by Jean Plaidy
A murmur went through the crowd. ‘’Tis my Lady Castlemaine! Was there ever such a woman, such beauty, such jewels?’
The courtiers followed her with their eyes. None could refrain from looking at Barbara. Some of the jewels she was now wearing had been Christmas presents to the King, but already Barbara had grasped them with greedy hands. And as she danced in the brantle the King watched her, Monmouth watched her, and Lord Chesterfield watched her, but none watched her quite so closely nor so sadly as the Queen of England.
The brantle over, the King led the dancers in a coranto; and when that was ended and more stately dances followed, the King, with more energy than that possessed by most of his courtiers, signed to the fiddlers to play the dances of old England, with which country dances, he declared, none could compare.
‘Let the first be “Cuckolds all awry”! The old dance of old England.’
The Court grew very merry in the light of tall wax candles, and the crowds cheered and stamped with pleasure to see the old English dance; and they, laughed and shouted to one another that Charles was indeed a King, with his merry life and his bland good humour, and the smiles he lavished freely on his subjects; they wanted no saint on the throne, who knew not how to laugh and found a virtue in forbidding pleasure to others.
They looked at the sad-faced Queen who did not seem to share in the fun; and from her they turned their gaze on dazzling Barbara.
The King was a man whom the English would never cease to love. And at the great Court ball in Whitehall Palace on the last night of the year 1662, all those present rejoiced once more that their King was a merry monarch and that he had come home to rule his kingdom.
FOUR
IN THE GREAT ballroom at Windsor Castle the most brilliant ball of the year was taking place. This was to celebrate not only St George’s Day but the marriage of the young man whom the King delighted to honour, his son, the Duke of Monmouth.
Catherine watched the dancers, and beside her sat the little bride, Lady Anne Scott, the heiress of Buccleugh and one of the richest in the kingdom; but the bridegroom seemed more interested in Lady Castlemaine than in his bride, and the young girl gazed at the pair with apprehension.
How sad it was, thought the Queen, that so many seemed to love those who were not their lawful partners! No wonder the King with sly humour liked to summon them all to dance ‘Cuckolds all awry’. Was he the only man who knew that he could rely on the good faith of his wife? Yet he seemed not to love her the more for her fidelity, and to love Barbara none the less for the lack of it in her. It was said that Sir Charles Berkeley and George Hamilton were Barbara’s lovers now and it seemed as though, before many weeks were out, young Monmouth might be; for the youth of the latter would be no deterrent to Barbara. She would look upon that as piquant. Catherine heard that she took lovers on the spur of the moment merely because some novelty in them appealed to her. She did not care whether they were noble or not; a lusty groom, she had been heard to say, was a better bedfellow than an impotent noble lord. The King also would hear these rumours, yet they seemed to affect him little; he still visited her on several nights each week and was often seen coming back early in the morning and all alone through the privy gardens. How could one hope to please such a husband as Catherine’s by one’s chastity?
Chastity! Who at Court cared about that? Their King clearly did not, and the courtiers were only too ready to follow his lead.
The Court was growing extremely elegant; Charles was introducing more and more French customs; he wrote continually to his sister, the wife of the French King’s brother, asking her to send him any novelties which had appeared in the Court of her brother-in-law. Making love was the main pursuit, it seemed, of all; rarely did any drink to excess at the Court; there again the custom of the King was followed. There was less gambling now, although this was a sport much loved by Lady Castlemaine. The King would anxiously watch her at play; he had good reason, for she was a reckless gambler, and who would pay her debts but himself? He did not forbid her or any of the ladies whom he so admired, to gamble; he could not bring himself to spoil their pleasure, he admitted; but he tried to lure them from the gaming tables with brilliant balls and masquerades. How indulgent he was to the women he loved!
Why could they not be content with the partners whom they had married? Catherine wondered. She looked at little Anne beside her and felt a wave of tenderness for her. Poor child! She was young yet, but Catherine felt that if she ever grew to love her handsome young husband she was going to suffer deeply.
Lady Chesterfield was standing beside the Queen’s chair and Catherine turned to her and smiled. A very charming lady – Elizabeth Butler now Lady Chesterfield – and married to that man who had seemed as much a slave of Barbara’s as the King himself.
Catherine had been sorry for Elizabeth Chesterfield; she had felt she understood her sadness for she had heard how innocent she had been when she married the profligate Earl, and how she had tried to win his love only to be repulsed.
Catherine said in her faltering English: ‘I rejoice to see you look so well, Lady Chesterfield.’
Lady Chesterfield bowed her head and thanked Her Majesty.
Yes, she had changed, thought Catherine; she had lost her meek looks. Her dress of green and cloth of silver fell from beautifully rounded shoulders, and her thick hair was in ringlets falling about them; her eyes sparkled and she watched the dancers almost speculatively.
So she had come to terms with life, thought Catherine. She had decided not to grieve because her husband preferred the evil beauty of Lady Castlemaine.
The Earl of Chesterfield had come to his wife’s side, and would have taken her hand to lead her into the dance, but Elizabeth had withdrawn it and seemed not to see him standing there.
Catherine heard the whispered words.
‘Come, Elizabeth. I would lead you to the dance.’
Elizabeth’s voice was lightly mocking. ‘Nay, my lord, your place is by the side of another. I would not deprive you of your pleasure in her company.’
‘Elizabeth, this is folly.’
‘Nay, ’tis sound good sense. And I advise you to watch what is afoot, for your dear friend seems mightily taken with the young Duke. You endanger your chances with her by dallying with me. Ah, here comes my cousin George Hamilton to claim me in the dance. George, I am ready.’
And the graceful creature had laid her hand in that of George Hamilton, her cousin, who, it was said, had lately been the lover of my Lady Castlemaine. Chesterfield stood watching them with a frown between his eyes. It was like a mad dance, thought Catherine, in which, after a clasping of hands and a merry jig, they changed partners. Was Chesterfield more interested in the wife who flouted him than in one who had been ready to love him? Or was it merely his pride which was wounded?
She noticed, however, that as the evening progressed his eyes were more frequently on his wife than on Lady Castlemaine.
Nor was he the only one who had seemed to change the course of his affections.
Catherine, whose eyes never strayed far from the King, saw that he was giving much of his attention to one of her maids of honour.
Frances Theresa Stuart was a distant relative of the King’s; she was the daughter of Walter Stuart, the third son of Lord Blantyre, and Henrietta Maria had brought her to England when she came over, and had left the girl with Catherine to act as maid of honour.
Henrietta Maria had told Catherine that Louis Quatorze had been interested in her, and had suggested that she remain in his Court. ‘But,’ said Henrietta Maria, ‘I thought it well not to leave her there; for her family lost much during the Civil War and I have a duty to them. I would not wish to see her become one of Louis’s mistresses. She has been brought up to live virtuously, so I pray you take her into your household and let her serve you.’
Catherine had not wondered then whether removing Mrs Stuart from the lecherous orbit of Louis to that of Charles was not after all somewhat pointless, because at that time
she had regarded the King’s attachment to Lady Castlemaine as largely the result of an evil spell which that woman had put upon him. Now she was beginning to understand her husband and to realize that if there had been no Lady Castlemaine there would have been others.
Previously Frances had been looked upon as little more than a child, but it seemed that in her dazzling gown and the few jewels she possessed, this night she had become a young woman; and Catherine realized that if Barbara’s beauty had a rival it was in this lovely girl.
Frances’s hair was thick, fair and hung in curls over her shoulders; her pink and white complexion was dazzling; her eyes were blue; and she was tall and very slender; Barbara had a rare beauty with which any woman would find it difficult to compete, but Frances, in addition to beauty, was possessed of an elegance which she had acquired during her education at the French Court; her manners were gentle and quite modest – a complete contrast to the vulgarity of Lady Castlemaine. Barbara was, of course, full of wiles, full of cunning, and compared with her Frances Stuart seemed simple as a child. It was perhaps these qualities, as much as her youth, which had made Catherine regard her as a little girl.
But on this night she seemed to have grown up, and the King was noticing the change in her.
Others were noticing it too. Barbara’s enemies, ever on the watch for her decline, were triumphantly asking each other and themselves: Could this be the end of her long domination of the King? Never had they seen Charles so completely absorbed in another woman, while Barbara was present, as he was in Frances.
Catherine was sad at heart. She had believed that one day the King would come to notice what a vulgar woman Barbara was and, full of shame and repentance, he would turn to his wife and they would resume that idyllic relationship they had enjoyed at Hampton Court.
Now she must wonder whether he ever would turn to her again, whether she had lost him for ever when she had failed to do that one thing which he had asked of her.
She continued to watch Lady Chesterfield who, flushed and triumphant, had many admirers now, including her husband perhaps. There was the Duke of York, watching her with dark, slumberous eyes. James was so clumsy in his devotion to women that he always aroused the amusement of the Court, and particularly of Charles. Catherine doubted not that ere long there would be whispers concerning the attraction Lady Chesterfield was exerting over the susceptible Duke.
It was a strange world, this Court of her husband. She was once more reminded that it was a Court in which beauty and the power to charm were of greater importance than virtue. Lady Chesterfield provided an example. Could Catherine herself follow it?
There was young Edward Montague who was often at her side. But were his feelings for her inspired by pity for her plight rather than admiration for her person?
Now she must dance, and here was the Duke of Monmouth, in whose honour the ball was held, ceremoniously asking for the hand of the first lady of the Court.
Catherine rose and put her hand in his. He was a very graceful dancer, and Catherine, who loved to dance, found herself enjoying this one.
How like Charles he was! A young, more handsome Charles, but lacking that kingliness, that great elegance, that wit, that charm. In comparison Monmouth was merely a pretty boy.
And as he danced with her – holding his plumed hat in his hand, since he danced with the Queen – Charles came to them and, there before the whole assembly, in an access of tenderness for this boy whom it was his delight to honour, stopped the dance, took the boy in his arms, kissed him on both cheeks and bade him put on his hat and continue the dance.
Everyone was astonished at this action of the King’s. It could mean only one thing, it was whispered. The King so doted on his handsome son that he determined to make him legitimate. Then the Duke of Monmouth would be heir to the throne.
Rumour began to grow. Had the King truly married Lucy Water? Had the creature prevailed upon him to go through a ceremony of marriage? Charles had been an exile then, and all knew how easy-going he was with his women.
Catherine sadly continued to dance; she feared that the King’s regard for her was so slight that he was telling her – and the Court – that whatever children she might bear him, they could not mean more to him than did young Monmouth.
*
In the little octagonal building which was part of Whitehall Palace and was called the Cockpit, Barbara had her apartments and here she held court. Hither flocked those ambitious men who believed that through Barbara lay the way to glory.
The chief of these was George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham and Barbara’s second cousin once removed; he was recognized, not only as one of the most handsome men of the day, but one of its most brilliant statesmen.
He saw in close association with Barbara a means of getting that power for which he had always longed, and there was one man whom he felt stood between him and his goal; that man was Clarendon, and in their hatred of the Chancellor, he and Barbara were united.
There in her rooms at the Cockpit they would meet frequently, and about them would gather all those who hoped to follow them to power. In the light of candles they would make merry, for, in addition to being a wily statesman, Buckingham was a man of many social graces: he was one of the most entertaining men at Court, and his imitations of well-known figures could set guests laughing so much that they became almost hysterical, so clever was he at caricaturing those little vanities and dignities of his enemies to make them appear utterly ridiculous. He used this gift in order to bring ridicule to those he disliked, and his caricature of Clarendon was in constant demand.
Another great enemy of Clarendon’s who came to Barbara’s parties was the Earl of Bristol. He was bold and vivacious but somewhat unreliable. He had written a book about the Reformation and, during the course of writing this, had become a Catholic; he was looked upon as the leader of the Catholic party in England and because of this was watched eagerly by those who hoped to see the Catholics more firmly established in the land. There was not a man at Court who hated the Chancellor more than did the Earl of Bristol.
Henry Bennet, who had been with the King in exile, was another; he was a clever, ambitious but rather pompous man who bore a scar on his nose of which he was so proud that he called attention to it by wearing a patch over it which was far greater than the scar warranted; this was meant to be a constant reminder to the King that he had been wounded in the Royalist Cause. Henry Bennet had shared Lucy Water with Charles when they were in Holland, and it was a matter of opinion whether Lucy’s daughter Mary was Bennet’s child or the King’s. Barbara had included Bennet in her own little circle of men she could use, and it was largely through her that he had replaced Nicholas as Secretary of State.
It was these three men – Buckingham, Bristol and Bennet – with whom Barbara sought to intrigue after that New Year’s ball during which the King had clearly shown his interest in Frances Stuart.
They all wished to bring about the downfall of Clarendon, and at the same time it was Barbara’s desire to damage Frances Stuart in the eyes of the King.
Barbara was seriously alarmed about Frances Stuart. The girl had in the first place seemed to be a simpleton. She was young and artless and seemed unaware of the fact that there was not a woman at Court whose beauty could compare with hers; and in a Court where the King was instantly moved by beauty in any form – and in particular the beauty of women – that meant a passport to power.
Barbara watched Frances closely. Each day she seemed to grow in beauty. The girl was perfect; her figure was enchanting; her face, with that expression of supreme innocence, delightful. Had she not been the most beautiful girl at Court, her very grace of movement would have made her stand out among them all, and allied with this was a charming air of innocence. She laughed easily; she prattled of nothing in a lighthearted way; she seemed almost simple-minded in her childishness. But Barbara had her own ideas. She did not believe in Mrs Stuart’s innocence. She remembered the case of Anne Boleyn, who had remain
ed haughty, pure and aloof, and had murmured to an enamoured King: ‘Your wife I cannot be; your mistress I will not be.’
Barbara was furious with the girl, but the situation was too delicate to allow her to give full vent to that fury. Barbara was in her twenties; Frances in her teens; Barbara lived riotously, never denying her senses what they craved; Frances slept the sleep of the innocent each night and arose in the mornings fresh as a spring flower.
Barbara had realized that where this sly little prude was concerned she would have to play a wary game.
So she took Frances under her wing. She believed that, if she had not, the King might have been found supping where Frances was and Barbara was not. She made Frances her little friend; she even had her sleep in her bed.
She knew, of course, that the King had made the usual advances to the girl – the languishing looks, the pressing of hands, the stolen kisses, the gifts. All these she had received with wide-eyed pleasure as though the insinuation which accompanied them was quite beyond her understanding.
So Barbara played those games which Frances loved, childish games which made the simple little creature shriek with pleasure. They played ‘marriage’ – with Barbara the husband and Frances the wife, and they were put to bed with a sack posset and the stocking was flung. Unfortunately the King had come in while that game was in progress and had declared that it was a shame poor Frances had been married to one of her own sex. He was sure she would have preferred a man for her husband; he therefore would relieve Barbara of conjugal responsibilities and take them on himself. What shrieks of laughter from sly Mrs Stuart! What nudging and whispering of those participating in the game! Had the bride been anyone else, Barbara knew full well that the frolic of that night would not have ended as it did. But sly, virtuous Mrs Stuart knew when to draw back; and Barbara, with murder in her heart, believed the sly creature was contemplating very high stakes indeed.
