to withhold herself for a long time from an enamored monarch, but after marriage she had lost that good sense. Louise would never lose hers.

  So she held back. She reminded the King by a hundred gestures that she was a great lady; she hinted that she found him very attractive but, because she was not only a great lady but a virtuous one, the fact that he was married prevented her from yielding to his desires.

  Charles hid his growing exasperation under great charm of manner. He was ready to play her game, for he knew she would eventually surrender. Why else should she have come to England? And while he waited, he amused himself with others. Occasionally he visited Barbara, Moll, and Nell; Chaffinch continued to bring certain ladies up to his apartments by way of the privy stairs. Thus he could enjoy the game of waiting which he must play with Louise.

  Apartments were furnished for her at Whitehall; beautiful French tapestries adorned the walls; there was furniture decorated with the new marqueterie; there were exquisite carpets, cabinets from Japan, vases of china and silver, tables of marble, the newest kind of clocks with pendulums, silver candelabra and everything that was exquisite.

  Louise moved into these apartments, but she made it clear to the King that such a great and virtuous lady as herself could only receive him at one time of the day. This was nine o’clock in the morning.

  Colbert de Croissy, the French ambassador, watched uneasily. He even remonstrated with her. He greatly feared that she would try the King’s patience too far.

  Louise was determined.

  She would serve, not only the cause of France, but her own ambition.

  Those three women who had been the King’s leading mistresses watched the newcomer with apprehension. They knew that they owed the King’s occasional company to the continued reserve of the Frenchwoman. They knew that, once she decided to surrender, the King’s interest in them would wane. And what would be the effect of that waning? Barbara knew that she was fast losing her hold on the King. Her beauty was no longer fresh and appealing; her rages did not diminish with her beauty; she had taken so many lovers that she had become notorious on that account. Her adventures with Charles Hart and a rope-dancer named Jacob Hall had created the greatest scandal, because, it was said, she had chosen these men as lovers in retaliation for the King’s preoccupation with Moll Davies and Nell Gwyn. Barbara still clung to her waning influence with the King, knowing that he would still be prepared to give way in some respect, if not for love of her, for love of peace.

  Moll Davies was rarely visited now. She had her fine house and her pension, but the King was growing tired of her gentle qualities. It was due to his habit of “not discarding” that she remained his mistress.

  As for Nell, her baby took up a great deal of her time, but her preoccupation with the little boy made her thoughts turn often to his father. The King must not tire of her; she must cease to be as frivolous-minded as she had previously been. There was the boy to think of.

  “I’ll get a fine title for you, my little man,” she would whisper to the child. “You shall be a Duke, no less.” She would laugh into the big wondering eyes which watched her so intently. “You … a Duke … that slut Nelly’s brat—a royal Duke. Who would have believed it?”

  But dukedoms were not easil
y come by.

  The King was delighted with the child. Those were pleasant days when he came to visit Nell and took the boy in his arms.

  “There is no doubt,” cried Nell, leaning over him like any proud wife and mother, “that this boy is a Stuart. See that nose! Those eyes!”

  “Then God have mercy on him!” said the King.

  “Come, my little one,” said Nell. “Smile for Papa.”

  The child surveyed the King with solemn eyes.

  “Not yet, eh, Sir!” murmured Charles. “First wait and see what manner of man this is who has fathered you.”

  “The best in the world,” said Nell lightly.

  The King turned and looked at her.

  “Od’s Fish!” he cried. “I believe you mean that, Nelly.”

  “Nay!” cried Nell, ashamed of her own emotion. “I am sowing the first seeds which will flower into a dukedom for our boy.”

  “And strawberry leaves for yourself! Oh, Nell, you go the way of all the others.”

  Nell snatched the child from his father’s arms and began dancing round the apartment with him.

  “What do I want for you, my son? A coronet, a great title, all that belongs by right to a King’s bastard. Already, my son, you have the King’s nose, the King’s eyes, and the King’s name. Od’s Fish! I trust His Majesty will not think you adequately endowed with these, for they will make little story in the world, I suspect.”

  Then she laid him in his cradle and bent and kissed him. The King came to her and put his arms about her shoulders.

  He thought in that moment that, although Louise de Kéroualle was becoming an obsession with him, he would be loath to part with little Nell.

  Rose came to see Nell in her new house.

  It was a small one at the east end of Pall Mall, not far from the grand mansion in Suffolk Street where another of the King’s mistresses—Moll Davies—had her residence.

  Nell’s house was a poor place compared with that of Moll. Moll liked to ride past Nell’s in her carriage and lean forward to look at it as she passed, smiling complacently, flashing her £700 ring on her finger.

  “Keep your house, keep your ring, Moll!” called Nell from her house. “The King has given me something better still.”

  Then Nell would snatch up her child from one of the servants and hold him aloft.

  “You’ve never got the King’s bastard yet, Moll!” screeched Nell.

  Moll bade her coachman drive on. She thought Nell a fool. She had had every chance to escape from her environment, and yet she seemed to cling to it as though she were reluctant to let it go.

  “What a low wench!” murmured Moll in her newly acquired refined voice. “Why His Majesty should spend an hour in her company is past my comprehension.”

  Moll smiled complacently. Her house was so grand; Nell’s was such a poor place. Did it not show that the King appreciated the difference between them? Nell went into the house where Rose was waiting for her.

  Rose took the baby from Nell and crooned over him.

  “To think that he is the King’s son,” said Rose. “’Tis past understanding.”

  “Indeed it is not,” cried Nell. “He made his appearance through all the usual channels.”

  “Oh, Nell, why did you move from your good apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to this little house? The other was far grander.”

  “It is nearer Whitehall, Rose. I have one good friend in the world, and I want to be as near him as possible.”

  “He acknowledges little Charlie as his own?”

  “Indeed he does. And could you mistake it? Look! The way he sucks his finger is royal, bless him.”

  “It makes me wonder whether I ought to drop a curtsy to him when I pick him up.”

  “Mayhap you will have to one day,” said Nell, dreaming.

  Rose kissed the child.

  “To think I’ve kissed where the King has kissed!” said Rose.

  “If that delights you,” Nell retorted, “you may kiss me any time—and anywhere—you wish.”

  That made them both laugh.

  “You’re just the same, Nell. You haven’t changed one little bit. You have fine clothes, and a house of your own, and the King’s bastard … and yet you’re still the same Nell. That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. It’s about a man I met.”

  “Why, Rosy, you’re in love!”

  Rose admitted this was so. “It’s a man named John Cassels. I met him in one of the taverns. I want to marry him and settle down.”

  “Then why not? Ma would like to have one respectable daughter in the family.”

  “Respectable! Ma cares not for that. She’s prouder of you than she could ever have been of any respectably married daughter. She talks of you continually. ‘My Nelly, the King’s whore … and my grandson Charlie … the King’s little bastard….’ She talks of nothing else….”

  Nell laughed. “Ma’s one dream was to make good whores of us both, Rosy. I fulfilled her dreams, but you—you’re a disgrace to the family. You’re thinking about respectable marriage.”

  “The trouble with John is the way he gets his living.”

  “What is that?”

  “He’s a highwayman.”

  “A perilous way of making a living.”

  “So say I. He longs to be a soldier.”

  “Like Will. How is cousin Will?”

  “Speaking of you often and with pride, Nelly.”

  “It seems that many are proud of the King’s whore.”

  “We are all proud of you, Nell.”

  Nell laughed and threw her curls off her face. “Marry your John, if you wish it and he wishes it, Rose. Mayhap he will be caught. But if he should end his days by falling from a platform while in conversation with a clergyman … at least you will have had your life together, and a widow is a mighty respectable thing to be. And Rose … if it should be possible to drop a word in the right quarter … who knows, I may get my chance to do it. I do not forget poor Will and his talk of being a soldier. I often think of it. One day Will shall be a soldier, and I will do what I can for your John Cassels. That’s if you love the man truly.”

  “Nell, Nell, my sweet sister.”

  “Nay,” said Nell, “who would not do all possible for a sister?”

  And when Rose had gone she thought that it would be a comparatively easy thing to find places in the army for Will and John Cassels.

  “But, my little lord,” she whispered, “it is going to be rather more difficult to fit a coronet onto that little head.”

  Nell stayed on in her small house and the months passed. Louise had not surrendered to the King. Moll Davies still flaunted past Nell’s house in her carriage.

  My lord Rochester visited Nell in her new house, and shook his head over what he called “Nell’s squalor.”

  He sprawled on a couch, inspecting his immaculate boots, and glancing up at Nell with affection.

  He gave advice. “The King does not treat you with the decencies he owes to a royal mistress, Nell,” he said. “That is clear.”

  “While Madam Davies rides by in her coach to her fine house, flashing her diamond ring!” cried Nell.

  “’Tis true. And poor Nelly is now a mother, and the infant’s face would proclaim him as the King’s son even if His Majesty had reason to suspect this might be otherwise.”

  “His Majesty has no reason to suspect that.”

  “Suspicion does not always need reason to support it, little Nell. But let us not discourse on such matters. Let us rather devote ourselves to this more urgent business: How to get Mrs. Nelly treated with the courtesy due to the King’s mistress. Barbara got what she wanted by screams, threats and violence. Moll by sweet, coy smiles. What have you, sweet Nell, to put in place of these things—your Cole-yard wit? Alas, alas, Cole-yard is at the root of all your troubles. His Majesty is in a quandary. He is fond of his little Nell; he dotes on his latest son; but little Charles is half royal, half Cole-yard. Remember that, Nell. There have been other lit
tle Charleses, to say nothing of Jemmies and Annes and Charlottes. Now all these have had mothers of gentle birth. Even our noble Jemmy Monmouth had a gentlewoman for his mother. But you, dear Nell—let’s face it—are from the gutter. His Majesty fears trouble if he bestows great titles on this Charles. The people accept the King’s lack of morals. They like to see him merry. They care not where he takes his pleasure. What they do care about, Nell, is to see one of themselves rise to greatness through the King’s bed. ‘Why,’ they say, ‘That might have happened to me … or my little Nell. But it did not. It happened to that little Nell.’ And they cannot forgive you that. Therefore, though you bear the King’s bastard, they do not wish that titles should be bestowed on him. They wish it to be remembered that his mother is but a Cole-yard wench.”

  “’Tis so, I fear, my lord,” said Nell. “But it shall not stay so. This child is going to share in some of that which has been enjoyed by Barbara’s brats.”

  “Noble Villiers on their mother’s side—those little bastards of Barbara’s, Nelly!”

  “I care not. I care not. Who is to say they are the King’s children? Only Barbara.”

  “Nay, not even Barbara. For how could even their mother be sure? Now listen to my advice, Nell. Be diplomatic in your attitude towards the King. When the Frenchwoman surrenders, as undoubtedly she will, there may be changes in His Majesty’s seraglio. The lady may say, ‘Remove that object. I ask it as the price of my surrender.’ And believe me, little Nell, that object—be she noble Villiers or orange-girl—may well be removed. Unless, of course, the object makes herself so important to His Majesty that he cannot dispense with her.”

  “This Frenchwoman, it seems, would have great powers.”

  “She uses great diplomacy, my dear. She holds out hopes to our most gracious King, and then withdraws. It is a game such women play—a dangerous game unless the woman has the skill. She is skilled, this French Louise. It is her manners and this game she plays which make her so desirable. For the love of God I cannot see what else. The woman sometimes seems to squint.”

  “And so Squintabella will throw us all out of favor!” cried Nell wrathfully.