A Want of Kindness

by Joanne Limburg

  Mrs Wilkes is a small, almost frail-looking woman, but she has the voice of an Amazon. She puts her hands first on Anne’s belly, and they feel as her voice sounds.

  ‘The child has certainly fallen down, Your Highness – that is good to start with. Now how close together are the throws?’

  ‘A few minutes’ space – but it’s not always the same.’

  ‘Is it not? I should think then we have a long night ahead of us yet – but I shall know better when I have felt how far the mouth is opened. Pass me the oil.’

  She mauls Anne with one of her oiled, Amazonian hands, not even pausing when the pain comes again. When she has withdrawn it, she holds up two fingers.

  ‘This far only. As I thought, it will likely be a long travail – that is often the case when it’s the first time. When did you last ease yourself, Ma’am?’

  ‘Yesterday. In the morning.’

  ‘It would be better for you were your passage not obstructed. We’ll make up a clyster.’

  ‘No! Danvers!’

  But Danvers tells her to do as Mrs Wilkes asks; the deputy, who until now has barely spoken, adds that the clyster will be but little in quantity, and gently warmed. It is not too bad, when it comes, and afterwards she is allowed to eat some bread and egg yolk, and to drink a little wine.

  The night, and Anne’s travail, proceed together in her chamber. She measures out the time between the pangs with her feet, pacing as she has seen beasts do in the Menagerie, from the couch to the window and back again; steadily, the distance she has to walk between one pain and the next diminishes, and the pains themselves grow longer. In the smallest, darkest hour, her waters break. By the time dawn comes, she can barely draw a breath between throws, and her throat is sore from her cries. At one of the very worst times, when she feels as if her whole body is being wrung out like a sheet, she looks up to see Lady Clarendon’s face before her, saying something about prayer and strength and grace, and somebody else’s voice comes out of her throat.

  ‘YOU STUPID BITCH!’ it screams. ‘WHY MUST YOU DRESS YOUR HAIR LIKE THAT?’

  ‘Good, good!’ says Mrs Wilkes. ‘We are nearly there at last.’

  She takes hold of Anne and leads her, gasping, to the couch, where the other women prop her up with pillows and almost at once the throws alter their motion through her body, pushing downwards. The oiled hand eases its way in again, and Mrs Wilkes tells her that the child’s head is there. Anne is no longer crying out, but somehow a bull has got into the room, and every time her body strains, it bellows.

  Dame Nature does her work; the bull bellows; the midwives urge her on; then at once it stops. Mrs Wilkes has a baby in her apron: it is tiny, and female, and very clearly dead.

  Anne Gives Thanks in Tunbridge Wells

  O gracious Lord, the God of the spirits of all flesh, in whose hand my time is, I praise and magnify thee, that thou hast, in love to my soul, delivered it from the pit of corruption, and restored me to health again . . . to such good health, and so soon, that I need not join the Duchess in taking the waters here, which, as I can see from her face when she sips them, is a small deliverance in itself – but I am of course thankful, as her daughter-in-law, of the good done her through the fountains that you made. I do pity her for the latest disappointment that has brought her to them, and I try every day to follow the direction in Dr Walker’s sermon, to kindle devotion in myself, through consideration of your works in Tunbridge, so that I may derive profit for my soul from this place, if not for my body . . .

  . . . but I ask for patience, for I am weary of my life here, since George and Lady Churchill have left, and I cannot but dwell on the loss of that blessed child, whom you have seen fit to spare from the troubles and temptations of this world. I must thank you for making her happy, and remind myself every hour of the Psalm that says I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, because thou didst it, and that it is you that has done it must silence any murmurings and grumblings in me, especially as the midwife said, you had taken the child to you so many weeks before she was delivered, that it was a miracle indeed that I had not been taken with her, that the waters had not turned foul in my womb and poisoned my blood thereby . . .

  I mean in this spirit of thankfulness to give away all that I have won at cards here for the enlargement of the Chapel of Ease, that you may be glorified thereby, and though both my chaplains tell me – and every day – that card-playing is not really such an action as can be sanctified, I know that every time I win, it can only be because you have willed it so, and when I lose, I accept the loss as your correction.

  Also I pray that the Duchess will soon have had a sufficiency of these waters, so that we may join the King and our husbands and the rest of the Court, and hunt perhaps in the New Forest again – though not of course if you should be so good as to make my womb fruitful once more, for I have sworn that I shall never mount a horse again if I know myself to be with child, and for this reason I beg that you might lend me the strength to hinder myself from doing what I desire when I know it will do me no good, for you who know everything know what a weak and wretched sinner I can be.

  The King’s Body, and his Immortal Soul

  Anne has a great fondness for her sovereign uncle. He has always been kind to her, and if that kindness has come at the price of her serving as an object for his wit, then it has been a price she has never minded paying – it is only the same price that is paid by everyone else, after all.

  This summer, his generosity shows itself to the fullest, when he gives her and George some of the most splendid rooms at his disposal, and for a peppercorn rent. The apartment stands alongside Henry Tudor’s cockpit, from which it takes its name. It has red bricks and mullioned casements, that look out over a Royal Park – St James’s this time, not Richmond, but there are days when Anne could almost fancy herself back in her old childhood home; when she has her old friends – Lady Churchill, Mrs Berkeley, Lady Bathurst – to bear her company, her idyll is almost complete, and only the Ladies Clarendon and Sunderland can spoil it.

  God, like the King, is generous. He has listened to her prayers in Tunbridge, smiled on the gift of her winnings and made it so that she is with child again. The only thing she could wish for is that Lady Churchill might be less often at her own house in St Albans, but she could never prevent her going, and any unhappiness of Sarah’s would surely be hers too.

  Anne has learned her lesson, and stays off horseback, spending the autumn and winter shuffling quietly between the Chapel and the card table. She has the King as a model for her conduct: he has a troublesome humour in his leg, which prevents him from taking his usual walks on Constitution Hill. He passes most of his days in his laboratory, and his evenings in the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments, listening to music. It is clear to everyone at Court that he is not quite himself, but all the same, when he falls into his first, sudden fit, it comes as a terrible shock.

  The news reaches Anne almost immediately. It is the morning of Monday 2nd February, just before prayers. The King has had a convulsion while dressing; he has yet to speak or open his eyes, and there is great fear for his life; physicians and bishops are running from all corners; the Duke has rushed to his brother’s side – and in a state of such amazement, Anne hears, that he arrived at the bedside wearing a slipper on one foot and a shoe on the other. The Queen is there, and beside herself. The Duchess has joined her husband.

  George can barely believe it.

  ‘Est-il possible? You know I was with him last night in Her Grace’s rooms? He was in such good spirits – he told me how well the work on the Palace was going along in Winchester, they were to put down the lead this week – then he talked of his experiments with mercury – so interesting, he has been endeavouring to—’

  ‘You should go,’ says Anne. ‘Get dressed, I pray you, and go, and send me word when you get there.’

  Anne is dressed; she waits; she prays. The Prin
ce of Denmark has contrived to get as far as the ante-room to the King’s chamber, and his gentlemen run back and forth with news: the French ambassador has arrived; the King has been let blood, and has come out of his fit, but the effects of it hang upon him, and oppress him terribly, in body if not in spirit. According to George, the physicians are doing all that they should, in the way of cupping, blistering, purging and so on, to try to pull His Majesty out of danger. Thanks to their efforts, and the blessings of God, he rallies a little. But still, the gates to Whitehall remain closed, and there are orders sent to the ports to make certain that there are no messages despatched to the Prince of Orange, or his guest, the Duke of Monmouth.

  Anne waits. Anne prays. The little notes continue to arrive: the King has had plasters put to his feet; has partaken of a little light broth and ale without hops; has complained of his throat hurting; has been let more blood. There is better news on Tuesday, when the King seems improved enough for messengers to be sent to every County, announcing that he is out of danger. Anne’s prayers take on a more hopeful, thankful character. When George arrives back at the Cockpit to dine, he says that the Duke remains with the King, and Bishop Ken too. All seem in reasonable spirits.

  But when Wednesday comes, it is to dash them down again. That afternoon, even as Anne gives thanks in the Chapel, where they are celebrating his deliverance, the King breaks into a cold sweat. The physicians declare him to be in danger again. George sends word from the ante-chamber that Sir Charles Scarborough has administered Spirit of Human Skull to his patient, and that the Lord Keeper is complaining because neither Sir Charles, nor any of the other physicians, will give him any assurance – or even any clear indication – as to what the issue might be.

  It is impossible for Anne to sleep that night. She calls for her chaplains, and they pray together. On Thursday morning she hears that the physicians now understand both the nature of the King’s distemper, and how to treat it: he has an intermittent fever, such as he had a few years before, and they must give him Peruvian Bark. As she reads George’s latest note, the bells start ringing out all over London: the new Gazette has been issued, but with the old news that the King is safe, and will soon be free from his distemper. Anne can follow the path of the truth through the City, in the progressive muffling of its bells.

  She goes again to the Chapel, where the Court chaplains relieve each other every half hour, and lead the congregation in continual prayer. It is to be hoped that the King’s soul might profit, even as his body fails, and he falls into further, more violent, convulsions. It seems they must all pray harder. The bishops assemble at his bedside again. Bishop Ken asks the King if he is sorry for his sins, and on his word that he is, grants him absolution without the bother of confession. Much to the Bishop’s frustration, the King goes on to refuse the Sacrament. He says there is time enough to consider it, but his mind is not disordered, and he cannot truly believe this.

  Early that evening, at the King’s request, the Duke sends everyone but the Earls of Bath and Feversham from the room – so they might take their leave of each other privately, as it is now understood by everyone that the King is dying. According to George, they wait outside for a full forty-five minutes – bishops, physicians, gentlemen of the Court, the French ambassador, speaking in shared glances, and in whispers – before they are allowed back in again, where they find the King weak, but notably serene, and ready for another sally by the royal physicians: Raleigh’s Antidote to support the heart, powdered Goa stone, more Peruvian Bark, Sal Ammoniac, a stone from the stomach of an oriental goat.

  Through it all, the King amazes everyone with his calmness, his courage. He gives his brother his keys, and begs God to give him a prosperous reign. He blesses his natural sons – except for the oldest, who is in The Hague, and whose name might not be mentioned. At Bishop Ken’s request he blesses his people, and asks pardon if he has done anything contrary to their interests. The Bishop urges him again to take the Sacrament; again, he refuses. He keeps refusing, but with unfailing courtesy, until noon on the Friday, when he finally, calmly dies.

  From the start, amidst the groaning and the tears, there have been murmurings of priests, and of poison, and of poison and priests together. That the King would not take the Sacrament from Compton is understandable, as he is a harshly spoken man, who never tries to endear himself – but neither would he take it from Bishop Ken, whom he has always loved, and whose voice is as sweet as a nightingale’s. It is not hard to guess that he has taken the Sacrament from quite another sort of cleric, such as his wife, his brother and his sister-in-law might have in attendance.

  Anne can only wonder at his imperilling his own soul, when he has taken so much care to safeguard hers. Then a nasty thought steals up on her, that perhaps, on the other hand, the King must have believed that it is her soul, and Mary’s, which have been placed in jeopardy – no, surely he would not do that, not unless his mind was quite disordered, and if it was, that would be the priests’ doing too, or the fault of his French mistress Portsmouth – in which case, God will surely forgive him, and receive him – and Mary and Anne in due course – into heaven.

  King James II’s First Speech to His Privy Council, As It Was Taken Down by Heneage Finch, Printed at London by the Assigns of John Bill, Deceased, and by Henry Hills and Thomas Newcomb, and Subsequently Read to the Princess of Denmark by Her Ladyship, the Countess of Clarendon.

  My Lords,

  Before I enter upon any other business, I think fit to say something to you. Since it has pleased Almighty God to place me in this station, and I am now to succeed so good and gracious a king as well as so very kind a brother, I think it fit to declare to you that I will endeavour to follow his example, and most especially in that of his great clemency and tenderness to his people. I have been reported to be a man for arbitrary power, but that is not the only story which has been made of me. And I shall make it my endeavours to preserve this government both in Church and state as it is now by law established. I know the principles of the Church of England are for monarchy, and the members of it have showed themselves good and loyal subjects; therefore I shall always take care to defend and support it. I know too that the laws of England are sufficient to make the king as great a monarch as I can wish. And as I shall never depart from the just rights and prerogative of the Crown, so I shall never invade any mans property. I have often heretofore ventured my life in defence of this nation, and I shall still go as far as any man in preserving it in all its just rights and liberties.

  Anne’s Religion

  The first act of the new King is quite unexpected: he confirms all his household officers in their places, adding only a few trusted persons, such as Lord Churchill, to their number. Despite this, the Court is instantly and utterly changed. In the space of a very few days, it has sobered up, straightened its face, buttoned its breeches and pulled its purse strings as tight as they will go. This last, says the King when Anne visits him, is both necessary and urgent.

  ‘I would not for the world speak ill of the dead, Anne, but there was in the late King’s management of his affairs such a want of – never mind, it is not for your ears – but on this subject in general – I trust you are pleased with the allowance granted you?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir, very pleased, and I thank you.’

  ‘Good. Then I desire you to be a good housewife, and not overspend.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘I do not wish to hear that you have lost it all at cards, or dice, or from going after some other foolishness.’

  ‘Of course not, Sir. I am very content with what I am given – and also that you have appointed the Prince to your Council. I should like to thank you for that.’

  ‘It was only proper that we should: he is our son. And you have both your uncles back in high office where they should be – you shall be well taken care of in all respects, my dear.’

  ‘I know that, Sir.’ ‘But I did not summon you to t
alk of your Hyde relations, Anne. As you well know, my religion—’ He stops, and looks at her. ‘There’s no need for you to blush and cast your eyes about like that – I have not called you here to convert you; I am no kind of monster, Anne – but I must speak to you about the Chapel.’ ‘I beg your pardon, Sir.’ ‘So. The Chapel. You must understand that just as my conscience would not permit me to enter there while I was the King’s brother, neither will it permit me now that I am King.’ Anne nods. ‘But at the same time I am sensible of the duty of our family with regard to . . . the Church of this country, and so I have ordered the Chapel to be kept in the same order as formerly, and – this is very much your concern – I am to give orders to this effect.’

  He takes a sheet of paper from his closet desk and offers it to Anne, who takes it, and reads:

  It is His Majesty’s pleasure that Her Royal Highness Princess Anne of Denmark Doe sit in His Majesty’s Closett at His Chappell Royal at Whitehall, upon one side of the King’s Chaire, which must remaine in its place not turned: And that Noe man of what degree or quality soever, presume to come into ye clossett when Her Royal Highness is there, except the Clerke of the Clossett, or his Deputy to officiate there, And the Lord Chamberlayne and Mr Vice Chamberlayne of His Majesty’s Household to stand behind the King’s chaire.

  ‘You are to be my proxy in all services, and the clergy will perform the same bowing and ceremonies to the place where you are as if I had been there in person.’

  ‘No-one shall have reason to complain of my conduct there, Sir.’