The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (32 page)

There was no end to disaster.

It was June when one of the greatest of them occurred. This was the expedition to Brest. It had been essential that this should be a surprise attack, but the plan had been foiled and the French had had warning and strengthened their defenses so that when the English landed they found the enemy waiting for them. General Tollemache was mortally wounded and four hundred soldiers were lost.

It was a major disaster. But the most shocking feature of the affair was that the French had been warned, and there was a strong suspicion by whom. Lady Tryconnel, Sarah Churchill's sister, was with my father and stepmother in France, and Sarah, it appeared, had written to her telling her of the activity in London concerning the coming attack in Brest.

It was an act of treachery and left no doubt in my mind as to what the defeat was due to.

When William questioned Marlborough on the matter, he swore that he had had no part in the betrayal. His wife? Well, women will gossip. She may have mentioned, casually, to her sister, that there was much activity in progress. These things happened.

I knew William would like to have sent Marlborough back to the Tower for trial. But Marlborough had many friends and there was a lack of evidence against him.

What a melancholy state of affairs! So many deaths, so many disasters, suspected treachery all round us, and worst of all, my family in conflict. I was tired. I suppose it was because my health was deteriorating, and there was no end to the aggravation.

When I think of my idyllic youth, I see that already in the household were those who were to plague me. Strange that they were already there, a part of my childhood. Elizabeth Villiers, who had caused me great grief, and Sarah Churchill, who had done her share.

They were clever, those Marlboroughs. How could they be so blatantly treacherous and escape? They were devious, and Marlborough was undoubtedly powerful, so William must be careful when dealing with him, otherwise he would have been safe in the Tower and found guilty—as he undoubtedly was, and his wife with him.

She was a malicious woman, and I was sure she was responsible for the scandal which arose about Shrewsbury and myself.

It was quite unfounded.

Charles Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury, was about two years older than I. He was very charming, tall, well-made and reckoned to be one of the most attractive men at court. He was very handsome, in spite of the fact that there was an imperfection in one of his eyes. This did not however detract from his charm—but rather added to it, and made him more distinguished.

His early life had been overshadowed by the conduct of his parents. His mother, Countess of Shrewsbury at the time, was the mistress of the notorious Duke of Buckingham, who had created such a scandal during the reign of my uncle Charles. The Countess had lived openly with Buckingham after he had killed her husband in a duel.

It had been one of the great scandals of a scandalous age.

I liked Shrewsbury because he was a good, honest man, not afraid to state his opinions. After the disastrous defeat of Beachy Head, when he was out of office, he came to me and offered his services; and in March of that year, he had accepted the post of Secretary of State, which meant that I saw him frequently in the course of the country's business.

We had a great deal to discuss together; and in addition to state affairs, he liked to talk about his health and he was very interested in mine, and at that time, when I was suffering from a great many ailments, I found that comforting.

And so Sarah Churchill circulated rumors that I was in love with Shrewsbury. She said that when he came into my presence it had been noted that I turned pale and trembled. If I did, it must be because I feared what news he might bring.

It was a trivial matter and I suppose there will always be unfounded rumors about people in high places; such will always have their enemies and Sarah Churchill was, without doubt, one of mine.

Of course, it was not all gloom. There were times when I could feel almost happy. At last I had begun to realize that I could be successful in my role. The people were growing more and more fond of me. Indeed, I think they no longer cared that the King was so often away fighting battles on the Continent. They had Queen Mary. She was a good Protestant; she was English and their rightful Queen; they had never wanted a Dutchman to rule over them. If only he had been different, they might have been reconciled. I knew he suffered pains in his back and arms, but he looked quite magnificent on horseback when his low stature was not evident. If he would have taken a little more care to make a more acceptable image of himself, it could have been so different; but he would consider such things frivolous and unimportant. I knew he was wrong.

It began to dawn on me that I could have been a good queen. I understood the people. I had had my successes when I had been in charge. That was why the people chanted: “God bless Queen Mary. Long life to her.” Silence was usually what greeted William. Perhaps if I had gone my way, doing what I thought was best, with my ministers to help me, of course, the monarchy might not merely have been tolerated, but loved.

After the action at La Hogue, which must have been a crippling blow to my father, I had made sure that the people realized what a great victory it was.

We had had so many defeats, so much depression, that when there was something in which we could rejoice, I was determined this should be done wholeheartedly.

I made it a great day when the ships, bringing the victorious men, arrived at Spithead. I sent £30,000 to be distributed among the common soldiers, and the officers received gold medals. I wanted them to know that their loyalty and bravery were rewarded. I would persuade William that it was money well spent, though I was sure he would not agree with me.

I arranged rejoicing in the streets of London and I myself, attired in all my regalia, rode among the people.

They cheered me delightedly. There were no complaints at that time.

It was during William's absence that the question of new coins arose. These were to have our heads—mine and William's—engraved on them.

There was a very fine artist named Rotier, who had made the engravings when they had last been done during my father's reign, but, when approached, he said that he worked for the King, and as the King was across the water, he could not work for him. He had a son, Norbert, who offered to do the work in his father's place, and as I was aware what trouble might grow out of disloyalty to William and me, I decided to forget the father and employ the son. I was rather horrified when I saw the result, for William's likeness had certainly not been flattering. He was made to look satanic. I was disturbed, not only by the coins, but by the hostility of the people toward William.

I did hear a little later that the Rotiers had fled to France, fearing some kind of retaliation.

William returned from the Continent and I handed over the reins to him. Although I had felt some confidence in my own government, I was not sorry to do this, for I was beginning to feel quite ill and tired.

I had hoped that William might compliment me on my rule, for I knew there were many who were pleased with it, but he did not. He just nodded without comment when I explained certain of my actions to him, and I was expected to slip back into my old place of consort.

THERE WAS ONE HAPPY OCCASION
which gave me great pleasure. Little William had, for some time, had his band of soldiers—youngsters of his own age with whom he played his game of soldiers. Every day he would drill them in the park.

He had persuaded his mother to procure a uniform for him—and of course this request was granted. Mr. Hughes, his tailor, arrived and William was fitted out in a white camlet suit with with silver buttons and loops of silver thread.

Young William himself told me about the incident of the stays. Mr. Hughes had said that if he would look like a general he would have to have stiff stays. The uniform demanded it. William was not very happy at the idea, but he was willing to try anything that was necessary for a soldier.

He wore the stays, which not surprisingly he found to be uncomfortable. The tailor was summoned by William. The boys surrounded him and threatened him with dire punishment for having made their commander uncomfortable and insisted that he go down on his knees and promise to make the stays less stiff.

The exploits of the young Duke never failed to amuse everyone and when I heard that he was to have a field day and had said he would be honored if the King attended in person, I rather timidly put the question to William, hoping that he might comply with the Duke's wishes.

To my delight, and amusement, he agreed. He had quite an attachment to his little namesake and I knew he often wished that this was our son.

And so the day came. I shall always remember those little boys looking so quaint in their uniform, doing their drill, marching before the King. William did his part well, walking along the line to review them, young William proudly beside him.

The toy cannon was fired and everything went off with military precision. William declared himself content to be assured of the loyalty of the Duke's men. He gave the little drummer two guineas because he played so loudly.

The parade over, young William stood before the King and said: “My dear King, you shall have both my companies to serve with you in Flanders.”

The King thanked him and gravely accepted the offer.

I had rarely seen William relaxed and pleasant. Little William had the power to charm us all.

That was a gloomy November. I could not rid myself of a feeling of foreboding. I was feeling listless and more unwell than ever before.

I was in Whitehall Chapel when John Tillotson, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was preaching a sermon. I had always liked Tillotson. He was a courteous and tolerant man. It was not very long ago that he had been appointed Archbishop—some three years, I believe—and during that time he and I had become good friends.

It was a shock, therefore, when, in the middle of his sermon, he suddenly stopped speaking, though it was clear that he was trying to, for his face twisted and his lips were alarmingly distorted. There was a tense silence throughout the chapel, and then suddenly the Archbishop slid to the floor.

He had had an apoplectic seizure and, within four days he was dead.

It was necessary to appoint another Archbishop of Canterbury and the choice should have been mine. I immediately thought of Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester, one of the most active men of the Church, handsome and vigorous, although not in such good health as he might have been.

Wiliam objected to Stillingfleet. He maintained he was not well enough for such responsibility and the arduous duties which would be expected of him. He would prefer Thomas Tenison and, of course, he had his way.

I was disappointed, but felt too tired to protest, but I suppose William would have had the man he wanted in any case.

However, Tenison was a good man; he had always taken a great interest in promoting the gospel. My father had said that he was dull and a man who had a horror of levity in any form. But perhaps that was not a fault in a priest.

Tenison was a popular choice, but I believed Stillingfleet would have been more so. There were many to remember that at the time of Nell Gwynne's death, Tenison had preached a sermon in praise of her which, in view of the life she had lived, seemed not exactly fitting. Then it had transpired that she had left £50 in her will to the priest who would make her the subject of such a sermon when she died.

I dare say the £50 had played its part in Tenison's willingness to preach that sermon, but I said that, in my opinion, he must have known of her repentance or he would not have been persuaded.

IT WAS CHRISTMAS
of the year 1694 and William was in England. We were to spend the season at Kensington Palace, which I think had become William's favorite of all our residences.

There would be as little ceremony as possible and I was glad of this, for I was feeling quite ill. I had a fit of the ague which I could not throw off. I knew in my heart that it was more than that. I was overcome with such listlessness that I had to force myself to keep aware of what was going on around me.

I was very anxious that none should know how I was feeling, but it was growing more and more difficult to disguise.

I was not old. I had been thirty-two last birthday. I could not forget Tilotson's sudden death. I would dream of him as he had stood in the pulpit and that sudden horror when his mouth twisted and he became incoherent. I remembered the bewilderment which followed.

It was terrible that death could come so suddenly without warning.

It was growing increasingly difficult for me to hide the state of my health. I was confined to my apartments for a few days, and of course rumors immediately began to be circulated.

I was so relieved when I felt well enough to venture out and I was amazed at the tumultuous welcome I received in the streets.