The Merry Monarch's Wife (27 page)

         

WHEN THE SAD NEWS CAME
we were completely amazed and horrified.

I could not believe what the messenger was telling us.

Henriette was dead.

It was less than three weeks after her arrival in France that she had died in mysterious circumstances.

When Charles recovered from the first shock he was very angry, for he could not believe she had died from natural causes.

He made the messenger repeat what had happened. He was completely distraught. He paced up and down the apartment, his eyes wild; now and then he stopped to clench his fists and wring his hands.

“This is my sister, Catherine,” he said. “The one I loved best. We were always good friends. She should have stayed here with me. Then this would never have happened.”

He seemed to find comfort in going over it and told me what he had heard.

“It was soon after she returned. Someone has done this. It is Philippe…that creature. She should never have married him. He is unworthy. My sister…given to that…dandy! He put the Chevalier de Lorraine before her. They have killed her. And Louis…what has he done? Why does he not find the murderers? Because he knows his own brother is involved! He pretends to accept this stupid doctor's verdict.”

I pieced the story together. Henriette had returned to France. She had been at Versailles…with Louis. Of course, Louis would want her to tell in every detail what had happened in England. She had come here in his service, but against Philippe's wishes. Philippe could not bear to think that the King placed more confidence in his brother's wife than in his brother.

At Versailles, Philippe had come upon his wife and the King in deep conversation. He had stamped his foot and flounced away in a state of pique.

Shortly afterward—it was the afternoon of the twenty-ninth of June, and Henriette had left England only on the twelfth of that month—she had asked for a cup of chicory water. She drank this and was immediately sick.

She said: “I have been poisoned.”

There was great concern, the doctors were summoned and ten hours later she was dead.

There was a postmortem. The doctor who conducted it was young and unpracticed. Charles swore that he had been procured by Philippe. His verdict was that death was due to natural causes.

There were the inevitable whisperings and rumors throughout the court of France, for there had been every indication that Henriette had been poisoned. What was in the chicory water? people asked. A servant had brought it but that servant could not be the one who had put the poison in the cup. There was no reason for a servant to do so. But there were others.

Charles was certain that the Chevalier de Lorraine had killed Henriette with Philippe's connivance. The Chevalier de Lorraine was jealous of her; Philippe greatly resented her friendship with the King and the fact that she could be trusted with special missions. Philippe could have been in the plot to kill Henriette, and almost certainly was. Philippe's squire D'Effiat and the Count de Bevron, the captain of Philippe's guard, could easily have poisoned the chicory water. They had been on the spot at the time. Charles wanted them brought to trial with Philippe.

But Louis would not interfere. He thought he could compensate by giving Henriette a grand funeral at St. Denis.

Charles was consumed by grief and anger. He shut himself in his apartments and refused to see anyone. When he did emerge he was pale and subdued.

“I shall never feel the same toward Louis,” he said. “He has allowed my sister's murderers to go free because they are in high places.”

Louis would know what effect his sister's death would have on Charles. He tried to make amends in a special way. I could wish he had chosen some other method.

Charles told me he was giving a place in my household to a lady who, he was sure, would be useful to me. Louis had heard that Mademoiselle Louise de Keroualle was much liked at our court and he was sending her over to join us.

I must have shown my dismay.

Charles put his hand on my shoulder. “She is very young, and I am sure will be most eager to please,” he said.

I guessed whom she would be eager to please. I was no longer the innocent girl I had been.

This was how it would always be.

Barbara Castlemaine was no longer in the ascendant; Frances Stuart, poor girl, had lost her appeal; Nell Gwynne was not cultivated enough to hold him; so now there would be a new one: a lady from the court of France—Louise de Keroualle.

         

CHARLES SENT
one of the royal yachts to meet Louise de Keroualle when she came to England. He was considerably cheered by the prospect of a new mistress.

Louise undoubtedly had a social appeal. There was a childishness about her. She reminded me in some ways of Frances Stuart. But Frances's innocence was not assumed, as I was sure was that of Mademoiselle de Keroualle. I sensed those demure looks covered a certain shrewdness and self-interest. I guessed that Louis had sent her over for a purpose other than to present Charles with a new toy as consolation for his grief over his sister's death. Louise would be watchful of the situation in England and, if she were as close to the King as Louis would expect her to be, she would be well qualified to pass on vital information to Louis.

Moreover, I guessed that Louise would make sure that she, besides Louis, profited from the arrangement.

She did not take up her apartments in Whitehall immediately. She had met the Arlingtons and had accepted an invitation to stay with them for a while until she “became accustomed to England, improved her knowledge of the language and was able to converse with ease.”

Arlington was suspected of being a Catholic, or at least of having sympathy with the faith. Louis had at one time tried to bribe him but Arlington—as a member of the Cabal—was too wise to accept bribes from a foreign king. He was married to Isabella von Beverweert, daughter of Louis of Nassau; and Isabella had accepted a gift of ten thousand crowns from the French King. It seemed possible that Arlington had formed a friendship with Louise de Keroualle and offered her hospitality because he was aware of the work she would be expected to do for France.

I must admit that this did not occur to me at the time, but it emerged later.

Louise de Keroualle was Louis's spy. He and Charles had become wary of each other since Henriette's death. Louis was well aware that Charles resented his lack of energy in unmasking his sister's killers. All the same, I knew that Louise would consider her own good before that of anyone else. What plans she had for her relationship with Charles, I could only guess. But she would have heard of the King's obsession with Frances Stuart and might have thought there was a chance of becoming Queen of England.

CAPTAIN BLOOD

IT WAS ABOUT THIS TIME WHEN CAPTAIN BLOOD CAME INTO
prominence and seemed to arouse many of the young gallants to a spirit of adventure. One of these was the Duke of Monmouth.

Jemmy, as he was invariably called, was very much aware of his position, and the more unpopular the Duke of York became, the more Jemmy flaunted himself, not only at court but throughout the capital.

He was determined that no one should forget that he was the King's eldest son. He was disappointed that Charles would not go along with the plan to pretend he had married his mother. At the same time, Monmouth behaved as though he were indeed the Prince of Wales.

There was great antagonism between him and the Duke. Anne, the Duchess, was very worried about it. Every time I saw her I grew more concerned for her health, and the anxiety she was feeling was not helpful to her.

The Duke of York was, of course, without subtlety and completely devoid of diplomacy. I knew Charles constantly despaired of him, but Charles had a habit of shrugging aside unpleasant possibilities and while he was on the throne Monmouth and York could be kept in check. It was only after he had gone that trouble might arise. That was why he could shrug his shoulders and thrust the matter aside.

Meanwhile, the Duke of York was somewhat ostentatiously making sure that everyone knew he was a Catholic and would like to see the whole of the country of the same persuasion. Monmouth was a constant reminder to us all that he was a Protestant and that I, the Queen, seemed unlikely to produce a legitimate heir.

It was then that Captain Blood, the dashing adventurer, made the city aware of him.

He must have been quite fifty years of age. He was of humble origins—and Irish—an adventurer without doubt; he lived for excitement. He was a leader who had a talent for taking people along with him to support him in his various exploits.

One of his associates, a Captain Mason, had been arrested and sent to Doncaster. A guard of eight soldiers had been chosen by the Duke of York to guard the man, and Blood, with only three helpers, rescued Mason, killing several soldiers during the process.

Captain Blood was discussed everywhere and with a certain awe and admiration.

His latest escapade had been to attack the house of the Duke of Ormonde, for when Ormonde had been in command in Ireland, he had arrested several of Blood's friends. They were brought in for trial and several of them had been hanged. Now, Captain Blood decided to avenge the death of his friends.

He and some of his accomplices waylaid Ormonde's coach and, after disabling the coachman, were planning to take the Duke to Tyburn and hang him there. Fortunately for Ormonde, his coachman was able to give the alarm and guards arrived in time. Consequently Blood and his men were forced to flee for their lives.

The adventure was much talked of.

Shortly afterward Sir John Coventry was badly injured when his nose was slit in a street brawl.

Sir John had made some remarks derogatory to the King and his mistresses, Nell Gwynne and Moll Davis.

It had all begun when some members of Parliament wished to levy a tax on playhouses. The King and many of his friends were against this, being ardent supporters of the playhouses. During the debate Sir John Coventry asked whether the King's interest was in the playhouses or the women who played in them.

This was considered to be an insult to the King and there was an uproar. The following day when Sir John's carriage was taking him to his home in Suffolk Street, it was set upon by a band of young men and his nose was slit for his insolence.

There was a great deal of indignation over the affair, and it seeped out that the Duke of Monmouth had been a member of the gang which had attacked Sir John.

Because of this, Charles was anxious that the matter should be hushed up. He himself would talk to Jemmy.

I could imagine that interview, with Charles gently admonishing Monmouth and Monmouth vehemently declaring that he would allow no one to insult his father.

However, an act was passed that the slitting of noses and any other mutilation was a felony. The act was called Coventry's Act.

Before long, there was another incident in the streets. Monmouth and the young Duke of Albermarle, who had recently succeeded to the title on the death of his father, were involved in a drunken brawl in which a beadle, who had tried to restrain them, was killed.

This was serious because it was a case of murder. Charles was outraged by the incident until he learned that Monmouth was one of the group concerned.

I said: “That young man is becoming notorious. It is not long since he attacked Sir John Coventry.”

“I must speak to him,” said Charles.

I could not help replying: “Do you think the people will be satisfied with that? A man has committed murder and he is merely given a talking to?”

“I shall speak to him very severely. This has to be stopped.”

“The people will expect him to be punished.”

“I can hardly punish Albermarle without punishing Jemmy.”

“Well then…”

He did not answer. But later he pardoned all the young men involved with the excuse that there was insufficient evidence against them.

After that Monmouth was a little quieter, so I supposed he had been “spoken to very severely.” But it was just another example of the King's indulgence toward him.

And Jemmy was behaving more royally every day.

         

IT HAD BEEN A COLD WINTER,
and during it Anne's health had declined. I had always liked her. She lacked certain courtly graces, but I was always aware of her sincerity. She had been hurt by James's infidelities, as I had been by those of Charles, and that had made a bond between us.

Anne had suffered her husband's neglect with less stoicism than I had, and James was completely lacking in Charles's charm. She had had a hard time from the beginning when she had had to face so much disapproval.

For some time she had suffered from a pain in her breast. She had a growth there and it could be excruciatingly painful. I used to visit her often and she liked to talk to me of her early days.

She knew she could not live long. One day she said to me: “What I regret leaving so much are my two girls. Mary is nine years old. It is young to be left without a mother; and Anne is two years younger. It is ironical, Catherine. My little boys died. James wanted boys. They always want boys. There were eight children…and only two left. I often wonder what will become of Mary and Anne. They are in line to the throne. Of course, you may yet…”

“It is so long now,” I interrupted. “I have come to believe I shall never have children. How I envy you! Mary and Anne are such fine girls.”

“I pray all will go well with them. If only one could see into the future!”

“Methinks at times it would be better not to.”

“I have not long left to me now.”

“You will recover in the spring.”

“No. That will not be. I am not sorry to go…except for my girls. Catherine, will you watch over them? Life is full of dangers for children in their position. I hope beyond all things that they will make good marriages…I mean that they will be happy ones.”

“I will do all I can,” I promised. “But for people such as myself, Mary and Anne, marriages are made for us.”

“That is true. But Catherine…remember…”

“I will. I will do all that is possible.”

That satisfied her.

The next time I saw her she had grown worse. They had given her drugs to help the pain. Poor Anne, her mind wandered.

I learned then a little about what she had suffered in those early days when there was so much opposition to her marriage, and she had even wondered whether James himself would stand by her. James was uncertain by nature. I was often surprised that he should be Charles's brother. They were so dissimilar.

In her ramblings, Anne was back at the court of Orange where she had first met James. People had been surprised that she had attracted him, for Anne had never been a beauty. But then James's countless mistresses had always been on the plain side. The outstanding example was that one who had had his attention longer than any of them—Arabella Churchill. She could never be called beautiful, though she did have a very fine pair of legs. The story was that she had fallen from her horse and, being close by at the time, James had had an opportunity to see them. They had presumably enchanted him and made up for her lack of facial perfection. One of his mistresses remarked that they were all ugly and if they had had any brains James would have lacked the necessary wit to recognize them.

However, James had been taken with Anne Hyde and had actually gone through a form of marriage with her at his sister Mary's court.

At that time, of course, Charles was in exile and the fate of the royal family was very insecure. Whether James would have taken that step if he had known that Charles would soon be King, I could not know. But he was impulsive. However, it had been an uneasy time for Anne, and as she lay dying she thought she was back in those troublous days.

“Catherine,” she murmured, “are you there?”

I leaned forward and said: “I am here, Anne. I will stay while you want me.”

She put her fevered hand into mine and held it firmly.

She said: “Maurits Beverweert would have married me. It would have been a good match…with the Orange family. But…it was James. They blamed me…my father even. They tried…they all worked against it. They tried to stop it. They pretended it was no marriage…and James…James…”

I bent over her. “Try to rest,” I said.

She smiled and was quiet for a few moments, then she said: “I am going to have a child. I am married…I am…”

I knew she was in the past again.

“It is all right now,” I soothed her. “You are in your bed. You should rest. You will feel better then.”

“Catherine…”

“Yes, Anne?”

“Where am I?”

“You are in your bed in your apartments.”

“They will try to stop the marriage. They will say it was no marriage. And I am with child…”

“I said: “Everyone knows you are married. You are the Duchess of York.”

She smiled.

“We were married, were we not? It was in Worcester House in the Strand.”

“Yes,” I said. “Your father's house.”

“He is not there now. He is away…in disgrace. It was no fault of mine. It was all secret…but a true marriage. The baby died…” Her face was tragic suddenly. “My little boy…”

“But you have two fine girls now.”

“Mary,” she whispered. “Anne. All those deaths…all those little ones…mostly boys. Catherine…James has turned to your faith.”

She had returned to the present.

I said: “Yes, I know.”

“The people do not like it…but he must be true to his conscience.”

“It shows his strength.”

She smiled a little sadly. “James…he does not always think clearly. He is not clever like Charles.”

“No,” I said.

“The people are not pleased. They seek to destroy him. But James has his conscience. James is weak. He always was. He does not see how necessary it is for him to act with caution, because he is the King's brother. What will he do without me to help him?”

“Do you guide him?”

“More than you know. I think Charles knows. He talks to me sometimes. He is anxious about James…as anxious as he could be about anything. He thinks of what will come when he is no longer there. As I do…Catherine.”

“So much can happen before that. Charles is strong…stronger than most men at court. He will live for a long time yet.”

“But the time will come…”

“Let us not worry about something which is so far off.”

“James had to worship openly. James has a conscience.” She smiled ruefully. “That is why we were remarried. He knew that I was with child and he owed it to me. Perhaps he was not so eager for the second marriage ceremony as he was for the first.”

“Anne, he relies on you. He wanted to marry you or he would not have done so.”

“Heaven knows, he would have had enough support if he had decided to discard me. But it was his conscience. It is one of the finest things about him, Catherine. He owed it to me then…as he owes it to God to worship Him openly as he believes is right. Catherine, I have not communicated as a member of the Church of England for some time.”

“I have heard that. Are you a Catholic, Anne?”

She was silent for a while and then said: “I do not know. There are so many questions to be answered. I have been studying. You have been brought up in the Catholic faith. You accept it without question. I find it difficult to do that. But now the end is near…I desperately wish I could feel sure.”

“James would be pleased if you shared his faith.”

“I want to, but it is not easy. I keep saying to myself: What is the truth? If only I could have some revelation before I die.”

I held her hand and once more she went into a reverie. She talked of her children. What a lot of suffering there had been in her life. She had lost so many of her children. I thought of the months of waiting, the exultation when the child was in her arms, the overwhelming grief when it was taken from her.

“James, Edward, Charles,” she murmured their names. Born into this world for a very short time…and out of eight only Mary and Anne left.

I was with her when she died. It was the last day of March. The Duke of York was at her bedside. He looked very sad. Anne had spoken of his conscience and I wondered what he was thinking. Was it of all the unhappiness he had caused her? I believed it was. He was very gentle with her in those last moments, and very anxious that she should receive the viaticum of the Church of Rome.

The Bishop of Worcester had been sent for. I knew that Anne was still unsure. How I wished I could have talked to her, have explained to her why she must turn to Rome. Anne had a clever mind; she was the sort of person who must reason. She could not believe without logical understanding. It was hard for her; she was greatly perplexed.