Winsor, Kathleen (125 page)

It
was not many days after that that the King summoned Clarendon to meet him at
Whitehall, even though the old man had been sick in bed and was living at his
house in Piccadilly where Charles and the council often met to save him the
journey to the Palace. Charles and the Duke of York went to the Chancellor in
his official apartments and there the three of them sat down to talk.

Charles
hated this moment, and he might have put it off much longer but that he knew it
was necessary. For unrest seethed through all the country and had come to a
focus in Parliament; he hoped to lull it again with the promise that all things
would be better once the national bogey-man was disposed of. Yet he had known
him long and been served by him faithfully. And for all that Clarendon often
treated him as though he were an unruly schoolboy, criticizing his friends and
his mistresses, telling him that he was not fit to govern, Charles knew that he
was the best minister he had had, or was likely to have. Once Clarendon was
gone he would be left surrounded by crafty and hostile and selfish men against
whose cleverness he must pit his own wits and win—or rule England no longer.

But
there was no help for it. Charles looked him straight in the eye. "My
lord, as you must be aware there is a general demand for new men in the
government. I'm sorry to say this to you, but I shall not be able to hold out
against them. They will want you to resign and I think you would serve your own
turn best by anticipating them."

It
was a moment before Clarendon answered. "Your Majesty can't be in
earnest?"

"I
am, Chancellor. I'm sorry, but I am. As you must know, I've not made this
decision suddenly—and I've not made it alone." He meant, obviously, that
hundreds and thousands of Englishmen were of the same opinion.

But
Clarendon chose to misinterpret. "Your Majesty refers, perhaps, to the
Lady?" He had never once called Barbara by any other name.

"Truthfully,
Chancellor, I do not," Charles answered softly, refusing to take offense.

"I
fear your Majesty's unworthy companions have had more influence than you are
yourself aware."

"Ods-fish,
my lord!" replied Charles with sudden impatience, his eyes flashing.
"I hope I'm not wholly deficient in mental capacity!"

Clarendon
was once more the schoolmaster. "No one appreciates better than I, Sire,
what your natural parts are—and it is for that reason I have long grieved to
watch your Majesty losing your time and England's in the company of such
creatures as the Lady and her—"

Charles
stood up. "My lord, I've heard you at length on this subject before! You
will excuse me if I decline to hear it again! I will send Secretary Morrice to
you for the Great Seal! Good-day!" Swiftly and without once glancing back
he walked from the room.

Clarendon
and York both watched him go. When the door had closed, their eyes slowly
veered around to meet. For a long moment they stared at each other, but neither
spoke. At last Clarendon bowed and slowly he crossed the room and went out into
the sunlight. Clustered there about the doorway, sitting on the grass, lounging
against the walls were a score or more of men and some women—the news had
spread that the Chancellor was with the King and they had gathered to watch him
come out. His eyes narrowed, swept over them, and then as heads turned and
mouths smiled he walked between them and on. He heard the murmurs begin to
rise.

He
had almost crossed the garden when all at once a gay feminine voice cried out
to him. "Goodbye, Chancellor!"

It
was Lady Castlemaine on the balcony above, surrounded by cages of
bright-feathered birds; on one side of her stood Lord Arlington and on the
other was Bab May. Though it was almost noon she had jumped out of bed when
they told her that he was coming and now she was fastening her dressing-gown as
she stood there above him, grinning, her red hair streaming loose.

"Goodbye,
Chancellor!" she repeated. "I trust we won't meet again!"

The
young men gathered below laughed, looking from him up to her and then back again.
For a moment Clarendon's eyes met hers in the first direct look he had ever
given her.

Now
very slowly he straightened his shoulders; his face was
tired and old,
marked by pain and disillusion—something that was both contempt and pity showed
there.

"Madame,"
he said quietly, but with perfect distinctness. "If you live, you will
grow old." Then he walked on, passing out of sight, but Barbara leaned
over the railing above, staring, dismayed.

The
young men were calling up their congratulations and compliments to her,
Arlington and Bab May were both talking —but she heard none of them. All of a
sudden she whirled around, pushing with her hands at the two men, and then she
fled back into her chamber and slammed shut the door. Swiftly she snatched up a
mirror, rushed with it to the light and stood staring at what she saw, her
fingers touching her cheeks, her mouth, trailing down over her breasts.

It
isn't true! she thought desperately. Damn that old bastard —of course it isn't
true! I'll never be old—I'll never look any different! Why, I'm only
twenty-seven and that isn't old. It's young—a woman's at her best at
twenty-seven!

But
she remembered a time, perhaps only yesterday, when twenty-seven had seemed
very old, when she had dreaded and avoided the thought of it. Oh, drat him! Why
did he say that! She felt sick and tired and full of resentful hatred. Somehow,
after all their years of despising each other he had had the last word. But
then a rebellious determination flared within her. Outside the men were waiting,
excited, triumphant—what did it matter what a stupid malicious old man had
said? He was gone now and she would never see him again. She flung away the
mirror and went to the door, threw it open again and walked out, smiling.

Throughout
the Palace there was fear and unrest. Men distrusted one another and those who
had seemed friends now scarcely spoke but passed in the corridors as though
neither friend nor foe existed. Whispers and murmurs leaped from mouth to
mouth, rumours swept along—some like vagrant breezes which merely touched and
were gone, others of such force that all seemed to bend and rock before them.
No one felt safe. The Chancellor was out, but they were not so well satisfied
as they had expected to be. Which one would go down next?

Many
said it would be Lady Castlemaine.

Barbara
heard the talk herself but shrugged nonchalantly and did not trouble herself
about it. She was perfectly confident that when and if that time came she would
be able to bully him as she had in the past. She had her comfortable
easy
life there at Court and did not intend that anyone should put her out of it.
And then one morning when she was in bed with Mr. Jermyn, Wilson burst
excitedly into the room.

"Your
Ladyship! Oh, your Ladyship—here he comes!"

Barbara
sat up and gave her hair an angry toss,
while Mr. Jermyn peeped inquisitively
over the top of the covers. "What the devil d'you mean coming in here? I
thought I—"

"But
it's the King! He's coming down the hall—he'll be here in just a moment."

"Oh,
my God! Keep 'im off a minute, will you! Jermyn, for Christ's sake—stop staring
like a stupid booby and get out of - here!"

Henry
Jermyn scrambled out of bed, grabbed up his breeches in one hand and his
periwig in the other and made for the door. Barbara lay down again and pulled
the blankets up to her chin. She could hear the spaniels as they came in at a
run and, just in the next room, the King's murmurous laugh and his voice as he
paused to speak to Mrs. Wilson. (There was gossip that he had recently begun an
affair with her pretty serving-woman, though Barbara had not yet been able to
make either of them admit it.) Opening one eye she saw, to her horror, that
Jermyn had left behind a shoe and quickly snatching it up she flung it into the
bed. Then she jerked the curtains to and lay down, composing her face to
pretend that she was sleeping.

She
heard the door of the bedroom open and in an instant a couple of the dogs had
leaped between the curtains and were prancing on her pillows, licking at her
face. Barbara muttered a curse and flung out one hand to ward them off just as
Charles pulled back the curtains and stood smiling down at her, not at all
fooled by the questioning sleepy look she gave him. He swooped the two dogs off
onto the floor.

"Good
morning, madame."

"Why—good
morning, Sire." She sat up, one hand in her hair, the other modestly
holding the sheets to her naked breasts. "What o'clock? Is it late?"

"Almost
noon."

Now
he reached down and took hold of the long blue ribbon on Mr. Jermyn's shoe and
very slowly he drew it out and held it up, looking at it quizzically, as though
not quite certain what it was. Barbara watched him with a kind of sullen
apprehension. He twirled it slowly about by the string, observing it carefully
on all sides.

"Well,"
he said finally, "so this is the latest divertissement for ladies of
quality—substituting the shoe for the gentleman. I've heard some say it
improves mightily upon nature. What's your opinion, madame?"

"My
opinion is that someone's been spying on me and sent you here to catch me!
Well—I'm quite alone, as you may see. Look behind the screens and drapes, pray,
to satisfy yourself."

Charles
smiled and tossed the shoe to the spaniels who seized upon it eagerly. Then he
sat down on the bed, facing her. "Let me give you some advice, Barbara. As
one old friend to another, I think that Jacob Hall would give you more
satisfaction for your time and money than Mr. Jermyn is likely to
do." Jacob
Hall was a handsome muscular acrobat who performed at the fairs and, sometimes,
at Court.

Barbara
retorted quickly. "I don't doubt that Jacob Hall is as fine a gentleman as
Moll Davis is a lady!" Moll Davis was his Majesty's newest mistress, an
actress in the Duke of York's Theatre.

"I
don't doubt it, either," he agreed. For a long moment they looked at each
other. "Madame," he said at last, "I believe that the time has
come for you and me to have a talk."

Something
inside her took a plunging drop. Then it hadn't been just gossip, after all.
Instantly her manner became re-respectful and polite, and almost flirtatious.
"Why, certainly, Your Majesty. What about?" Her violet eyes were wide
and innocent.

"I
think we need pretend no longer. When a man and woman who are married have
ceased to love each other there is nothing for them but to find entertainment
elsewhere. Fortunately, it's otherwise with us."

That
was the boldest statement of his feelings he had ever made to her. Sometimes,
in anger, he had spoken sharply, but she had always assured herself that he had
meant it no more than she meant what she said when angry. And she refused to
believe even now that he could actually be serious.

"Do
you mean, Sire," she asked him softly, "that you don't love me any
more?"

He
gave her a faint smile. "Why is it a woman will always ask that, no matter
how well she knows the answer?"

She
stared at him, sick in the pit of her stomach. The very posture of his body
showed boredom and weariness, his face had the finality of a man who
understands his feelings perfectly. Was it possible? Was he really and truly
tired of her? She had had warning enough for the past four years, both from him
and from others, but she had ignored it, refusing to believe that he could fall
out of love with her as he had fallen out of love with other women.

"What
do you intend to do?" Her voice was now just a whisper.

"That's
what I've come to discuss with you. Since we don't love each other any
longer—"

"Oh,
but Sire!" she protested swiftly. "I love
you!
It's just that
you—"

He
gave her a look of frank disgust. "Barbara, for the love of God spare me
that. I suppose you think I've pretended to myself that you were in love with
me. Well—I haven't. I was beyond the age of such illusions when I met you. And
if I loved you once, which I suppose I did, I don't any longer. I think it's
time we make a new arrangement."