Rumour thickened. The Papists were plotting the country’s downfall; and now it was not only the foreigners, but Englishmen—Englishmen, if you could call them so! They meant to assassinate the high officials, to murder the King, to hand the country over to the Bishop of Rome. And it was not only the ignorant that believed the tales. There was fear everywhere and there was anger; anger, most of all against the King that, with foolish indulgence, had left the way open to such vile plotting.
Blame their King that had spent himself in their service! Catherine found it hard to bear.
‘We must be patient,’ Charles said. ‘The people have suffered too much. First the plague and then the fire. And the result? Prices rising. Price of food—of flour, of meat. Price of wool, of wood; of every day-to-day need. And we are still at war with the Dutch and with the French. We are menaced; we are poor—no money. These things cannot make for a gentle humour.’
‘But anger against you; you that work only for their good. Can they not see?’
‘An empty belly clouds the eye!’ Charles said.
An empty belly was, indeed, clouding many eyes.
Mutiny in the air.
Charles rode alone to the Strand to face the hungry mob. Its anger he could understand. It is hard to be patient when backside goes bare and children cry for bread. But for all that he must beseech their patience. Let them trust him. Let them go about their lawful business and they should be paid—every penny! He swore it; and he meant it—he with but three cravats to his name. If not punishment must follow; the only punishment for mutineers—the gallows.
So honest he looked, so debonair—and withal so set upon his will, they gave him three cheers and went their ways.
Lacking ships, fighting-men pinched with hunger, the Fleet set out to meet the Dutch—the Dutch in full fighting-trim, well ordered, ships and plenty of them; men well-fed, well-paid—fighting cocks.
The Dutch sailed up the Thames. They stormed Sheerness; they sailed up the Medway. London shook to the thunder of their guns. They broke through the chains set to keep them out. They burned the English ships within the port. They sailed off again with—unendurable insult—the Royal Charles towed behind them.
Ships burnt in their own backyards! The English bowed their heads in shame. Not so their King. He was here, he was there, he was everywhere. He was looking to the forts, he was examining his ships, he was encouraging his men to fight and fight again. But it was not easy; the men were still unpaid.
In London preachers prophesied doom upon a wicked nation; naked men ran this way and that throughout the streets carrying fire of coal upon their heads. Londoners, fearing yet another raid, hid their wealth. Prudent Mr. Pepys buried his treasure within his garden. Charles had no treasure to bury.
And everywhere the rumours. The King means to use the army to overthrow the government. The King puts the country’s revenues into his own pocket. The King has fled the country....
Charles spoke his mind in Parliament. ‘I am too much of an Englishman to wish to govern by anything but law. As for my revenues—I have never received the sum you promised; and the little I had in my private purse I have poured into maintaining the army and the navy.’
Mr. Commissioner Pepys of the Admiralty, at his wits’ ends for money and inspired by strong liquor, spoke eloquently in the House. He talked himself into tears and Parliament into a grant; ‘a small grant but better than a kick in the backside,’ Charles said.
In November Charles gave a ball in honour of the Queen’s birthday. She was twenty-eight and looked younger; but it seemed to her a great age. She could not think she had given Charles or the country much cause for joy... there was, as yet, no sign of the longed-for child. She could not but wonder, also, whether in this time of hardship and unrest a ball should be given at all.
‘Yes, it is wise,’ Eliza said. ‘It puts an end to the absurd rumour that the King has fled. And, moreover, he needs relaxation. He works himself to death upon the nation’s business—though the people don’t know it, so smiling he is, so easy. Surely, Madam, we’ll not grudge him a little pleasure!’
‘For eight months we have been in mourning for Madam your mother,’ Maria Penalva said. ‘Now it is time for a little joy.’
She was being laced into a new gown of white and silver—the King’s present and heaven knew how he was to pay for it!—when Charles came in. He wore an old suit of black and white satin; it became him well. He looked debonair, he looked young; the periwig with its dark flowing curls gave him back the years he had lost. Her heart turned over with love; he smiled upon her with pleasure—he had chosen the gown well; she was in looks tonight.
Light streamed from crystal chandeliers upon black and white and silver; no other colour for a court in half-mourning. Yet the full court-dress a-glitter with jewels, with decorations, was as unlike mourning as one could imagine. It had almost a carnival air; it lifted the heart like wine.
Catherine sat smiling and gracious. She smiled upon James and his wife, heavy and handsome both and a little over-size in cloth of silver; she smiled with especial warmth upon Eliza and Ormonde. She smiled upon them all, the court ladies and their gallants; yes, even upon Buckingham and his wife—whom for all her trying she could not like. Yes, she thought, it is time for a little joy.
She had forgotten that woman... but for the moment, only.
Suddenly she was there, my lady Castlemaine, outfacing them all; the full breasts above the low white gown challenged the eye. And everywhere—head and breast, hand and arm, jewels flashed; her harvest over the years, filched, coaxed or shamelessly demanded from the King—a King so poor that some recognised their own gifts to him brazenly displayed. She poisoned the Queen’s pleasure; nor did she appear to add to the King’s.
He made no sign that he saw her. He had suffered over-much humiliation from this woman. The child she carried beneath her girdle was, very like, not his own. It might be Jermyn’s or Buckingham’s or Churchill’s... or her own footman’s even; she was not delicate when the flesh drove. He’d not own the child she carried, let her threaten as she would! At the memory of those wild threats he sickened.
And she stood unmoving. Skin yellow against her white gown, eyes set in stained skin proclaimed her pregnancy; that pregnancy she had always flaunted made more bitter her humiliation. She stiffened with pride. It will pass. Soon I’ll have him on his knees again. And then he shall pay for this. God damn him—how he shall pay!
The red burning in her sallow cheeks, she moved backwards, found a place among the less notable ladies; the haggard dark-blue eyes shifted a little.
The Queen’s eyes followed, rested upon Frances Stuart lovely and young; so young, scarce nineteen. In clouds of grey and white she moved like a goddess; and, like a goddess, was adorned with a crescent of stars. Charles was looking at the girl; he was hopelessly lost. James’ touch upon his arm recalled him. Like a man in a dream he offered his hand to the Queen; and though he kept his eyes fixed upon the dance, she knew well where his heart wandered. What use all his kindness? What use?
Of all the beauties of the court Catherine feared Frances Stuart most; and with cause. The girl was young and lovely; she was virgin and gentle. She was a Stuart... and Minette had sent her.
Charles loved Minette above all living things—her wit, her courage, her gaiety, her beauty and her gentleness... but he could not marry Minette. Was this the cause of his hunger for women? Is he forever seeking that which he can find in Minette, alone? The question struck at her; struck and struck again.
Quiet above her fears she watched Frances. That the country would welcome the King’s divorce from a barren Queen she had known ever since her last miscarriage. Now she was to learn—Mary Buckingham taking care not to lower her voice in the next room—that, especially, the country would welcome a Stuart Queen. If Charles could win the girl—then his wife had lost him for ever. And what woman had held out, ever, against him? The wonder was that this young creature had held out so long.
Charles spoke no word of divorce though Buckingham was forever at his ear. But he burned with his passion. He was restless, he was melancholy. Once he had kissed Frances in corners; now he kissed her openly. Why not? She was his cousin. But it was not as a cousin that he kissed her. He issued new coins. The court said it was that he might have her forever under his hand; for he commissioned Rôtier, his royal medallist, to engrave her as Britannia. And there she sat with helmet and trident—a figure, Charles said, to hold Englishmen forever enchanted. He could not endure her out of his sight. He pursued her with offers. Her cousin and his, Lennox, had offered to make her his duchess—duchess of Richmond. But the King would make her duchess in her own right.
‘A duchess; in her own right!’ Catherine choked upon her anger.
‘She’ll not accept,’ Penalva said.
As always, when alone, they spoke their own tongue, though Penalva, too, had some English. Catherine, indeed, now spoke well; but, though for the most correct, it came more slowly to her lips; and the pretty foreign accent must always proclaim her foreign birth. When deeply moved she found it hard to make this new language bear the full weight of her passion. With Penalva she did not have to try. It was a comfort to both to talk together in their own tongue.
‘She’ll not accept,’ Penalva said again. ‘She’s ambitious, that one! She’ll not rest till she be a Queen.’
‘You do her wrong!’ Catherine cried out sharp with fear. ‘She’ll not lie with any man save in the marriage-bed; no, not though it should make her a Queen... and that she can never be!’
Can she not? The question was instant in Penalva’s mind. She said, slow and heavy, ‘Buckingham works for her.’
‘Yes,’ the Queen said and there was no colour in her cheeks. They had heard, both of them, Buckingham’s foul offer to kidnap the Queen and ship her off to the Indies. Then, she being safe out of the way, he would put it about that she had run from the King. So it would leave the way open to divorce.
‘To run from my husband; who shall believe such a tale, shameful alike to the King and to me? And who should tell it but Buckingham that’s known for a liar and my enemy? Who shall believe him?’
But they knew both of them that plenty would pretend to believe him—and not only his toadies; not only Rochester and Sedley and the rest of the King’s dissolute friends, but men of greater weight that, for the good of the country, desired the divorce and would welcome any step to secure it.
‘They do not know the King,’ Catherine said. ‘His fancy may lead him... will... will o’ the wisp these English call it. But his good heart must always send him home. Divorce. To a Christian soul the very word is shame.’
Penalva said, very slow, ‘Bristol, the wicked man that once tried to wreck your marriage, is now bent upon that same business. He has sent two friars home—yes, to Lisbon; they will bring back the news—these holy men, their tongues, well-greased—that your marriage was a cheat. They will say—Madam, my darling, forgive me—that you are barren and that you knew it; you and your mother, both. There are those, their tongue well-oiled, will swear to it.’
‘The King shall give them the lie!’ The scarlet ran swift in the Queen’s cheeks. ‘I have quickened three times and the King knows it. There is no reason, no reason at all, I should not bear a child. The King knows that also; the physicians have told him.’
‘Yes,’ Penalva said. ‘Yes... but if the lie be repeated often enough?’
If it be repeated often enough... what then of Charles? Would he stand against the voice of the people? How long—let them speak loud enough—could he stand? Would he put his crown in danger? She could not think it. And more. Till she had borne a child there was no heir but York; he, too, leaned towards the blessed faith and the people knew it. If the King had no lawful child how long would the Stuart line endure?
But Frances is a Stuart and Frances is lovely and Frances is young... The thought rang in the Queen’s head as clear as though someone had spoken in the room. She could endure it no longer; she dismissed Penalva and knelt once again importunate in prayer... Sweet Mother of Jesus have pity; intercede with Him that He send me a child...
For Charles she desired it because it must make safe the crown. For herself she desired it because the child would be his. The crown was well enough; to be his wife was better. Were he to be sent once more upon his travels she would follow him though her feet bled upon the stones.
The clamour against the Queen grew louder, angrier; it reached out against Clarendon—a powerless Clarendon that, by the King’s kindness, sat yet in the place of honour. It reached out against his daughter and against York that had married her. Clarendon arranged the King’s marriage because he knew the Infanta was barren... because he meant his daughter to be the mother of Kings... maybe... a Queen herself.
In vain Charles protested that he had married against the old man’s advice; that he had married to further the trade of the country and to fill his own pockets... and because the Infanta had pleased him. Neither Parliament nor the country believed him; Clarendon must go.
‘They’ll never forgive the old man for selling Dunkirk. It was sound policy; yet still it sticks in the gullet,’ Eliza said.
‘No lie too... too... foul to beat a poor old man,’ Catherine said in her careful English. ‘Now it is Tangier... my Tangier. They are saying he does mean to sell it to Spain; but, poor man, he has no more the power. But at the same time they make complains of the cost.’
‘The cost is high, Madam. Always we must defend it against pirates from Morocco.’
‘I know. Better to give it back to my own country where it does belong. But no. Nothing shall please this ingrateful people!’ And remembered how, everywhere, they bawled their filthy rhyme.
Three sights to be seen,
Dunikirk, Tangier... and a barren Queen.
It was cruel. It struck to the heart. It showed her where she stood—a disaster among disasters.
Eliza said, seeing the Queen’s shadowed face, ‘Madam, you take things too much to heart.’
‘Do I? Can I—a foreigner of the hated faith... and childless?’
‘The people do but bark, Madam. A barking dog, they say, never bites.’
‘I cannot endure the noise of their barking.’
But still she must endure it.
And still Charles burned for Frances Stuart. He might, amidst public rejoicings, have cast off the Queen and married the girl. But he had a sense of justice; and he had an ever-growing value for his Queen. There were times when Catherine, weary to the heart and remembering the old sweet days of childhood, wondered whether it were not better to cast away the world, to enter a convent.
She asked Penalva. She asked Eliza.
‘Offer to God what is not good enough for a man! That is not love of God but love of yourself; it is anger because you are not the only woman in your husband’s bed!’ For the first time Penalva spoke severely to her beloved child. ‘To retire to a convent would mend nothing. I tell you, Madam, very clear—devout you are; but you have no vocation. The religious life is not for you.’
Eliza said, ‘It would help nothing. The King would make the little Stuart a duchess but never a Queen; she is not the stuff of Queens and he knows it. You have more royalty in your little finger than she, in her whole body.’
‘Yet it is a body that serves her well. What use a little finger in love?’
‘You would not change places with her, Madam, if you could!’ Penalva said. ‘You are a Queen and you are a wife.’
But I am not a mother... I am not a mother.
Frances had refused the King’s offer to make her a duchess.
‘You are right; you are very right!’ Buckingham said, forever at her ear. ‘Who would be a duchess that might be a Queen?’
But Charles, for all he burned with passion, had breathed no word, ever, as to that. ‘He would not so dishonour himself,’ Frances said. ‘Nor the Queen; nor me; nor me, neither.’
‘Wait till you get into bed with him!’ Buckingham said coarse and laughing.
She lifted her arm; she struck him full in the face.
When once again Charles sought her out she said—and the colour flooded her pale face, ‘I ask the King’s pardon; I have no mind to share my bed with half-a-dozen others.’
‘To find a husband that shall be faithful—even to so lovely a creature as yourself!’ He shrugged. ‘You might as well seek the philosopher’s stone—which never existed and never will! And, moreover, what would you do with a faithful husband? Stuarts have large appetites—you should know that for yourself. If not—’ he shrugged again, ‘our cousin Lennox must surely have taught you!’
Again the scarlet flamed in her face. A few nights ago Charles had come, unexpected to her chamber—that woman, she was sure, had sent him. He had all-but caught Lennox in her bed. Lennox, thank God, had been clothed again; but she’d had only a bedgown to cover her nakedness. Charles had turned on his heel; he was gone and not a word spoken... but, within the hour, Lennox had left the court.
She said—and she held out her two hands as though for pity, ‘I am weary to the bone of loneliness, of poverty. Lennox would marry me tomorrow—let the King give the word.’
‘Lennox—let me remind you—has buried two wives; he was faithful to neither. Have you a mind to meet that same fate?’
She said—and her little head was high, ‘Were Lennox my husband, I’d keep him faithful, never doubt it... he, or some other good gentleman, so he have fifteen hundred a year.’
‘A little sum to buy so much beauty.’
‘Oh,’ and she was desperate now, ‘with all what you are pleased to call my beauty, there’s no man but one will marry me. They fear you, sir.’
‘Fear... me?’ His eyebrows quirked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What man dare take the King’s choice; what jackal feed on lion’s meat?’ Her eyes, her lovely childlike eyes were steady upon him. ‘Buckingham’s been whispering a thing I do not like.’
‘And has been well-clipped for his pains—so I hear.’
‘Was it not deserved? Hark you, sir, I’ll take no woman’s husband; that was never my game!’ She looked at him standing there so debonair, so charming and so sad. In spite of herself the words burst forth. ‘Would to God it were!’
He took a step forward; small hands against his breast, beat him back.
‘You love me, Franchie,’ he said. ‘Can you deny it.’ And caught at her frantic hands.
She leaned against his breast; she could fight no more. She took the kisses that fell upon forehead and cheek and mouth... they were the last she would ever take. After this she must go thirsting till her death.
‘Can you deny it?’ be asked between kisses.
How could she deny it, there against his heart? She pulled herself free. Now, now she could deny it! But the lying words would not be spoken. She lifted her white, childish face.
‘What woman could not love you?’ she said; and, when he would have taken her again in his arms said—and she was shivering a little, ‘It is no use, no use! I’ll take the first offer. A woman must marry; and most of all, I must marry. I am a Stuart; we have our appetites... yourself has said it.’
He looked at her. She meant what she said. Frail and young, she was yet firm with purpose.
He said, and there was wonder in his voice, ‘So fair... and so unwilling.’ Suddenly he was bitter. ‘Would God I might see you ugly and willing! But—’ and he laughed, ‘the one’s as likely as t’other!’
‘Ugly and willing.’ And there was the ghost of a smile on her lips. ‘Well, I could wish it too... almost; if it gave you peace. Would it do that, sir? Would it give you peace?’
‘Oddsfish, who knows? I never kissed a plain woman in my life! But you are not any woman; you are Franchie; and plain or beautiful, willing or unwilling, I love you!’
She said, ‘They hold me for a fool because I laugh at little things. But is it better to weep for what I cannot have? We are not free to love, you and I; nor never shall be. They hold me for a fool, also, because I build my houses of cards. But it is good to hide one’s heart somewhere, even in so frail a shelter. But you have broken into my house of cards... and I think you have broken my heart.’
And, when he could have come close again, once more beat him off. ‘My heart you have broken but not my strength. Keep from me, Charles; keep from me and listen. The first good man that offers—be it Lennox or another—that man I’ll take. And I’ll be an honest wife; of that be sure!’
He cried out at that, harsh, as for all his kindness he could be. ‘I’ll not permit it. Without my permission no Stuart may wed.’
‘Be not too sure of that!’ she cried out frightened and defiant.
‘No, I am not sure; I am not sure at all!’ He sighed. ‘I lack the will of my grandfather! He thrust our kinswoman Arbela Stuart into the Tower for marrying against his will... and there she died.’
‘No, you are no such man!’ In spite of herself she must laugh so that the small delightful sound rang in the room.
‘You’ve will a-plenty,’ she said when she was serious again. ‘But it is all good-will; there’s no cruelty in you!
‘And now there’s nothing more to say. I love you, Charles—and that I’ll not deny; and, if I did, who would believe me? That you love me, maybe... for a little while. But were you so faithful to love me for ever, you are husband to another; a woman so good, so true, I’d not break her heart to ease my own. For make no mistake—her heart would break; she’s not one to learn the trick of twice-loving. But I?’ She lifted her lovely head; she was so exactly his Britannia that his heart turned over. ‘I am over-young to have a broken heart... but not over-young to marry.’
‘I’ll not permit it,’ he said again.
She looked at him; she could not doubt he meant it.
The Queen must help her. The Queen was good. In spite of all the scandal she had given no harsh word no cold look.
‘Madam,’ she entreated, ‘I dare stay here no longer lest my honour be blown upon.’
‘It is blown upon,’ Catherine said.
‘Yet still it is clean... I do not speak of Lennox, Madam.’
‘Then of whom?’
‘Madam the Queen knows.’
Catherine waited inimical.
‘I speak, Madam... of the King.’
‘Do you dare?’ Catherine let herself go on a rare burst of anger. ‘Oh you play your game; you keep the King aboil. You grant him everything... except your bed. You reap your harvest to cheat him at the last. And you do dare talk of honour! Better an honest whore than such a cheat!’
‘To play such a game was never in my mind; Madam, believe it, I beseech you. I was pleased, I was flattered...’ the bright head hung low. ‘What woman would not be?
‘Are you pleased to fancy yourself in love with him?’
‘What woman would not be? Frances said again. And the Queen, pressing still for her answer, she said at last, ‘I do love him... and it is no fancy... and will do till I die. Do you think it easy for me to go away? I could comfort him...’
‘For a barren Queen?’
‘Before God, no, madam!’ Frances cried out white and shocked. ‘But for his sister that sent me... for Madame he never sees and to whom now he cannot write... it is the war; for Minette he so loves. I can talk of her; I am like her... a little, they say...’
‘I cannot think you waste your time in such a talk!’ the Queen cried out stung. ‘And you are not like her. She is virtuous; she has known no man, ever, save her husband. Shall you be able to say the same?’
‘If Madam the Queen will help me.’
‘How, help you?’
‘My cousin Lennox... he would marry me.’
‘No!’ the Queen cried out, herself surprised. Lennox! That dull and drunken sot for this bright thing!
‘Madam, he loves me... enough to dare the King’s anger; that says enough, I think. And if I marry him now, I also shall say I have known no man, ever, but my husband. Give me the chance, Madam. Give us your countenance, your countenance, it’s all I ask. You need not know our plans; but when I am gone intercede for the King’s kindness towards us. Madam, will you do that?’
Again the Queen wanted to cry out No! The girl was delicate, was fine, by the King untouched. But if she remained here, at the court? She could not deny the King for ever. Already she had held out longer than any woman ever before. Let her go. But... to Lennox; to Lennox twice-widowed, Lennox drunk and lecherous?
‘He will be good to me,’ Frances said. ‘And I will care for him—a faithful wife. So you help both him and me, Madam.’
And so I help myself! ‘You do truly desire this?’
‘Most truly, Madam.’
‘Then I will stand your friend.’
When Frances had curtseyed and kissed the Queen’s hand and gone, Catherine all-but called her back. Had it been wise to let the girl go? What new woman would Charles now pursue? Someone less true than Frances; so much was sure. So many women! What drove him? Did he, indeed, seek something he could find only in Minette? Her mind came back to Frances. How would he take the girl’s flight; the girl that looked like Minette?
She was taken by a fearful jealousy of Minette. It wanted but that to add to her pain.
God help me to bear my love. Kneeling she made her prayer.