The King's Favorite

by Susan Holloway Scott

  Yet such was not the case among noble gentlemen. Rochester’s antagonism was considered a most grievous insult not only to Killigrew, but to the king and his larger authority. Rochester had been instantly remorseful and apologetic, blaming his action upon the wine (sadly, too often the case with him).

  But the damage, as they say, was done. Though Killigrew forgave him, and so did Charles, it was strongly suggested that Rochester go abroad for a while. Charles had softened the exile by giving it a diplomatic cast—a common practice for disgraced courtiers—that Louis now seemed disinclined to accept.

  “That French king has his own ass in the air, to refuse to admit Rochester,” I said, indignant on my friend’s behalf. “Our Majesty had already pardoned him. Why wasn’t that good enough for His Fine French Majesty, I ask you?”

  Buckingham sighed. “That’s exactly why, Nelly. To prove what was good enough for our Charles isn’t nearly fine enough for their Louis.”

  “Sweet God, but I do hate the French,” I said with mighty conviction. “They do nothing but look down their noses at us English, for no other reasons than that we’re not them. I’d wish them all to their Romish devil, if I could.”

  He stopped, halting me beside him. “You don’t say that to the king, do you? ”

  “I do, if he asks me.” To me, a dislike of all things and persons French was an admirable emotion of long tradition, and one I shared with most Englishmen and -women.

  “Then I cannot believe he asks you,” the duke said, self-importance seeming to puff out the breast of his amber velvet waistcoat. “He doesn’t share the common aversion to the French. Far from it. His mother was by birth a French princess, his favorite sister is wedded to a French prince, brother to the French king. In his heart, he is much more in sympathy with things sweet and French than things dour and Dutch.”

  I set my hands on my hips. “Why are you telling me this now, Your Grace?”

  “Because I thought it would intrigue you, my dear,” he said with a slight, maddening shrug. “If you wish to play among these royal gardens, you might need to know which blossoms to sniff, and which to set aside.”

  “A pox on your puzzles,” I said, irritated as much by how this made as much sense to him as it didn’t to me. “Speak plain, Your Grace, or not at all.”

  But Buckingham had never spoken plain in all his life, and he wasn’t to begin now. “Louis may not have received Rochester, but Minette did.”

  Minette was Charles’s pet name for his sister Henriette, Duchesse d’Orleans, fourteen years younger than he. As the perennial babe of the scattered Stuart family, she remained an unrivaled angel of perfection in her brother’s eyes, no matter that he’d not seen her in years. Likewise, Charles had always favored Rochester, for the sake of the earl himself as well as his long-dead father.

  “Of course His Majesty would send Rochester with a letter to his sister,” I said, “just as of course she’d receive him.”

  “Oh, of course, of course, of course,” Buckingham said, his voice fulsome with mockery. “That’s the obvious intent, all genteel politesse. Rochester will understand and do whatever is asked of him, I am sure of it, just as Minette will do whatever is in her power to help her dear older brother. She may sleep beside a French husband, but her heart will always be English. She understands how the game is played, yes? But you, my dear. Haven’t you considered there might be more? ”

  “More how, Your Grace?” I asked cautiously. For Buckingham to speak in so many queries and riddles could only mean that we were gliding into some murky waters indeed, waters that I wasn’t entirely sure I wished to visit.

  “Why . . . more.” He made a small, dismissive flourish with his hand, the lace of his cuff falling back from his palm. “A way that our poor beggar king might dip his hands deep into all those lovely louis d’or and livres and pistoles that his cousin has in such superfluity.”

  “Oh, pish,” I scoffed. “Not even old Louis has so much gold that he’d give it to his rival for nothing like that.”

  “I didn’t say there wouldn’t be a price,” he said. “Our king agrees to keep England at war with the Dutch, and remain an ally of France. Louis would like that. I’m sure there are other small, obliging favors that Charles could offer that would be worthy of a French reward. A loan, a gift that’s kept within the family, one cousin to another, and behold! Our king now has a path to freedom from the niggardly misers of Parliament.”

  “Faith, he can’t take gold from Louis,” I said, frowning, for it still made no sense to me. “How could you mean such a thing? ”

  “I mean more gold for people such as ourselves, Nell, people who must depend upon the king as the king, in turn, depends upon his allowance from Parliament.” He smiled, and I thought of how the sinful serpent must have smiled down from his tree at innocent Eve in the Garden. “Meaning that if Minette can serve both her brother and her husband with some tidy arrangement between the two, she could well succeed where Arlington and Sir William Temple could not.”

  I’d no knowledge of this Sir William, or how or why he’d failed. I guessed it must be some sort of treaty or agreement of great importance, for Lord Arlington was a sleek, contriving, dangerous gentleman, an intimate associate of Lady Castlemaine’s. I’d also believed him one of Buckingham’s own, which made my head spin with confusion to hear him scorn Arlington in this fashion now.

  And yet, too, I recalled what Charles had said to me at Newmarket, how he’d hinted at wonderful plans in the making that would change everything. Could this have been what he’d meant? Could he truly be intending such an arrangement with cursed France?

  “You’re silent, Nell.” Buckingham chucked me lightly beneath the chin, forcing me to look up and meet his gaze. “That’s not like you.”

  I pulled my face away from his touch. “I’ve nothing to say, Your Grace, not to this.”

  He narrowed his eyes a fraction, watching me. “He’s spoken to you of these matters, hasn’t he? ”

  “Of choosing to take money from the French king in exchange for these ‘favors’ of yours?” I was appalled that my face had betrayed so much. At least we were alone, far from any others hearing us say such shocking, treasonous words. “Of the king betraying English confidences to Louis so he’ll have more money to squander on Lady Castlemaine? Of him agreeing to some sort of treaty of Her Highness’s contrivance in return for French gold? ”

  “You understand.” His eyes glittered with satisfaction, or perhaps only greed. “He’s explained it to you, then.”

  “He has explained nothing,” I said, fair spitting the words at him. “Nor would I listen to such trumpery if he had.”

  A twitch of one eyelid, irritation at being crossed. “You forget yourself, my dear.”

  “Nay, it’s myself I’m remembering,” I said warmly, “and my country, and my king, and my loyalty to both. I’m remembering, Your Grace, and I don’t mean to forget any of it, no matter what manner of lies you cast before me.”

  “Oh, please,” he said, with a little cluck of disgust. “There are few things more ludicrous than a whore with principles.”

  Furious, I barely bit back my retort and the oath that would come with it, though it made me shake to swallow them both. I grabbed my skirts in my hands and curtseyed, my back stiff with anger. “If you please, Your Grace.”

  “Go,” he said, pointedly turning away from me. “Leave me. I don’t want you like this, anyway.”

  Left him I did, and even if he’d not given me leave, I doubt I could have remained in his company. I ran blindly away from him and from what he’d said, my head bowed and filled with anger and confusion, and did not see the king until it was too late.

  “Here now, Nelly, what’s this?” Charles said, catching my arm to pull me up. He’d several other gentlemen with him, though the Tuscan prince was not among them. “What has happened? ”

  I used all of my actress’s will to try to compose my emotions before I looked up at him and attempted an unsteady cu
rtsey. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

  “Nothing,” he repeated, clearly disbelieving me. Still holding me by the arm, he nodded to the other gentlemen to dismiss them. Not far behind us lay a door that he now unlatched and opened, drawing me with him into a small, dark chamber, scarce more than a closet or cabinet. There were many such in Whitehall, tucked in odd places for storage or for use by palace guards or servants. The only light came by the moon by way of a high, small window that must overlook the garden.

  Yet all that mattered to me was that we were alone, and I could speak to him freely of what Buckingham had told me.

  “Oh, sir, I am so glad to be here with you now, alone,” I cried softly, throwing my arms around his waist to press my face to his chest. I wanted the reassurance from him that what the duke had said had been base lies, that my world was still the place that I’d believed it to be. “You cannot know, you cannot guess—”

  “But I can,” he said, gathering me more closely into his embrace. “Where’ve you been, eh? I came back to find you, and they said you’d gone off with Buckingham.”

  “I did,” I said, feeling safe with him in this small, dark room, his heart beating beneath my ear. “But now I’m with you.”

  “Yes,” he said, such satisfaction rumbling through him that I knew he’d disliked being parted from me, as well. “All the time I was with that Tuscan prince, the rascal could speak of nothing but you, Nelly, about how you were the most delicious creature he’d seen in his travels, and how he envied me for having you.”

  He bent to kiss me, his mouth unerringly finding mine. He kissed me hard, possessively, as if he wished to mark me as his against the Italian prince’s desire. In the twilight of the little chamber, it seemed as if my other senses had grown stronger, and I reveled in his taste, his touch, his scent, even the subtle way that his breathing had grown faster. This was for me, I thought with pleasure; the king felt this way for me. Yet still the doubts that Buckingham had raised lingered like cobwebs in the corners of an ill-swept room, dulling my pleasure in the moment.

  “What I heard unsettled me, too,” I began in a whisper, not daring to speak any more loudly. “Such wickedness, sir, such—”

  “I’ll show you wickedness, Nelly,” he said, his words rough with his wanting. His hands moved from my waist to my bum, fondling me with a purpose I could not mistake. “Here now, lass, make me ready.”

  I knew what was expected. Though ardent still, he was not the young lion he’d once been. I dropped to my knees before him and unfastened the front of his breeches to serve him in the French manner. He groaned with delight, his fingers clutching and tangling into my hair as I laved him with my tongue and lips.

  “That’s it, Nell, prime me, prime me.” Abruptly, he pulled me upright, raising and setting me on the edge of a nearby shelf that placed me at an advantageous height. He shoved aside my skirts, and I eagerly parted my legs for him, curving my thighs over his hips. With a quick thrust, his royal sword was buried to the hilt. Just as I’d tended to him, he now served me so well that I spent twice before he did, crying out as I writhed against him.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said afterward, showering him breathless kisses of devotion.

  “The prince should have seen that, eh? ” he said proudly, as pleased with his own performance as with mine. “Let him ogle you all he wishes, Nell, so long as I’m the one who gives you what your sweet little quim wants.”

  “Aye, sir,” I said, every bit as pleased as he. “There’s no other in England like you.”

  “Nor in Tuscany, I should think.” He laughed, tucking his cock back into his breeches while I put my own clothes to rights, as well. “I told you we’d find wickedness together.”

  “But that wasn’t what I meant, sir,” I said, pausing with a hairpin in my hand. Troubled, my pleasure swiftly forgotten, I struggled how best to explain. “It was—it was something that Lord Buckingham said to me.”

  “Oh, Buckingham.” He groaned, and set his hands lightly on my hips. “You of anyone should know that man speaks naught but rubbish to a pretty woman.”

  “This wasn’t like that,” I said softly, almost sadly. “This was about—about other matters.”

  “Sweet Nelly,” he said, brushing his fingers over my cheek. He was often like this after we’d fucked: affectionate, almost playful, with a rare tenderness that would make any woman in his realm sigh with love. “You can come to me with any trial or secret, you know. If you cannot trust me, then who?”

  “That is true, sir,” I said, and for me it was. Who in my life could I trust more than my king? “His Grace spoke to me of things that should not be said, sir, dreadful, treasonous things. Forgive me for repeating them, sir, but he said you and Her Highness the Duchess d’Orleans were contriving some sort of secret agreement between you and Louis against the Dutch, and that Louis, as your cousin, would give you money, and that then you’d stop heeding Parliament and your people, and—and—and oh, sir, such lies!”

  “Buckingham spoke of these things to you?” he asked slowly, incredulous. “Of my sister and France and Louis’s gold? ”

  “He did, sir,” I said. “And—and it grieved me mightily to have to listen, and I refused and left him.”

  “He did.” He sighed. “That was wrong.”

  “That was what I told him, too, sir,” I said. “That he’d no right to speak so of you.”

  “You’re a loyal little creature, Nell,” he said, and from the heaviness now in his voice, I realized I’d shifted my burden to him.

  Impulsively, I took his hand and raised it to my lips, to kiss it with both love and fealty. “Whatever you wish, sir,” I promised. “I’ll do or say whatever you wish.”

  “Then keep away from Buckingham’s intrigues,” he ordered sharply, “and any others who try to tangle you in their affairs. Keep free of all of it, understand? You will promise me that? ”

  “I will, because you wish it,” I said, taken aback by his forcefulness. “But, ’Od’s blood, sir, you make it seem as if I were the one to fault.”

  “I didn’t intend that, Nelly, not of you.” He sighed, sounding both restless and weary at the same time. “I’ve rogues enough around me in this place to scheme and intrigue, sweet, but I treasure you most because you’ve none of it. You never have, and I pray you never will. You please me beyond measure as you are, and you make me laugh, and so long as I can look to you for that, Nelly, then I’ll never want anything more.”

  He kissed me, a kind of pledge that made my eyes fill with tears. With contentment, I took his arm, and we returned to the others to pass the rest of the evening. I was happy; why shouldn’t I be, to have had him say such doting, dearling things to me?

  It wasn’t until much later, when he lay asleep beside me in his enormous royal bed, that I realized that he hadn’t denied any of Buckingham’s infamies or accusations. Not a single one.

  And where did my little promise stand beside that?

  The summer continued onward, a time of comparative peace and contentment. The king’s birthday (he was thirty-nine, though he vowed he felt as fit as a man of half those years) was celebrated in grand fashion at the end of May. At the services in honor of the day, I sat among the court, and though it was the queen who’d the place beside Charles, I was within full view of him, where I could gaze upon him, and he at me, and thus I was happy. Mr. Henshaw, the Bishop of Peterborough, preached a long and tedious sermon that had many of us dozing where we sat, but the birthday anthem, by one of the singers of the Chapel Royal, a Mr. Pelham Humfrey, was so rousing and fine that all promptly awakened. For myself, I made certain to offer a humble, private prayer to my maker, to thank Him for sending so fine a gentleman as the king into my life, and to beseech Him to grant Charles many more years to his span on this earth.

  The greatest part of the celebration came later. The Prince of Tuscany was still in residence in London, a guest at the house of the Duke of St. Albans. To return the king’s continuing hospitality, he promised a fa
ntastic display of fireworks in the Italian manner. The king, his court, and seemingly thousands of his people crowded into Hyde Park to watch the display. The fanciful skyrockets were launched by way of an elaborate machine, and countless squibs that chattered and popped, a satisfying racket that made the ladies shriek and skitter about.

  But what truly pleased the crowds was the prince’s final gesture in honor of the day, when he ordered casks of Italian beer and wine freely distributed among the people. After that, I do believe he could have been elected to any seat in the House, Italian or not, if he’d but wished it so.

  For me, the summer went at a merry pace, spent mostly in Charles’s company, which pleased me much, and less and less at the playhouse, which, in turn, saddened me. If I could have discovered a method to do without sleep, and toil cheerfully throughout the night, I would have done so. Since even I could not, I chose to spend my hours with Charles and take fewer new roles.

  The Duke of Buckingham danced about me all the summer, but never again singled me out to speak of France. I didn’t know if this was because Charles had chided him for meddling with me or if he’d simply decided I wasn’t worth the bother.

  When Lord Rochester was permitted by the king to return from France in July, in time for the christening of his first daughter, I asked him as well for the truth behind Buckingham’s tales, for if anyone would tell me, it would be him. He only shrugged and called Minette an odd little bird that seemed more like a fragile doll than flesh and blood. He knew nothing of any plots between her and the king, and showed far more interest in complaining of how one night in Paris he’d been robbed of his new periwig and twenty pistoles whilst riding in a sedan chair on the Pont Rouge. Though a hazardous inconvenience and a loss to the earl, this seemed to be the extent of the foreign intrigue that I’d so feared.

  Nor did Charles himself ever raise the subject again to me. Whether there was never any truth to Buckingham’s suspicions at that time or Charles chose to shield me from them, I never learned. All I knew was that Charles seemed untroubled by it, and that was enough for me to put my fears aside, and from my thoughts. I didn’t know then that such quandaries involving great countries like France and England were seldom so easily settled, or that there were folk in both places who cared too much to let the matter fade away unresolved, and instead were pushing it busily along like ants with a too-large crumb of bread.