by Jean Plaidy
So he had triumphed over his mother as gently as he could. ‘Poor Mam!’ he told his little Minette. ‘She has a genius for supporting lost causes and giving all her great energy to that which can only bring sorrow to herself.’ He had insisted on her receiving James’s wife in public.
And then almost immediately the dread smallpox, which had carried off his brother Henry, had smitten his sister Mary, and in the space of a few short months, though he had regained his throne, he had lost a beloved brother and sister.
How the family was depleted! There was now his mother – but they had never really loved each other – his brother James – and James was a fool and a coward, as was obvious from his treatment of Anne Hyde – and Minette, his youngest sister, the best loved of them all; yet she was rarely met and the water divided them. He had said farewell to her but a few days ago, but how did he know when he would see her again? He would have liked to bring her back to England, to have kept her with him. Dear Minette! But she had her destiny in another country; she had a brilliant marriage to make; he could not ask her to forsake her affianced husband and come to England merely to be the King’s sister. There was scandal enough concerning them already. Trust the malicious tongues to see to that!
So it was small wonder that he felt melancholy at times, for he was a man who liked to surround himself with those he loved. He could remember happy days when he had been the member of a family; and it had been a happy family, for there was affection between his parents, and his father was a noble man and loving father; but that was before he had found it necessary to oppose his overbearing mother; he remembered her from then as ever demonstrative, quick to punish but full of an affection which was outwardly displayed by suffocating embraces and fond kisses. Yes, Charles was a man who needed love and affection; he longed to have his family about him. He suffered their loss deeply as one by one they left this life.
He remembered now, as he bent to examine a herb in his Physic Garden, the terrible anxiety he had suffered when he had believed that Minette herself was about to die. Stunned by the loss of a brother and sister he had thought that life was about to deal him the most brutal blow of all. But Minette had not died; she had lived to return to France, where she would marry the brother of the French King and every week there would be, as in the old days, loving letters from her to remind him of the bond between them.
Yes, he still had Minette, so life was not all melancholy; far from it. He had his crown and he had his beloved sister, and there was much merriment to be had in the Court of Whitehall. A man could not have pleasure all the time, for if he became too familiar with it he would be less appreciative of it. The loss of his dear brother Henry and sister Mary had made him all the more tender to his sweet Minette.
There were other matters which gave him some uneasiness. Were the people a little disappointed? Had they hoped for too much? Did they think that with the King’s restoration all the old evils would be wiped out? Did they look upon the King as a magician, who could live in perpetual royal state and give his people pageants, restore estates, abolish taxes – and all because he had found some magic elixir in his laboratories? Oh, the many petitioners who hung about in the stone gallery of Whitehall which led to the royal apartments! How many there were to remind him that they had been loyal supporters during the years of exile! ‘Sire, it was due to me . . . to me . . . to me . . . that Your Majesty has been restored.’ ‘Sire, I had a great house and lands, and these were taken from me by the Parliament . . . .’ ‘Sire, I trust that Your Majesty’s restoration may be our restoration . . .’ It was easy – too easy – to promise. He understood their different points of view. Of course he understood them. He wished to give all they asked. It was true that they had been loyal; it was true that they had worked for his restoration and lost their estates to the Parliament. But what could he do? How could he confiscate estates which were now the property of those who called themselves his loyal subjects; how could he restore property which had been razed to the ground?
It was his habit almost to run through the stone gallery to avoid these petitioners. They would drop on their knees as he passed, and he would say quickly: ‘God bless you! God bless you!’ before he strode on, taking such great paces that none could overtake him unless they ran. He dared not pause; if he did, he knew he would be unable to stop himself making promises which he could not fulfil.
If they would but let him alone to enjoy his pleasures – ah, then he would forget his melancholy; then he would practise that delightful habit of sauntering through his parks followed by his spaniels and surrounded by gentlemen who must all be witty and ladies who need not be anything but beautiful. To listen to the sallies (and he had made it clear that they could disregard his royalty in the cause of wit) and to feast his eyes on the graceful figures of the ladies, whisper to them, catch their hands, suggest a meeting when there might not be quite so many about them to observe their little tendernesses – ah, that was all pleasure. He wished that he could indulge in sauntering more often.
In November the army had been disbanded at Hyde’s wish. Charles was sorry to see that happen, but whence would come the money to keep it in existence? It seemed to the King that as a monarch he was almost as poor as he had been an exile, for, although he had a larger income, his commitments had multiplied in proportion. Monk kept his regiments – the Coldstream and another of horse; and that was all, apart from another regiment which was formed from the troops which had been brought from Dunkirk. Charles christened this regiment the Guards and from it planned to build a standing army.
But there was one other matter his ministers were determined on, as fiercely as on that of reducing expenses, and it was one which gave him as little pleasure; this was revenge.
Charles alone, it seemed, had no wish for revenge. The past was done with; his exile was over; he was restored; let all the country rejoice in that. But No! said his ministers. And No! said his people. Murder had been done. The King’s father was Charles the Martyr, and his murder should not go unpunished. So there had been a trial, and those men who were judged guilty were sentenced to the terrible death which was accorded to traitors.
Charles shuddered now as he had then. If he had had his will he would have acquitted the lot. They had believed they were in the right; in their eyes they had committed no murder; they had carried out the demands of justice. So they saw it; and Charles, still remembering with great affection the father whom they had murdered, still very close to the years of beggary and exile, was the one who alone had desired that these men should remain unpunished.
Ten men died the terrible death that October, and there were others waiting to meet it. But the King could bear no more. He cried: ‘I confess I am weary of hanging – let it sleep!’
So he prevailed upon the Convention to turn their attention away from humble men to those who had been his father’s true enemies; those who were already dead. And so the bodies of Cromwell, Pride and Ireton were dug from their graves, beheaded, and their heads stuck on spikes outside Westminster Hall.
This was gruesome and horrible to a man of fastidious tastes, but at least their dead bodies could feel no pain. It was better to offend his fastidiousness than wound his tender nature.
Revenge, he had said, was enjoyed by the failures of this world. Those who achieved success spared little time for something which had become so trivial. He was now back in the heart of his country and the hearts of his people. He forgave those men who had worked against his family, as he trusted God would forgive him his many sins.
So with the King’s indifference to revenge, the people satisfied themselves with gloating over the decaying remains of the great Protector and his followers, which were displayed exactly twelve years to the day after the death of Charles I.
There were difficulties still over religion. How his people discoursed one against the other on this subject! What hot words they exchanged, what angers were aroused; how they disputed this way and that! Why could they not, Charles asked
them and himself, be easy in their minds? Why should not men who wished to worship in a certain way worship that way? What should another man’s opinions matter to the next man, providing he was allowed to preserve his own?
Tolerance! It was a hateful word to these fierce combatants. They did not want tolerance. They wanted their mode of worship imposed on the country because, they declared, it was the right way.
The struggle continued between Presbyterians and Anglicans.
Charles exerted all his patience; he was charming to the Anglicans, he was suave to the Presbyterians; but at last he began to see that he could never make peace between them and because the Anglicans had supported him during his exile he shrugged his shoulders and went over to their side.
Had he been right? He did not know. He wanted peace . . . peace to enjoy his kingdom. He, who could see the fierce points of argument from both angles and many more, would have cried: ‘Worship as you please – but leave each other and me in peace.’
But that was not the way of these earnest men of faith, and Charles’s way was to take the easiest route out of a dispute which was growing tedious.
So now he had come to the end of those months, and the year was new, and who could say what fresh triumphs, what fresh pleasures and what fresh sorrows awaited him?
He must find a wife ere long. He was thirty-one, and a King should be married by that age if he were to provide his country with sons.
A wife? The thought pleased him. He was after all a man who loved his family. He pictured the wife he would have – gentle and loving and of course beautiful. He would discuss the matter with his ministers, and it might be well to discuss it now, while Barbara was less active than usual. She was expecting a child next month; his child, she said.
He lifted one side of his mouth in a half-smile.
It could be his, he supposed, though it might be Chesterfield’s or even poor Roger Palmer’s. None could be sure with Barbara.
It was time he grew tired of her. It astonished him that she had been almost his sole mistress since he had set foot in England. Yet he did not grow tired of her. Handsome she was – quite the most handsome woman he had ever known. Physically she was unique; the symmetry of her body was perfect and her person could not fail to delight such a connoisseur. Her face was the most beautiful he had ever beheld, and even her violent rages could only change it, not distort it. Her character was unaccountable; and thus there was nothing dull nor insipid about Barbara. He had tried others, but they had failed to interest him beyond the first few occasions. Always he must go back to Barbara, wild Barbara, cruel Barbara, the perfect animal, the most unaccountable and the most exciting creature in his kingdom.
He looked at his watch.
It was time the morning perambulation was ended.
He chided himself lightly for thinking of Barbara so early in the day.
*
Barbara sat up in bed in her husband’s house in King Street, Westminster. In the cradle lay her few-days-old child, a girl. Barbara was a little sulky; she would have preferred her first-born to be a boy.
She smiled secretly. There should be three men who would come to visit her, and each would believe in his heart that the child was his. Let them have their secret thoughts; Barbara had long decided whom she would name as the little girl’s father.
Roger, the first of the visitors, came early.
How insignificant he was! How could she have married such a man? people wondered. She smiled when she heard that. Her reasons were sound enough. Poor Roger, he should not suffer for his meekness. Unfortunately nowadays he was not inclined to be as meek as she could wish.
He stood at the foot of the bed and looked from her to the child in the cradle.
Barbara cried: ‘For the love of God, do not stand there looking like a Christian about to be sent to the lions! Let me tell you, Roger Palmer, that if danger came within a mile of you you’d be squealing to me to protect you!’
‘Barbara,’ said Roger, ‘you astonish me. I should not have thought any woman could be so blatant.’
‘I have little time for subterfuge.’
‘You deliberately deceive me with others.’
‘I deceive you! When have I ever deceived you? I am not afraid to receive my lovers here . . . in your house.’
‘Shame, Barbara, shame! You, a woman just delivered of a child! Why, there are many who wonder who the father of that child may be.’
‘Then they need not wonder long. They shall know, when the titles due to this child are given to her.’
‘You are quite shameless.’
‘I am merely being truthful.’
‘I suppose, when you married me you had your lovers.’
‘You surely did not think, sir, that you could satisfy me?’
‘Chesterfield . . .?’
‘Yes, Chesterfield!’ she spat at him.
‘Then why did you not marry Chesterfield? He was free to marry at that time.’
‘Because I had no wish to marry Chesterfield. Do you think I wished for a husband who was ready to draw his sword every time he thought his honour slighted?’ She laughed the cruel laugh he had come to know so well. ‘Nay! I wanted a meek man. A man who would look away at the right moment, a man without any great title . . . or hope of one, except that which I should bring to him.’
‘You are a strange woman, Barbara.’
‘I’m no fool, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Do you think that I should wish for any honours which you could bring me. Honours, did you say? They would be dishonour in disguise.’
‘Honours are honours, no matter how they come. Ah! I see the look in your eyes, Roger Palmer. You are wondering what His Majesty will do for you if you quietly father his child, are you not?’
‘Barbara, you are vulgar and cruel, and I wonder . . . I wonder I can stay under the same roof.’
‘Then cease to wonder. Get out. Or shall I? Do you imagine that there are not other roofs under which I could shelter? Why do you not admit the truth yourself, Roger Palmer? You are jealous . . . jealous of my lovers. And why? Because you wish to be my lover!’ She laughed. ‘My lover en titre . . . You wish to exclude all others!’
‘I am your husband.’
‘My husband! What should I want of a husband except his complaisance.’
He strode towards the bed; his face was livid with fury.
Barbara called to her women, who hurried into the room.
‘I am very fatigued,’ she said. ‘I wish to rest. Arrange the pillows more comfortably. Roger, you must leave me now.’
‘You must not excite yourself at such a time, Madam,’ said one of her women.
She lay back upon her pillows and watched Roger as he went quietly to the cradle and bent over the sleeping infant. She knew he was telling himself that the little nose, small though it was, was yet a Palmer nose; and the set of the eyes, that was Palmer too.
Let him go on thinking thus, she mused, for what harm is there in thinking?
And when he had gone, she sent one of her women with a message to Lord Chesterfield at Whitehall.
*
Barbara’s messenger found the Earl of Chesterfield in his apartments at the Palace. The Countess was with him, and it was not the most propitious moment to deliver a message from Barbara; but all Barbara’s servants knew that to disobey was quite out of the question, and she would be amused to know that Chesterfield’s bride was present when he received his summons to call on his mistress.
Chesterfield still felt the power of her attraction, and he had not ceased to be her lover at intervals ever since their first encounter. There had been a time when Barbara had actually seemed to be in love with him; when she had so far subdued her personality as to write to him: ‘I am ready and willing to go all over the world with you, and will obey your commands whilst I live.’ That was after Barbara’s own marriage but before the return of the King, before Chesterfield had fought that duel which had necessitated his leaving the country.
Then she had compared him with the meek Roger and when she knew there could never be marriage between them, she had felt he was the only man who could please her.
That mood had not lasted. The King had come home, and the occasions when Barbara had been at home to Chesterfield became less frequent, although she had wished to receive him more often when she had heard of the beauty of his wife.
Barbara was a wanton, Chesterfield told himself; Barbara was cruel; but that did not prevent her from being different from all other women and very desirable. His common sense told him to have no more to do with her; his senses refused to release him.
Now he looked at the quiet girl who was his wife. She was about twenty years of age – the same age as Barbara – but compared with his mistress she seemed but a child. There was no guile about Elizabeth; she was pleasant to look upon but seemed dull when he compared hers with the flamboyant charms of Barbara. And of course he must compare her with Barbara, for Barbara was constantly in his thoughts.
‘A message?’ she said now. ‘From whom, Philip? I had hoped that you would spend an hour or so with me.’
‘It matters not from whom the message comes,’ he said coldly. ‘Suffice it that it is for me, and that I must leave at once.’
Elizabeth came to him and put her arm through his. She was very much in love with him. He had seemed so handsome and romantic when he had come to Holland; she had heard the story of the duel; she did not know the cause, and she imagined that it was out of chivalry that he had fought and killed a man. He would not talk of it. That, she had told herself, is his natural modesty. He will not speak of it because he fears to appear boastful.
She had led a sheltered life with the Duchess her mother, who, horrified at the licentious exiled Court, had kept her daughter from it in an endeavour to preserve her innocence; she had succeeded in her task too well, for Elizabeth at the time of her marriage had no notion of the kind of man she had married, nor of the kind of world in which she would be expected to compete for his affections. The marriage had seemed a good one. The Earl was twenty-five years of age, the Lady Elizabeth nineteen. Chesterfield, a young widower, needed a wife and it was time the Lady Elizabeth was married.
