The King's Favorite

by Susan Holloway Scott

  It was really no wonder that the king, who’d known Buckingham since they’d played in the nursery together, forgave him his many missteps, simply because he was the only gentleman at court so willing to play the witty jester for the royal amusement. I’d watched the duke perform and seen his success; a lesson I’d understood most perfectly, and hoped soon to employ myself.

  Tonight, when we’d dined yet were still at table, he withdrew, with sly promises of another guest to join us, a great personage. With eager anticipation, we twisted in our seats to look toward the doorway, the gentlemen making hasty wagers among themselves as to who exactly Buckingham’s “guest” was to be.

  After scarce a moment, the duke returned, or rather, he returned not as His Grace, but as the disgraced Lord Chancellor in the flesh. With a pair of fire bellows dangling from his belt to represent the seals of his office and his wig pushed low over his forehead in disarray, he shuffled unsteadily into the room, as if bowed beneath the weight of many years, and winced each time he stepped upon his gouty foot. He’d inflated his belly with cushions stuffed inside his waistcoat and hunched his shoulders forward, his squinting, mean-spirited eyes regarding each of us in turn.

  “Oh, the woeful state of this kingdom!” he wailed in groaning lament. “That I should live my thousand years to see such shame! Oh, that the sinners are rewarded, and a most righteous and worthy servant such as myself is punished and cast out like a mongrel cur in the street!”

  All of us at the table roared with laughter at this impersonation, it was so perfectly cast. But while the others were content to pound the table, I was drawn to do more. I couldn’t help it; the devil was in my nature, just as it was in His Grace’s. Remembering how he and I had played against one another in Epsom, I slipped from my chair. I smoothed my skirts, lifted my chin at a haughty angle, and stepped forward to block his path.

  “That I must perforce be cast aside,” he continued to groan, “with my only rewards being my gold and titles and lands, only a pittance of what I deserved for my labors!”

  “Oh, you’ve gotten what you deserve, old fellow,” I said, with every scrap of Lady Castlemaine’s haughtiness. I’d half closed my eyes to mimic her famously sleepy gaze, and made my mouth slack to resemble her voluptuary’s pout. “What else can you expect, when you dare stand in my way to claim what I’ve toiled so hard to earn upon my back?”

  Just as the others had recognized Buckingham’s version of Clarendon, so now they saw my Castlemaine, and the howls of amusement grew louder. Buckingham did, too, and though he kept his face grimly set like the old chancellor’s, I saw the spark in his eye, approving my audacity.

  He raised his fist to me, an empty threat that trembled and shook with impotence. “Away with you, falsest of harpies and most faithless of harlots!”

  I danced back out of his reach, arching my back, lifting one foot and pointing my toe in the way that Castlemaine always did when she opened a ball in the palace. (Her Ladyship was especially vain about her dancing, which of course made her dancing—among other things—especially vulnerable to my jesting.)

  “If ’twere not for you, old man, I’d be richer still!” I cried. “I know my worth, my value, my price for spreading my lovely limbs so wide to take so many lovely cocks!”

  “Great vulgar whore!” the duke shouted, lifting his querulous Clarendon voice to be heard over the laughter and jeers. “Imperial jade! Why can you not come as cheaply to His Majesty’s bed as Moll Davis does?”

  I caught my breath, stunned. The others howled like jackals with amusement at the duke’s pointed jab and the obvious discomfiture it was causing me, and elbowed one another as they waited to see my response. For him to taunt me about Moll was purest Buckingham (it was often said of the duke that he’d rather lose a friend than a jest), designed to make all around him laugh, no matter the expense to me.

  For despite my having mocked Moll so thoroughly from the stage before I’d gone away, the king had still gathered her up from that cold, cold ground and into his bed. She’d left the Duke’s Company, left off acting entirely, and had shifted her lodgings from Ludgate to a fine, furnished house in Suffolk Street, Haymarket, for the convenience of the king’s visits, and paid for from his pocket, too. To my chagrin, Moll herself had come to the Theatre Royal one night, to flaunt her good fortune in my face. Before the crowd in the tiring-room, she’d made a huge show of a ring she’d claimed the king had given her, and how it was valued at six hundred pounds, until I’d desired to shove the confounded bauble down her fat throat.

  Thus to hear Buckingham toss Moll’s squalid name back toward me now, before so many who’d have heard the story, was nigh beyond bearing. If I’d been of a more tender constitution, I might have wept from shame, or fled the room from mortification. But I was wrought of sterner stuff than that, and besides, I’d been well instructed in improvisation, no matter what the circumstances.

  I looked square into Buckingham’s eyes, as much to say I’d accept any challenge he’d make to me. Then I bowed my head and made a small, graceful turn on my toes. When I came round, I planted my feet solidly, to seem stout and ordinary. I squared my arms akimbo and slumped my shoulders, to the purpose of making myself squat. Last I drew back my head to give myself extra chins and to remove all grace from my visage, squinted to make my eyes smaller, and screwed up my mouth.

  In short, in those few seconds, I changed myself from the beauteous, lithe Castlemaine into the lowish Moll, and there wasn’t a gentlemen there who didn’t realize it.

  I thrust my hand out before Buckingham’s face, and pointed with my other to where an (imaginary) ring would be.

  “There you be, m’lord chancellor,” I said in Moll’s shrill, shrewish tone. “There be the ring, what the king gave me himself. Six hundred, it’s worth, six hundred honest money for my best private performance, to be sure, playing the beast with two backs, one of them being most royal.”

  Buckingham puffed out his cheeks and shook his head, though I could tell he was laboring wicked hard not to laugh and spoil everything.

  “May God deliver poor England from such wanton effrontery!” he said, adding a doleful groan. “To charge six hundred pounds for the simplest act of coition!”

  “ ’Twas nothing simple about it, m’lord,” I said with Moll’s habitual bright doggedness. “I’d begun to sing as we lay together, and when His Majesty protested, I told him it was fifty pounds for every minute of the blessed silence he’d need to finish.”

  As the laughter rose about me, I tipped back my head and began to sing my infamous version of her “Cold, Cold Ground,” as pleasingly as any stray tabby with her tail caught in a door. There were several facetious bids and offers to meet my price if I’d stop, but I wasn’t there to fill my purse, and so I plowed on to the end, closing with a stumpy curtsey. It was a triumph, and all the more sweet for knowing that the talk in the coffeehouses tomorrow would be as much of me as of Clarendon.

  “Nelly, you delicious rascal.” Buckingham caught my arm before I could return to my chair. He shoved his wig back in place, his face returned to its usual cast. “What possessed you to do that?”

  “I might ask the same of you, m’lord,” I said, grinning. “You cannot help it, nor can I.”

  “It’s a harmless devil, compared to some,” he said, studying me with thoughtfulness rare for him. “Come with me, Nelly; I wish to speak to you in private.”

  I followed him down a hallway into a small study, where we’d be sure not to be disturbed or overheard. He motioned for me to sit, giving me leave for such familiarity, but I chose to stand, not intending to linger overlong in his company.

  “I didn’t expect you to give such a performance, Nelly,” he said. “You’ve a rare wit for a woman, especially one of such youth and beauty.”

  “Thank’ee, m’lord,” I said with care. “But I do not believe you needed such quiet to tell me that.”

  He held his hands outstretched, imploring. “Is it a sin to pay you homage, my de
ar? ”

  “Nay, pay as long as you wish,” I said, lapsing back into Moll’s voice. “ ’Tis only fifty pounds a minute.”

  He chuckled. “Then clearly I must hasten. I cannot afford it otherwise.”

  I curtseyed by way of reply, but also to urge him on. As charming as His Grace could be, he was poison with women. He’d broken his duchess in spirit and health, destroyed the marriage and reputation of his mistress, the Countess of Shrewsbury, and carelessly ruined endless others, of every rank and station. Now, I enjoyed the duke’s company, because he made me smile, but I didn’t trust him, nor would I. The king loved widely because he loved women, but Buckingham did the same without heart, for the conquering alone.

  He stroked his fingers lightly over the mustache he wore, following the fashion set by His Majesty. “You are quick, Nelly. It’s a pity to see such a gift squandered in the playhouse.”

  “Oh, I don’t think of it as squandering, m’lord,” I said. “Rather, I consider it earning my bread in an honest fashion.”

  “But there’s other, sweeter loaves to be had, Nelly,” he said. “The influence of Lady Castlemaine—”

  “Your cousin, m’lord.” He expected me to be quick; I was happy to oblige.

  “My cousin.” His smile of acknowledgment was strained. “I’d scarce forgotten.”

  “That’s good, m’lord. I’d guess Her Ladyship likes to be remembered.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “Nell, I’ll be direct. The king’s attachment to Lady Castlemaine is done. Although Colonel Howard and the rest of his magpie clan believe that their Moll has a chance to seize the prize, she hasn’t the stuff to last.”

  I sighed. “Hey-ho, hey-ho, tell me what I do not know.”

  “You could be next, Nell, that is what I’ll tell you,” he said. “The jewels, the titles, the properties, the influence. Everything could be yours.”

  “What of the king?” I asked. “You’ve forgotten him. I’d rather think he’d come as part of the bargain, with the titles and jewels.”

  “Be serious, girl,” he snapped, his patience finally gone. “He’s already noticed you, and seeks your company. The next step’s the easiest one. I’ll guide you, sponsor you, see that you’re always in the path of the king—”

  “And of his cock,” I said shrewdly. “There’s no need to be so coy about it, m’lord, not with me. Lord Rochester has offered to perform much the same service, and I refused him as I’ll refuse you. I’m happy where I am at the playhouse, without need of you or Lord Rochester or anyone else as my pimp.”

  He came to stand close before me, striving to intimidate me, I know, with his far greater size.

  “Don’t be a fool, Nell,” he said. “You know what I’m offering you is a golden plum, there on a salver for you to take.”

  I didn’t answer, not at once. No matter that he’d brought me to this chamber in his house, with its false sense of intimacy, even companionship. The truth was that he was a peer and a man, and I was a player, an actress, and in his eyes, a whore, to be bought and sold and bought again, however the market inclined. With such a divide between us, I could never confess my true feelings, nor would I choose to, even if it were possible.

  Because it wasn’t me he believed a fool. It was His Majesty.

  As Castlemaine’s star faded, Buckingham and the others were scrambling about, mad as mice in malt with their imagined good fortune. They believed the king was so hopelessly cuntstruck that all they needed do was lead another ripe mare before him, and through her they’d rule England. That was what they believed, and I believed them wrong.

  The king liked women, loved women. I’d only to watch him to understand that. But the king was not a fool, and he loved England and her people even more. Even I, who only knew him from a distance, could see that. He indulged his women, but he’d never let himself become a complete petticoat ruler, and he’d never, ever let the Duke of Buckingham dictate his actions for the country. This king was far too clever for that, and his courtiers were the true fools to underestimate him so.

  There was one more thing that I could never say to the duke, because it seemed the most private of all. They thought the king pursued so many women because the king was licentious, a man of unbridled appetites. But when I looked at His Majesty, what I saw first was a man who was lonely, whose face was lined with sorrow and whose smile was always tinged with melancholy. I saw a man who needed love more than another lover, and who needed to laugh above all things.

  If I were to earn the king’s favor, it would be on my terms. Humble though my birth might have been, I wouldn’t let myself be only another of the nameless doxies that the king’s servant Chiffinch would usher up the backstairs to the royal bedchamber, an amusement for one night and no more. I’d worked too hard to become what I was for that; I wanted the king, aye, but I wanted him to want me, Nelly Gwyn, in return.

  Yet I must be honest in another way, too. I wouldn’t refuse the gifts that a king can grant. A ring worth six hundred pounds would have looked most fine upon my finger. But what I’d want first was the man himself. Not the titles, not the jewels, not the estates, but the man.

  How could I ever explain such foolishness to His Grace the worldly, ambitious Duke of Buckingham? I couldn’t, and I didn’t.

  “Thank’ee, m’lord,” I said, smiling, “but for now I’ll continue as a simple player for the King’s Company, and no more.”

  I curtseyed, intending to leave, but instead he caught my hand and pulled me up, back to my feet, as if to prove how fast he could raise me in life as well. “You’re not a simple player, Nell, any more than I’m a simple courtier. We’re both of us meant for grander roles than that. Consider what I ask. As a fellow, as a true friend. Consider it.”

  I nodded but promised nothing, and when I tugged my hand, he let me go free.

  For now.

  Chapter Eleven

  THEATRE ROYAL, LONDON January 1668

  The winter was good for me. I’d once again become such a favorite with audiences that every new play must needs have me in it, in a leading role where I’d not be missed by those who clamored for me, and where, too, the company would make a handsome profit. By way of reward and acknowledgment, I was granted a tiring-room of my own, separate from the other actresses, where I could dress and rehearse my lines at my own leisure, and entertain whomever I pleased in a semblance of privacy. I also now had a serving woman to help me dress and run petty errands for me as I saw fit.

  I’d worked at the playhouse for so long now—nearly five years—that it truly did seem like my home, and in many ways it was the only one I’d ever had. I felt safest there, and though I enjoyed the excitement when the king and other courtiers came to watch our plays and called on us backstage afterward, I was glad that that was as far as it went. I could visit Whitehall to dance and sing, or go to a dine in a nobleman’s house, but I could always return to the stage. We players had our world, and they’d theirs. But an accidental event one afternoon in January, early in the new year of 1668, rattled my confidence and my secure belief in that separation of our worlds as well.

  We’d finished our rehearsal for the morning and had scattered to dine before the afternoon’s performance. The playhouse was quiet and empty for this short time, before the doors would be opened and the audience let in. A small group of friends and I were heading to an eating house near the theatre when I realized I’d left my muff, with my purse inside it, in the tiring-room. Time being short, I sent my friends ahead to the eating-house to call for drinks and bespoke our meal, while I ran back alone.

  I hurried through the back of the stage, then stopped abruptly at the sound of voices, a man and a woman speaking their lines so softly I couldn’t make them out. There shouldn’t have been anyone on the stage, not now, and from curiosity, I went through the wings to see who the pair could be.

  Though his back was toward me, I recognized Charles Hart sitting on the gilded throne of the Aztec emperor, a property from Mr. Dryden’s play. On
his head was the brassy helmet he wore for his role of Cortez, though from what I could glimpse, the rest of his dress was the same ordinary coat and breeches that he’d worn earlier at rehearsal. The woman was largely hidden from my sight by Charles and the throne, though I could see her skirts before him, and the plumed crest of the Indian princess’s crown on her head—my crown, for my part, never played by any other actress in our house.

  Determined to learn who’d dare usurp my role and insult me like this, I began to step forward, then stopped dead.

  “ ‘Our greatest honor is in loving well,’ ” Charles was saying, his lines as Cortez, though his voice sounded oddly strangled. He groaned, his hands clutching at the arms of the throne as his hips arched up from the seat. To my shock, I realized the unknown woman had opened his breeches and was eagerly ministering to his member, my plumed princess crown bobbing up and down with the motions of her dark-haired head. He groaned again in the fashion that I knew signified his crisis was near, but instead of bringing his release, the woman scrambled to her feet, her wanton face now clear to me, her mouth wet, red, and glistening from her task.

  “ ‘Strange ways you practice there to win a heart,’ ” Lady Castlemaine said—speaking my lines—as she hoisted her skirts over her garters and knees, spread her white thighs, and climbed atop Charles’s well-readied cock. “ ‘Here Love is Nature, but with you ’tis Art.’ How that love of yours does swell for me, Hart!”

  She closed her eyes and tossed back her head, the very image of a surfeit of pleasure. Shaken, I withdrew and left them to it, though I couldn’t put the scene from my mind. It wasn’t the lubricious excess that so disturbed me—God knows I’d witnessed far more exotic displays than this in my time—but the message that it was intended to convey. There’d been nothing secretive about the encounter; I was surely intended to witness it, or to hear of it from another at the very least.