by Jean Plaidy
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Jean Plaidy
Title Page
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
Copyright
About the Book
A 30-year-old Charles II is rapturously welcomed back on the throne after years in exile. Needing funds he marries the wealthy Portuguese princess, Catherine of Braganza. But this is an unsuccessful match as his unattractive princess fails to provide him with an heir and the dowry never materializes. Although Charles always treats her with the utmost kindness, Catherine has to tolerate his many mistresses, notably the promiscuous beauty, Barbara Castelmaine.
The plot unfolds against a background of Plague, the Popish Plot and the Great Fire of London where underlying religious tensions promise to cause problems for the King. When his Catholic brother, James, looks likely to succeed him, the people rise up against Catholics. Even Queen Catherine is in danger when she is accused of plotting to kill her husband.
About the Author
Jean Plaidy, one of the preeminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.
Also by Jean Plaidy
THE TUDOR SAGA
Uneasy Lies the Head
Katharine, the Virgin Widow
The Shadow of the Pomegranate
The King’s Secret Matter
Murder Most Royal
St Thomas’s Eve
The Sixth Wife
The Thistle and the Rose
Mary, Queen of France
Lord Robert
Royal Road to Fotheringay
The Captive Queen of Scots
The Spanish Bridegroom
THE CATHERINE DE MEDICI TRILOGY
Madame Serpent
The Italian Woman
Queen Jezebel
THE STUART SAGA
The Murder in the Tower
The Wandering Prince
A Health Unto His Majesty
Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord
The Three Crowns
The Haunted Sisters
The Queen’s Favourites
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION SERIES
Louis the Well-Beloved
The Road to Compiègne
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen
The Battle of the Queens
THE LUCREZIA BORGIA SERIES
Madonna of the Seven Hills
Light on Lucrezia
ISABELLA AND FERDINAND TRILOGY
Castile for Isabella
Spain for the Sovereigns
Daughters of Spain
THE GEORGIAN SAGA
The Princess of Celle
Queen in Waiting
Caroline the Queen
The Prince and the Quakeress
The Third George
Perdita’s Prince
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill
Indiscretions of the Queen
The Regent’s Daughter
Goddess of the Green Room
Victoria in the Wings
THE QUEEN VICTORIA SERIES
The Captive of Kensington
The Queen and Lord M
The Queen’s Husband
The Widow of Windsor
THE NORMAN TRILOGY
The Bastard King
The Lion of Justice
The Passionate Enemies
THE PLANTAGENET SAGA
The Plantagenet Prelude
The Revolt of the Eaglets
The Heart of the Lion
The Prince of Darkness
The Battle of the Queens
The Queen from Provence
The Hammer of the Scots
The Follies of the King
The Vow of the Heron
Passage to Pontefract
The Star of Lancaster
Epitaph for Three Women
Red Rose of Anjou
The Sun in Splendour
QUEEN OF ENGLAND SERIES
Myself, My Enemy
Queen of this Realm: The Story of Elizabeth I
Victoria, Victorious
The Lady in the Tower
The Goldsmith’s Wife
The Queen’s Secret
The Rose without a Thorn
OTHER TITLES
The Queen of Diamonds
Daughter of Satan
The Scarlet Cloak
A Health unto his Majesty
Jean Plaidy
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Any novel dealing with the days of the Restoration must inevitably be impregnated with one characteristic which was a feature of the times: licentiousness. Therefore I feel that, when presenting this middle period of Charles’s life beginning with the Restoration, I must remind my readers that England had suddenly emerged from several years of drab Puritan rule. Bull-baiting and such sports had been suppressed, not from any consideration for the animals concerned, but solely because the people were known to enjoy those sports, and, in the opinion of their rulers, enjoyment and sin were synonymous; the taverns had been abolished; the great May Day festival was no more; Christmas festivities – even the Christmas services in the churches – were forbidden; the theatres were closed and their interiors broken up, and anyone caught play-acting was tied to a cart and whipped through the streets. It was therefore natural that, when the King returned, there should follow a turn-about, and it was only to be expected that the repressed population should swing violently in the opposite direction. Accordingly, no picture of Restoration days which ignores the fact would be a true one.
There may be some who will feel that my portrait of Charles is too flattering. I would say that excuses must be made for Charles’s weaknesses as for those of his people. His fortunes had been subject to a similar abrupt change; he had grown cynical during his exile and was determined never to ‘go a-travelling again’. He was the grandson of Henri Quatre, the greatest King the French had ever known, the man who had united France and put an end to the civil wars of religion when he had declared that ‘Paris was worth a mass’. It was understandable that Charles should regard his grandfather as an example to be followed. Henri Quatre had the same good nature, the same indifference to religion; he was known to have declared that conquest in love pleased him more than conquest in war, and he had more mistresses than any King of France had ever had – or ever has had – including the notorious François Premier. I would say that Charles was unlucky in living when he did. The great plague and the great fire ruined the commerce of the country while it was engaged on a major war. If he appeared flippant and preoccupied with his mistresses, while his country was in danger, he was not really so. His demeanour of indifference had been acquired during the hardening years of exile when disappointments had quickly followed one another; he did not show his feelings, but the real man is to be seen when, during the fire, he worked as hard as any, standing with water up to his ankles, passing buckets, shouting orders and witty encouragement, so that it was said that what was left of the City owed its survival to Charles and his brother. Charles wins my sympathy as the man whose kindness makes him unique in his times, the man who declared he was weary of the hangings of those men who had killed his father and been responsible for his own exile, as the man who visited Frances Stuart to comfort her when he no longer desired her and her friends had deserted her, and again as the husband who held the
basin when his wife was sick – the kind and tolerant King. For this King, careless and easy-going as he might be, and licentious as he certainly was, remains unique in his age on account of his kindness and tolerance.
In the research I have undertaken to write the book I have read a great number of works. I list below those which have been most helpful:
The National and Domestic History of England. William Hickman Smith Aubrey.
Bishop Burnet’s History of his Own Time.
King Charles II. Arthur Bryant.
Diary of John Evelyn. Edited by William Bray.
Diary and Correspondence of Samuel Pepys. Edited by Henry B. Wheatley.
The Diaries of Pepys, Evelyn, Clarendon and other Contemporary Writers.
Personal History of Charles II. Rev C. J. Lyon.
Beauties of the Court of Charles II. Mrs Jameson.
Lives of the Queens of England. Agnes Strickland.
Great Villiers. Hester W. Chapman.
Titus Oates. Jane Lane.
Political History of England. F.C. Montague.
British History. John Wade.
The Gay King. Dorothy Senior.
J.P.
ONE
IT WAS THE month of May – the gayest and most glorious month, the people assured themselves, that England had ever known. This was the 29th, a day of great significance.
That morning, it seemed that the sun rose with more than its usual brilliance.
‘A good omen!’ people called to one another from the windows of houses, the overhanging gables of which almost met over the cobbled streets. ‘It’s going to be a fine day.’
In the country, as soon as the dawn showed in the sky, people were gathering on the village greens; there would be many to line the roads so that they should miss nothing when the time came.
‘Listen!’ one said to another. ‘Even the birds are mad with joy. Have you ever heard a blackbird or chaffinch sing like that before? They know the good times are back.’
Others declared that the cherry trees had never borne such great masses of blossom in previous years. The flowers seemed more fragrant that spring. Children gathered buttercups and bluebells, celandines and lady’s-smocks to strew along the road; they wore chains of daisies as necklaces and chaplets as they danced to the merry tunes of the fiddlers.
Now the bells were ringing from every tower and steeple between Rochester and London.
This was the happy month of May when the ‘Black Boy’ had come home to his people.
*
He rode in the midst of the cavalcade – tall, slim and elegant, his swarthy face prematurely lined, his dark eyes smiling, eager, alert, yet holding a hint of cynicism in their depth. He looked older than his years; he was thirty and this was not only the day of his entry into his capital, it was also his birthday. A meet and fitting day, all agreed, for his return.
With him came 20,000 horse and foot, swords held high, shouting to express their hilarious joy as they marched along. The cavalcade had become swollen with every mile, for there had been a welcome for His Majesty at every point: Morris dancers had wished to show him by the abandoned joy of their performance that they rejoiced in his return which was a signal for the overthrow of solemnity; fiddlers had played the merriest jigs they knew till the sweat ran down their faces; even the dignified mayors in their robes of office were almost indecorously gay. Men and women of all conditions had come to add their loyal shouts to the general clamour.
At last they came into his capital, where the bells were making a merry peal and the streets were hung with tapestry, and the conduits flowing with wine instead of water. Citizens wept and embraced each other. ‘The drab days are over,’ they cried again and again. ‘The King is restored to his own.’
There would be merry-making again; there would be pageants and ceremonies. On May Days the milkmaids would dance again in the streets, their pails flower-decked, while a fiddler led them along the Strand; the pleasure gardens would be thrown open; the theatres would flourish. Bartholomew and Southwark Fairs would be enjoyed once more; cock-fighting and bull-baiting would take place openly again; laughter would be considered a virtue instead of a sin; and when Christmas came it would be celebrated with the old gusto. The great days were here again for His Majesty King Charles II had come home.
What a brilliant sight this was, with the Lord Mayor and aldermen and members of City Companies in their various liveries and golden chains; coloured banners were held high; lines of brilliant tapestries were strung across the streets, while trumpet, fife and drum all sought to rival each other.
So great was the company that it took seven hours to pass any one spot. There had never been such pageantry in the City of London; and the citizens promised themselves that the revelry should continue for days to come. No one should be allowed to forget for a moment that the King had come home. It was eleven years since his father had been cruelly murdered; and for more years than that this dark young man had been a wandering exile on the continent of Europe. It was only fitting that he should know a right royal welcome was his.
He rode bareheaded, bowing this way and that, a faint smile about his mouth. He had remarked that it must surely have been his own fault that he had not returned before, as he had met no one, since he had stepped on English soil, who did not protest most fervently that he had always wished for the restoration of his King.
Now there were faint lines of weariness about his mouth. He had long dreamed of this day; he would never have believed that he could have come to it in this manner and that his restoration could have been brought about without the shedding of one drop of blood – and by that very army which had sent his father to the scaffold and rebelled against himself. This was to be compared with that miraculous escape after Worcester; it was the second miracle in his life.
But he was weary – weary, yet content.
‘Od’s Fish!’ he murmured. ‘I have learned to live on easy terms with Exile and Poverty, but Popularity is such a stranger to me that I am uneasy in his presence. Yet I trust ere long that he and I shall become boon companions.’
His eyes strayed again and again to the women, who waved flowers from the roadside as he passed or called a loyal welcome from their windows. Then the sombre eyes would lighten at the sight of a pretty face, and the smile he gave would be very charming, the regal bowing of the head most elegant.
The people looked at him with tears in their eyes. A young King – a King who, during his thirty years, had suffered hardship and frustration which must have made him sick at heart. Small wonder that rumours had reached England of his profligate habits; but if he was over-fond of the ladies the ladies would readily forgive him that, and the men would not hold it against him. He was such a romantic figure: a King returned to his country after years of exile. Charles Stuart on his thirtieth birthday, on entering his capital city, seemed to all beholders a King worthy to be loved.
The people grew hoarse with their shouting. Again and again the procession was delayed that yet another expression of loyal homage might be laid before the King, and it was seven o’clock before he came to his Palace of Whitehall.
Now the lights were springing up all over the city. Bonfires were raised in every open space, and lighted candles showed in all the windows.
‘Let us welcome the King,’ shouted a thousand voices. ‘Let us cry “A Health unto His Majesty”.’
The City was brilliant with thousands of candles which shone alike from the windows of great houses and the humblest dwellings.
In every window there must be candles to welcome His Majesty, for gangs roamed the streets ready to smash any window which was dark.
Everyone must join in the welcome, for the Merry Monarch had returned to make England merry.
*
In the Palace of Whitehall there was one who, with an impatience which she could not contain, waited to be presented to the King.
This was a tall young woman of nineteen, strikingly beautiful with rich, ripe colo
uring, bold flashing eyes that were almost startlingly blue; her rippling dark auburn hair was thick and vital; her features firm but beautifully moulded. There was in her evidence of a fierce passion which might have alarmed, but fascinated. Almost every man with whom she had come into contact had discovered her to be irresistible. Her rages came swiftly, and when they were upon her there was no knowing what turn they would take; she was beautiful and could be fierce as a tigress – an Amazon of incomparable beauty which was of a deep sensual kind. Barbara Villiers – now Barbara Palmer – was the most desirable young woman in London.
Now she fumed as she paced up and down the apartment in which she waited for audience with the King.
Her maids hovered some little distance from her. They were afraid to come too near, yet afraid to go too far from her. If they offended her, Barbara did not hesitate personally to apply corporal punishment. She would pick up the nearest article and fling it at the offender; and her aim was sure; all her life she had been throwing things at those who offended her.
She was not satisfied with the set of her dress at one moment; at the next her eyes glistened as she looked down at its smooth silken folds which fell seductively about her perfect figure. Her arms – very white and perfectly rounded – were bare from the elbow and the upper arm was visible here and there, for her wide sleeves were slit from the shoulder and loosely laced with blue ribbons. Her skirt was caught up to show a clinging satin petticoat. She was beautiful; and she wished to be more beautiful than she had ever been before. She patted those curls which had been arranged on her forehead and which were called, after the fashion of the day, ‘favourites’. Those which rippled over her shoulders were ‘heartbreakers’, and those nestling against her cheeks ‘confidants’. They were all lustrous natural curls, and she was proud of them.
Her husband, Roger Palmer, came to her then. His eyes shone with mixed pride and apprehension; he had been proud and apprehensive of Barbara ever since he had married her.
She gave him one of her disdainful looks. Never had he seemed to her more ineffectual than he did at that moment, but even as she glanced his way a smile curved her lips. He was her husband and that was how she would have him. She had strength and determination enough for them both.
