by Jean Plaidy
Charles came to me in some distress. He told me about the complaints and said that if the woman would only make certain statements she would be allowed to remain.
I protested. “She is a good nurse. The baby has taken to her. I might not be able to find another as good.”
But Charles was adamant, as he could be on some occasions, and I could see that in a matter like this my wiles would avail me nothing.
He sent for the nurse and gently explained to her that she had done her work well and that the Queen was highly satisfied with her as a nurse but she must remember that the baby could in some circumstances become the King of England and the English thought he should not have a Catholic nurse. All she need do was take an oath to the effect that the power of the Pope to depose princes was impious, heretical and damnable.
“Take this oath,” said the King, “and all will be well.”
The nurse started to scream in horror: “Deny the Pope. Deny the Holy Father his rights. Never…never…never….”
The King said: “Then you will leave this palace at once.”
I was very distressed and although the King tried to comfort me I refused to listen to him. I said that every woman in the country could choose the nurse for her own child but the Queen, a daughter of Henri IV, was denied that right.
The King went on trying to comfort me, making allowances for my state, I know; but I was really distressed, not only because of the nurse, but because I had believed till then that I was making some headway and that Catholics were treated much more leniently in England than they had been before my arrival. I had strong hopes that I was beginning to make the King see the rightness of the Catholic Faith and I had thought how wonderful it would be if I could convert him, and, through him, the nation. I should go down in history as another St. Augustine or Bertha of early England. And now I could not even have a Catholic wet nurse for my baby!
I refused to eat and I lay sullenly in my bed and was so despairing that I became really ill. The King sent for doctors who could not put a name to my malady. “The Queen is depressed and so upset that she has lost her vitality and her interest in life,” said the doctors.
Charles was beside himself with anxiety. He really did love me, and I hated to worry him; but I was upset for I did see in this dismissal of the nurse the hopelessness of my dreams.
As I lay there, one day Charles came to the room and with him was the Catholic nurse.
“She is to come back,” he said simply. “I have given permission. I will silence the gossipers. I hope that pleases you.”
I just held out my arms and we clung together. I was so happy—not only to have the nurse back but because of this further sign of his love for me.
I was better within a day.
There was another little trouble a few days later. The King’s Protestant chaplain came to me and explained what great good I could do the King and the country by renouncing the Catholic Faith and embracing Protestantism.
What a proposition to make to an ardent Catholic! I denounced him and his Faith vehemently but he persisted; he went on his knees and prayed. This angered me. As if I did not know the meaning of prayer!
I cried out: “It is you who are mistaken. You will burn in hell. God will never forgive you for renouncing the true Faith.”
I became hysterical and ill again.
The King came and soothed me. I must be calmer, he said. He knew how strongly I felt about my religion and he had done everything he could to make life easy for me. He had relaxed the laws against Catholics and that was making the people displeased. A great deal of our unpopularity was due to that. I must know that he would do everything he could to please me.
“Anything?” I asked.
“You know that I would.”
“Then there is one thing I want more than anything in the world. Dear husband, I want you to stand beside me in worship.”
He sighed and said: “Ah, little one, I would that could be.”
I was confident then that one day Charles would see the light. I threw off my lethargy, my fury against those who had taken the nurse—but I had her back, had I not?—and I determined to fight as never before for the conversion of my husband to the true Faith.
There were many people to report what was happening in England and I realized that the general opinion abroad was that I had a great influence on the King and was bringing him round to my Catholic point of view. I think there was some truth in this and perhaps it was the reason why I was becoming more and more unpopular in England. I ignored this in my heedless way, believing with Charles that Kings were the Lord’s anointed and the common people at length must realize that they had no right to do anything but accept this. However, there were high hopes in Rome because I was regarded as the Pope’s good ambassadress.
Baby James was just over a year old when Gregorio Panzani came to London. He had been sent by the Pope to visit England in particular to talk to me. I was greatly flattered and I really did feel that in spite of a few steps backward I was making some progress.
Father Philip presented Panzani to me as soon as he arrived in England and Panzani was most gracious.
“The Holy Father himself thanks you for what you have done and what you are doing for the Faith in this misguided land. You have been as a mother to these ungrateful people. Can you, do you believe, bring them to true understanding?”
I was filled with emotion.
“I cannot tell you how much I esteem the good opinion of His Holiness,” I answered. “Tell him to rest assured that I will do everything within my power to please him and God.”
“His Holiness is aware of this but will be overjoyed that you have confirmed it.”
My impetuosity took charge. I was so pleased that my efforts were recognized and I wanted to get the ultimate credit, so I said confidentially: “I firmly believe that before long I shall have converted the King to the Faith. He is a saintly man; he appreciates what is holy. Yes, I am convinced that ere long I shall bring about his conversion.”
“That,” replied Panzani, “is the best possible news I could have heard and exceeds my expectations.” He went on to say that he greatly desired a meeting with the King and I told him I would arrange it without delay.
When Charles heard that Gregorio Panzani was in England and had actually visited me informally he was greatly disturbed. He looked at me with that tender exasperation which I knew so well and said: “This could be dangerous. What will be said if the people hear that you are secretly receiving messengers from the Pope?”
“If you receive him his visit will not be secret,” I said logically.
But Charles merely shook his head at me.
I then said that I had promised Panzani should meet the King, so Charles could not humiliate me by not receiving him.
Charles demurred. He was far more worried about the people who surrounded him, and many of them were his enemies, than I realized then.
At length he said that a meeting should take place, but it would have to be in secret…not official.
I was delighted. That would do very well, I cried and embraced him and told him I was the happiest and luckiest of women to have such a husband.
A meeting was arranged and Panzani and Charles met without any fuss. I was not present at their meeting but I knew it was an amicable one.
It was impossible to keep the arrival of Panzani a complete secret. Several members of the Court knew he was in England; however, realizing the King wished that the visit should not be considered an official one, they kept quiet.
But these matters cannot long be kept secret. There is certain to be someone who cannot resist talking too much, and one day when Charles and I were together playing some parlor game a guard came in to tell us that there was a man outside who was begging an audience with the King on a matter, he said, of grave importance.
“He does not look in the least dangerous,” said the guard, “and he carries no weapons.”
“Then bring him to me,”
said the King.
The man was brought in. He proved to be one of that sect which was becoming more and more prominent in England during the last year or so: a Puritan. He was very plainly dressed and his hair was cut in an odd fashion which made his head look round.
I was convulsed with amusement when the man said in a very confidential whisper: “Your Majesty, I thought you should know that a dangerous man has arrived secretly in England.”
The King said: “A dangerous man! Who is this?”
“Your Majesty, it is one of the Pope’s men. I have information that his name is Panzani. I decided it was something you should know at once.”
Although I could scarcely keep a straight face, the King managed to.
“Thank you for warning me,” he said.
And our round-headed Puritan went on his way convinced that he had done his duty.
How I laughed about that afterward—but not with the King. He admired the man for coming to tell him that he thought he was in danger.
“I could see that he thought the manner in which we live somewhat sinful,” I commented. “I saw his eyes roaming round the tapestries and some of the furnishings. I think he thought they were symbols of the Devil.”
“Poor fellow,” said Charles. “It must be a sad thing to be blind to beauty.”
I laughed over the incident with Panzani. He was a very sophisticated gentleman, and pious as he was, could still compliment me on my gowns and scents. Father Philip was very pleased with me and he told Panzani that he reckoned in three years or so the King would become a Catholic and then it would only be a short time before the country followed. When this happy state of affairs occurred the religious world would have to be grateful most of all to the Queen of England.
They were intoxicating words, and foolishly I believed them. How was I to know that it would be a very different story and that I should play quite a big part in bringing about not triumph but disaster?
But it really did seem as though we were going to succeed because, although Panzani did not come until December, the following March Richard Weston, Earl of Portland, the Treasurer who had been at the heart of the trouble over my letter, died and in his final moments he sent for a Catholic priest to administer the last rites.
Then there was Wat Montague, the poet who had written The Shepherd’s Paradise, which had caused Prynne the loss of his ears. Wat had been abroad and recently returned to England announcing that he had seen the light and become a Catholic. He was proposing to go to Rome and join the Fathers of the Oratory.
Ah yes, I thought, we were indeed making progress.
Then I discovered I was pregnant again.
While I was awaiting the birth of my child, my new chapel in Somerset House was completed. What a joyous day that was when it was consecrated. It was so beautiful with a wonderfully painted dome in which archangels, cherubim and seraphim appeared to be floating above our heads; and it was my happy task to draw the curtains and reveal all this beauty.
I was so moved when Mass was celebrated that there were tears in my eyes. It seemed to me the ultimate triumph that I had made this corner in a land alien to the Truth. Soon, I promised myself, there should be chapels everywhere—not so grand as this, of course, because this was a royal chapel, but places where Catholics could go freely to worship. I would not rest until I had turned the heresy of England to true belief.
Charles could not be there to worship with me, of course, but as a connoisseur of art and beauty he came to admire the work, and his eyes glistened with appreciation.
Panzani congratulated me in private. “But,” he said, “this is not enough. What we need is conversions…of men in high places.”
I was a little cast down for I thought I had done very well. He comforted me and said that the Holy Father was delighted with my efforts. I had done more than he had thought possible at the time of my marriage, but there was a great deal to be done yet and we must not be complacent.
To tell the truth I was not feeling any great desire to do anything but rest, for my baby was shortly due to arrive, and however frequently one gives birth—and in my case it seemed to be an event which began again as soon as one was ended—one does every time have to face an ordeal.
It was a cold December day when Elizabeth was born. I had spent an exhausting day in labor and as night was falling—at ten o’clock to be precise—my daughter made her appearance.
However irksome the waiting has been, it always seems worthwhile at that moment when the little one is there and one’s inconvenience is over…for the time being. I loved the child at once and I was rather glad that it was a girl. The only one who gave me cause for anxiety was Mary, who seemed to be delicate and had given us one or two frights. My eldest, Charles, flourished, although he did not grow any less unprepossessing. Perhaps that is the wrong word, but he was definitely lacking in beauty, though it did seem that he had a great deal of charm to make up for that. I had never seen a child win people to his side as Charles did. James, for all his innocent beauty, could not compete, and I could not be anything but surprised and delighted by my still rather swarthy eldest. He said the most amusing things and he was so serious contemplating the world with those large dark eyes and clearly finding it diverting.
I sometimes wished that I could go right away to Oatlands with the children and Charles and live like a simple noblewoman. Should I really want that for long? I was not sure. My frivolous nature did enjoy the masques and balls and all the beautiful clothes and jewels that seemed part of them. I was by nature an intriguant, I suppose. I loved to be in the thick of adventure. I had so enjoyed Panzani’s visit and that enjoyment had been greater because of the secret understanding between us which I knew would be against the wishes of those serious puritanical people who were springing up everywhere.
A new baby was an additional expense. She was put into the care of the Countess of Roxburgh, who was already looking after her elder sister Mary; but she had to have her suite of attendants befitting a royal child—her dresser, her watchers, her nurses, her rockers and quite a number of minor servants. Moreover, Charles’s nephews—the sons of his sister Elizabeth—came to visit us and that meant lavish entertainments. Charles Louis, the elder, was a little dull, but Rupert was a very attractive young man of about seventeen. Charles took a great fancy to him and he to Charles. It was fun to have the young men at Court and there was one entertainment which stands out in my memory. Lady Hatton gave a wonderful show at her place in Ely Court, and the masques, plays and balls and firework displays lasted for a whole month. Lady Hatton closed her entertainment with a ball for the citizens of London. It was not for people of the Court, she said.
It was Henry Jermyn who suggested that we go incognito and I thought it was an excellent idea.
“But how?” I asked.
“We shall have to dress as citizens,” said Henry. “I’ll be a merchant. Your Majesty can be a shopkeeper’s wife.”
What fun we had! I instructed one of the seamstresses to make me a suitable gown and a bonnet which hid my face to a certain extent because it was just possible that someone might recognize me. I sent for my lace woman who kept a shop somewhere in the city and let her into the secret. She promised to take us in with her.
It was so amusing dancing with the citizens and interesting to listen to their talk although a little disconcerting that there were some who had harsh things to say about the way in which Catholics were getting a footing in the country. There were even one or two comments against me, but I didn’t take them very seriously. They only seemed to add to the fun as I was intent on enjoying the evening and Henry Jermyn was so amusing posing as a merchant and Lord Holland—always good for adventure—was excellent company.
Charles was at this time in good spirits, for to celebrate the birth of the new baby, Louis and Rupert had brought with them presents from Charles’s sister Elizabeth and the Palatine her husband, and these happened to be four paintings of great beauty and nothing could have pleased th
e King more. He was delighted to add the two Tintorettos and Titians to his collection, and I often found him gloating over them. The Arab horses—snow white in color—which had accompanied the paintings, Charles had presented to me.
“I am sure you will enjoy them more than I would,” he said fondly. “And I have my pictures.”
It was hardly likely that with a new addition to the family making us the proud parents of four healthy children and all the merrymaking we were going to worry ourselves about the depleted state of the exchequer.
It was certainly not in my nature to do so.
I was a little saddened to hear that Lady Eleanor Davys, who had prophesied that my first child would be born, christened and buried on the same day, had become a widow. She had prophesied Sir John’s death, which she had said would take place within three days of her prophecy and it did. It was reported that when she had looked somber and worn something dark in mourning for him, he had said: “Don’t weep while I am alive and I will give you leave to laugh when I am dead.”
There was a great deal of talk about her and her prophecies at the time of Sir John’s death. I should have liked to consult her again, but I knew that Charles would not be pleased if I did and I was so happy in this wonderful relationship which was growing between us and which was becoming stronger every day, that I did my best not to upset him now.
Only recently Lady Eleanor had been committed to the Gate House Prison and fined three thousand pounds. I don’t know exactly what she did but she had been accused of some crime through her writings. She did not care about this but continued to write. Whether she was in league with the Devil I cannot say, but she sincerely believed in her prophecies and that it was her duty to make them.
A new Papal agent had arrived in England. This was George Conn. He was a Scotsman of great charm and good looks who had been sent to the Scots’ College in Paris and Rome and gone on to complete his education afterward at Bologna, where he had become a Dominican friar.
His mission, I learned later, was to mingle with the people of the Court and persuade them—with the utmost subtlety of course—to embrace the faith of Rome. Panzani had been too ambitious. He had planned to convert the whole country. The new idea, which came with George Conn, was to convert the important people of the Court; and this was what George was setting out to do.
