The Loves of Charles II (133 page)

There came news of the battle of Southwold Bay which, while it proved indecisive, cost much in men’s lives. Now the press-gangs were more rapacious, and mothers and wives were terrified when any able-bodied young man ventured into the streets. What was this war? it was asked. The English, sternly Protestant, were fighting Protestant Holland at the side of Catholic France. They were suffering great losses. For what reason? To spread the Catholic Faith across Europe. The King’s brother, commanding the Navy, was almost certainly a Catholic. The King’s favorite mistress was a Catholic. The King himself was so easygoing that he would adopt any faith if he were asked to do so prettily enough.

There were increasing scandals concerning the Court. That July, Barbara Castlemaine gave birth to a daughter whom she tried to foist on the King, but who everyone was sure was John Churchill’s child. In spite of Barbara’s importuning him, the King refused to acknowledge the girl.

Louise’s son was born the same month. He was called Charles. Louise insisted on the name, although the King mildly protested that this would be his fourth son named Charles, and he feared he might at times be wondering which was which.

“My Charles,” said Louise, “will be different from all the others.”

She was certain of this, and she was furious when she saw the youngest of the King’s Charleses—little Charles Beauclerk—amusing his father with his quaint manners which seemed to belong half to the Court and half to the slums of London.

Louise sighed over her Charles. He would be more handsome, more courtly than any. Only the greatest titles in the land would suit him.

“For I am different,” she told Charles. “I am not your mistress. I am your wife, and Queen of England. That is how I see myself.”

“As long as no others see it so, that is a happy enough state of affairs,” said the King.

“I see no reason why you should not have two wives, Charles. Are you not Defender of the Faith?”

“Defender of the faithless sometimes,” said Charles lightly. He was thinking of Barbara, who, since he had refused to acknowledge John Churchill’s child, was making demands on behalf of those whom he had already accepted. She wanted her Henry, who was nine years old, raised to the peerage without delay. Earl of Euston, she thought, should be the title for him; then he would be fit to marry my lord Arlington’s daughter, a charming little heiress. Charles had reminded her that her eldest was already Earl of Southampton, and young George was Lord George Fitzroy.

“I was never a woman to favor one child more than another,” said Barbara
virtuously. “And what of poor dear Anne and Charlotte? I must ask you to allow them to bear the royal arms.”

Charles was beset on all sides.

Louise was less blatant in her demands than Barbara. But Charles knew that they would be no less insistent. Indeed, Louise’s schemes went deeper than those of Barbara ever had. The Queen was ill, and Louise’s small squinty eyes were alert.

It was not easy for her to hide her satisfaction as the Queen grew more languid. If the Queen died, Louise would get her little Charles legitimized at once through her marriage with the King. The little Breton girl, for whom it had been so difficult to find a place at the Court of France, would be the Queen of England.

Charles pointed out to Louise that he could not give her honors equal to those of Barbara’s, for she was still a subject of the King of France, and therefore not in a position to accept English titles, so Louise lost no time in appealing to Louis. She must become a subject of the King of England, for England was now her home. Louis hesitated for a while. He wondered whether the granting of her request might mean the relinquishing of his spy. Louise assured him through the ambassador that, no matter what nationality she took, her allegiance would always be to her native land.

Louise’s hopes were high. She believed she knew how to manage the King. She had shown him that she could bear his sons. She had all the graces which a queen should possess. And the Queen was sick. Once Louis had agreed to her naturalization she would be the possessor of noble titles, and with great titles went wealth. And she would never swerve from the main goal, which was to share the throne with Charles.

One of her minor irritations was the presence at Court of the orange-girl.

She suspected that the King often slipped away from her company to enjoy that of Nell Gwyn. He would declare he was tired, and retire to his apartments; but she knew that he slipped out of the Palace and climbed the garden wall to the house in Pall Mall.

Louise knew that she was often referred to as Squintabella because of the slight cast in her eye, and Weeping Willow because, when she wanted to make some request, she would do so sadly and with tears in her eyes. Both of these names had been given her by the saucy comedienne, who made no secret of the fact that she looked upon herself as Louise’s rival. To Nell Squintabella was no different from Moll Davies or Moll Knight or any low wench to be outwitted for the attentions of the King.

She would call to Louise if their carriages passed: “His Majesty is
well, I rejoice to say. I never knew him in better form than he was last night.”

Louise would pretend not to hear.

All the same, Nell had her anxieties. Barbara’s children flaunted their honors; it was said that the King was only waiting for Louise’s naturalization to make her a Duchess; and meanwhile Nell remained plain Madam Gwyn with two little boys called Charles and James Beauclerk.

When the King called on her she indignantly asked him why others should find such favor in his sight while two of the most handsome boys in the kingdom were ignored.

Young Charles, now just about two years old, studied his father solemnly, and the older Charles felt uncomfortable under that steady stare.

He lifted the boy in his arms. Little Charles smiled cautiously. He was aware that his mother was angry, and he was not quite sure how he felt towards this man who was the cause of that anger. Little Charles looked forward to his father’s visits, but his merry mother, who laughed and jigged and sang for him, was the most wonderful person in his world, and he was not going to love even his fascinating father if he made his mother unhappy.

“Are you not glad to see me, Charles Beauclerk?” asked Charles Stuart. “Have you not a kiss for me?”

Little Charles looked at his mother.

“Tell him,” said Nell, “that you are as niggardly with your kisses for him as he is lavish with the honors he showers on others.”

“Oh, Nelly, I have to be cautious, you know.”

“Your Majesty was ever cautious with Madam Castlemaine, I understand. Those whom you fondly imagine to be your children—though none else does—are greatly honored. Yet for those who are undoubtedly your sons you have nothing but pleas of poverty.”

“All in good time,” said the harassed King. “I tell you this boy shall have as fine a title as any.”

“Such a fine title that it is too fine for the human eye to perceive, I doubt not!”

“This is indeed Nelly in a rage. Fighting for her cub, eh?”

“Aye,” said Nelly. “For yours too, my lord King.”

“I would have you understand that this is something I cannot do as yet. If you had been of gentle birth …”

“Like Prince Perkin’s mother?”

Charles could not help smiling at her nickname for Jemmy. He said: “Lucy died long ago, and Jemmy is a young man. There is plenty of time for
this little Charles to grow up. Then I think he shall have as grand a title as any of his brothers.”

“Should his mother be so obliging as to die then,” cried Nell dramatically. “Shall I jump in the river? Shall I run a sword through my body?”

Young Charles, vaguely understanding, set up a wail of misery.

“Hush, hush,” soothed the King. “Your mother will not die. She but acts, my son.”

But young Charles would not be comforted. Nell snatched him from the King.

“Nay, nay, Charlie,” she said, “’Twas but a game. Papa was right. There’s naught to fret us but this: You are a Prince by your father’s elevation, but you have a whore to your mother for your humiliation.”

Then she laughed and jigged about the room with him until he was laughing and the King was laughing too.

He was so delighted that he could not resist promising Nell that he would think what he could do for the boy. And he remembered too that her sister Rose suffered from her poverty, and he would grant her the pension of one hundred pounds a year for which Nell had asked him on her behalf.

As for Nell herself, she did him so much good even when she scolded for her son’s sake that he would make her a countess, indeed he would.

“A countess,” said Nell, her eyes shining. “That would please me mightily. Young Charlie and Jamie, having a King for a father, should indeed have no less than a countess for a mother.”

The King wished he had been more discreet, but Nell went on: “I could be Countess of Plymouth. It is a title which someone will have ere long. Why should it not be Nelly? Barbara has done as well.”

“All in good time,” said the King uneasily.

But Nell was happy. Countess of Plymouth—and that meant honors for her boys. And why not? Indeed why not?

Nell did not become Countess of Plymouth. Boldly she had applied for the documents which would have staked her claim to this title, only to be told that these could not be supplied. The King told her that he had but been jesting when he had made the suggestion; he asked her to understand the state of the country. They were engaged in a war which was proving to be more costly than they had expected; the Dutch were determined not to lose their country; not content with opening the dykes and causing the utmost confusion to the invaders, young William of Orange, Stadholder and Captain-General, was a determined young man who seemed to be possessed of military genius.

“Who would have guessed this of that gauche young nephew of mine!”
cried Charles. “Never will I forget his visit to my Court. A little fellow, pale of visage, afraid to dance lest it should make him breathless on account of his weak lungs. He was glum and I had to do something to rouse him, so I had Buckingham ply him with wine, and what do you think he did? Fall into a torpor? Not he! His true character came to the surface then. Before he could be prevented he had smashed the windows of those apartments which housed the maids of honor, so eager was he to get at them. ‘Dear nephew,’ I said, ‘it is customary at my Court to
ask
the ladies’ permission first. A dull English custom, you may doubtless think, but nevertheless one which I fear must be respected.’ Ah! I might have looked for greater depth in a young man who appeared so prim and whom his cups betrayed as a lecher. Then he was drunk with wine. Now he is drunk with ambition and the desire to save his country. Again we see that this nephew of mine can be a formidable young fellow indeed.”

“We talked of Plymouth, not of Orange,” Nell reminded him.

“Ah, we talked of Plymouth,” agreed the King. “Then let me explain that the war is costly. The people dislike the press-gang and the taxes; both of which are necessary to maintain our Navy. When the people are angry they look for someone on whom to vent their anger. They are asked for taxes, so they say, ‘Let the King pay taxes, let him spend less money on his women, and mayhap that will serve to supply the Navy.’ Nelly, I can do nothing yet. I swear to you that I shall not forget these sons of ours. I swear I shall not forget you.”

“Swearing comes easy to a gentleman,” said Nell, “and the King is the first gentleman in his country.”

“Nevertheless here is one promise I shall keep. You know my feelings for the boys. ’Twould be impossible not to love them. Nay, Nell, have patience. Come, make me laugh. For with the Dutch on one side and the French on the other and the Parliament at my heels I have need of light relief.”

Then Nell softened; for indeed she loved him, and she loved him for what he was, the kindest of men, though a maker of promises he could never keep; and she remembered too the words of my lord Rochester. She must soothe the King.

If she plagued him with her tongue, as Barbara had, she would drive him away. She, the little orange-girl and play-actress, had to be every bit as clever as the
grande dame
from France, who was her most formidable rival.