The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (21 page)

I could imagine the euphoria. In the West Country, they were calling him King Monmouth. But when he marched on Bath, no doubt expecting the same acclaim he had received in Taunton, Bath stood against him, and it must have been at that stage when he began to lose heart.

As far as I could, I followed his progress. I knew when he began to fear defeat and then recognized it as a certainty. I suffered with him. I knew him so well.

Poor, poor Jemmy, with his grandiose dreams which had no roots in reality.

And then had come the battle of Sedgemoor and the defeat of his followers, when Jemmy escaped disguising himself as a farm worker. I could smile wryly at such a disguise. He would never play the part; his constant awareness of his own royal birth would always shine through.

Inevitably there followed his capture and his journey to the Tower.

There was only one end for him. He knew it and his courage deserted him. He was very frightened.

I wrote to my father and begged him to be lenient with Jemmy. He was reckless, I agreed, but he was our kinsman. His father had loved him dearly. He had forgiven him again and again. This was just a reckless gesture doomed to failure; Jemmy would have learned his lesson.

My father's reply was that Monmouth was a fool. He would never learn his lessons; he was not to be trusted, and fools could be dangerous. He was a coward; he had pleaded for his life; he, who had stressed his loyalty to the Protestant cause when he was recruiting men from the West Country—and many of them had followed him because of this—now he was vowing he would become a Catholic if his life was spared.

There was no hope. They led him out to the scaffold.

The stories I heard of his end were harrowing. Jemmy's courage had returned when he faced the inevitable. He made a declaration that he was a member of the Church of England, but refused to condemn his rebellion. He held his head high as he mounted the block.

Jack Ketch, the executioner, struck five blows with his axe and still the head was not severed, and he had to cut it off with his knife.

And so died the Duke of Monmouth.

He haunted my dreams. I had loved Jemmy. I kept going over in my mind the wonderful days which we had spent together. I kept imagining him on the scaffold, desperation in his eyes. How different from that young man who had taught me to dance and skate on ice! I pictured Jack Ketch as he wielded the axe and Jemmy's head bowed and bloody on the block. And I felt a sorrow which was replaced by a burning anger. He was too young to die, too handsome, too charming. And I could not bear that I should never see him again.

He had been reckless, foolish; he had believed that he could succeed. He had longed for that crown which could not by right be his. He had yearned for it as a child does for some bauble; and for a brief spell he had thought he held it in his grasp. King Monmouth! The king of those good simple people who had laid down their scythes and pitchforks to follow him to disaster and death.

Now he was dead and my father had allowed this terrible thing to happen. He had refused mercy. Jemmy, that poor frightened boy, had pleaded with him, and he had turned away; and so Jemmy, my dear cousin, Jemmy whom I loved, had suffered cruel death on the scaffold.

In those moments of grief the thought came to me that I could never forget . . . and perhaps never forgive . . . my father for the death of Jemmy.

I kept telling myself that he had acted as most would say wisely. But if he had never openly practiced his religion, if he had taken the same action as his brother, the King, this would never have happened, for my uncle Charles had been a Catholic and some said that Catholic rites had been practiced at his death. But Charles had been wise, my father foolish. I had loved Jemmy and my father had killed him. I would never forget and I could not find it in my heart to forgive him.

THE MISTRESS

Bevil Skelton, the new English Envoy to Holland, was not on very good terms with William. They had distrusted each other from the day of Skelton's arrival and the reports Skelton sent home were very critical of William's behavior.

I did not know at this time that my father, who had been against my marriage with William from the moment it had been proposed, was making plans to dissolve it and to arrange a new marriage for me.

William's treatment of me had caused a good deal of anger in England. And it would not be difficult to find a reason for dissolving the marriage.

This would be the last thing William wanted. I had great value in his eyes, though that would seem hard to believe to anyone who did not know the reason and witnessed his treatment of me.

I had, it was true, written to my father telling him that I was not unhappy. I had found much to interest me in life—above all I had had time to study books on religion.

My father knew what books they would be and that did not please him. I dare say he still saw me as a little girl whom he had cherished all those years ago, and he would believe that, if I could be removed from William, my views could be changed.

I learned later that my father had a plan which was to involve Skelton and my chaplain Dr. Covell. Anne Trelawny and my old nurse Mrs. Langford were to be included because I would listen more to them than to anyone else. I was to be weaned from any allegiance I might feel for William.

When a husband is unfaithful to his wife, it is true that usually others are aware of this before that wife, although she is the one most concerned.

William was so serious, so lacking in frivolity of any sort, that I should never have thought he could be involved in an intrigue with any woman.

When Anne and Mrs. Langford were with me one day, I saw them exchange glances, as though there was some secret between them. It was as though they were waiting for a cue to begin something.

Then Mrs. Langford said: “Your Highness, this is difficult to say and I hope you will not be angry, but . . .”

She hesitated and looked helplessly at Anne, who said: “Her Highness should know. There are many who do. It is not fair that she should be kept in the dark.”

“Please tell me what you are trying to say,” I said.

Still they hesitated. Mrs. Langford nodded to Anne who said: “The Prince has a mistress. It has been going on for some time.” I stared at her unbelievingly.

“It is so,” she said. “It has been kept from you, but Dr. Covell and Mr. Skelton . . . they all believe that you should remain in ignorance no longer.”

“This is nonsense . . .” I began.

Anne shook her head and went on: “It has been going on for a long time. It is not right that you should not know. Have you not noticed how insolent the woman is?”

“You mean . . .”

“Elizabeth Villiers, yes.”

“But she . . . she squints!”

Anne smiled wryly and shrugged her shoulders. “She is clever . . . full of tricks. It started almost as soon as you came here.

“I do not believe it.”

They exchanged helpless glances.

“He visits her almost every night,” said Mrs. Langford.

“No!”

“Well,” said Anne. “We have done our duty. If Your Highness will not believe us . . .”

“Not of William . . . no.”

“It happens to most men.”

“He is different.”

Anne shook her head. “We thought you should know. We have done our part. If Your Highness will not believe us there is nothing else to be said.”

“Well,” added Mrs. Langford, “it should not be so difficult to prove it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If you hid yourself on the stairs to her apartments you might see him going to her bedchamber.”

Anne added: “If you missed him one night, you would see him the next. He is a frequent visitor.”

“You mean . . . spy on him?”

Anne shrugged her shoulders. “It depends on how important you think this is.”

“You never liked William,” I accused her.

“I am not alone in that. There are many of us who do not like the manner in which he treats you.”

I said: “Leave me. I should like to be alone.”

They immediately obeyed.

I was bewildered. I could not believe this, and yet there was a certain inevitability about it.

Elizabeth Villiers! She was not the most beautiful of women—even setting aside that squint. She had a strong personality; she was not a woman who would be passed by in a crowd. She had dignity. I was trying to think what he could find attractive in her.

But he had no time for women. He did his “duty” with me now and then but that was for a purpose.

Then suddenly I felt an overwhelming jealousy. He did not want me, yet I was reckoned to be beautiful. I know all princesses are said to be, but I was. True, I was inclined to plumpness, but that was not unattractive. Yet he clearly had little time for me and was going to Elizabeth Villiers. I could not believe it.

Then I remembered the tales I had heard of his youth when, under the influence of drink, he had broken the windows of the maids of honor's apartments in an attempt to reach them. He must have masculine needs, the same as any man, but they could not be satisfied by me so he turned to Elizabeth Villiers.

No! No! No! I said. But a voice within me was jeering at me. Why not? I thought of the position she had made for herself at court. She had become a sort of governess to the maids of honor. People took orders from her. When her sister Anne had married William Bentinck, William had made no protest. I remembered the trouble over Jane Wroth and Zulestein. Of course, the Villiers were a noble family, but Bentinck . . . well, he was William's great friend and the marriage had strengthened the tie between Elizabeth and William.

Desperately I was trying to disbelieve, but as the minutes went by the story seemed more plausible.

Anne came to me again.

She said: “Forgive me. I should not have told you.”

“If it is true, I should know.”

“But it has wounded you deeply. It is the last thing I should wish.”

“I know that, Anne,” I said. “You have always been my dear friend. I trust you always will be and it is better for me to know the truth.”

She took my hand and kissed it.

“He is with her most nights,” she said. “If you watched, you could see him and prove it. Yes, it is better to know the truth, however painful. I have pondered for a long time. But Dr. Covell thinks you should be aware of what is known throughout the court.”

“Dr. Covell!”

“He is very angry with the manner in which you have been treated. He has written to your father.”

“My father knows . . . about this?”

She was silent.

“Anne,” I said, “does my father know about William and Elizabeth Villiers?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“I can't believe it. It is lies which have been said about the Prince to harm him in my father's eyes.”

“You could see for yourself . . .”

I was decided now. I knew I was going to spy on my husband.

WE WERE IN OUR HIDING PLACE
. It was a large cupboard on the stairs leading to the chamber which had been assigned to Elizabeth Villiers. It was separate from the quarters of the other ladies. The reason for that was now obvious.

Anne was not sure what time he would come, but she was certain that he would—if not this night, the following one, for he was a very frequent visitor.

I hated what I was doing. It seemed a mean and underhand act. But I had to know and the only alternative was to ask him. I could not bring myself to do that.

Suddenly Anne caught my hand and I listened. There was the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs—quiet and stealthy. They were close now and when they passed Anne opened the door quietly and very slightly. I saw the back of William as he mounted the stairs, I saw him reach the door of Elizabeth Villiers' bedchamber. He went in.

Anne turned to me in triumph.

“You have proof now,” she said.

I did not speak until I had reached my bedchamber. Then I said: “So it is true.”

“I am so sorry,” said Anne. She put her arm round me. “It is better not to be in ignorance,” she added soothingly.

“And people know,” I said. “Dr. Covell, Mr. Skelton . . . and my father.”

“And many more,” said Anne.

“What shall I do?”

“Your father will advise you.”

“No. I could not speak of this to him. Perhaps when the Prince knows that I have discovered it . . . he will cease to see her.

Anne looked at me disbelievingly.

“I must think about it,” I said.

“Do not brood on it. It happened. Few men are faithful.”

“Leave me now, Anne,” I said. “I will send for you when I need you.”

When she had gone, disbelief descended on me once again. It was not true. Other men were unfaithful. Not William. It was not that I thought he would have any scruples in the matter, but that he would not attach any importance to love, to the charm of women, to physical experiences. And certainly not if it meant creeping up back stairs by night. I knew of the exploits of the late King and my father and most of the courtiers of Whitehall, but I had thought William was apart from all that. And now I had discovered that he was, after all, like the rest. I had formed my opinion of him because
I
did not attract him—and therefore I had imagined that no one else could.

I spent a sleepless night. I thought of them all, discussing my affairs, pitying me, courting Elizabeth Villiers, which I now realized they had done.

How had she attracted him with her lack of feminine grace, with her squinting eyes?

I remembered those supper parties in the maids of honor's apartments. I believed she was his spy as well as his mistress. She would be working for him, extracting opinions from the discontented English at The Hague, passing on information. Those parties had been arranged for that purpose.

I felt sick with the horror of it all.

It was not until the afternoon of the next day that I saw William. He came along to my apartments and when I saw him I was so overcome with anger and emotion that I could not consider my words with care and they came rushing forth unchecked.

I said: “I know now that you have mistress. I am shocked and amazed. You . . . who have pretended to be so virtuous . . . when all the time you are creeping up the back stairs to Elizabeth Villiers's apartments. Pray do not attempt to deny it. I have watched you. I have seen you.”

He held up a hand to stop my outburst, but his expression had changed, his lips had tightened and an unusual color had risen to his face.

“What are you saying?” he demanded.

“I should have thought it was clear. You have a mistress. She is Elizabeth Villiers. It is not recent. It has been going on for a long time. That is the reason why she gives herself airs. Anyone would think she were my mistress as well as yours.”

“You are hysterical,” he said.

“And you are unfaithful. You have posed as a man of great virtue . . . and delicacy . . . without human weaknesses . . .”

“I have posed as no one that I am not,” he said. “If you have built up an image of me, that is your doing in your lack of reasoning and your inexperience of the world.”

“Do you deny this?” I asked angrily.

“No,” he replied.

“So you admit that she is your mistress?”

“These matters are not important to people in our position.”

“They are important to me.”

“Pray be reasonable.”

“And say that I do not care if you creep up to the bedchamber of my women at night?”

“Who told you of this?”

“Does that matter? I know.”

“Skelton is behind this. I shall find out. I will not have spies in my court.”

“My friends know of this and they do not like the way I am treated.”