Winsor, Kathleen (130 page)

Other
events, less sensational but of more importance, were happening at the same
time. Clarendon, though much against his will, had finally been forced by the
King to flee the country, and all his daughter's enemies took gleeful advantage
of his disgrace to slight her. But Anne bore their envious contempt with
hauteur and indifference, and managed to hold her own court together by a
superior cleverness and determination. She told herself that these fools and
their jealous pettifogging could mean nothing to her, for one day a child of
hers would sit upon England's throne—with every passing year the Queen's
barrenness made it more sure that she was right.

When
Clarendon had gone his government was replaced by the Cabal, so called because
the first letters of their five names spelled the word. It was made up of Sir
Thomas Clifford, the one honest gentleman among them and hence suspected of
wearing a false front; Arlington, who was his friend but jealous of him;
Buckingham, Ashley, and Lauderdale. They shared a common hatred of Clarendon
and fear of his possible return to power, and an almost equal hatred of York.
Otherwise they were divided among themselves. Each distrusted and was afraid of
every other—and the King trusted none of them, but was satisfied that at last
he had a government which was completely his tool. He was cleverer than any of
them, or all of them together.

And
so they set out to govern the nation.

England
signed an alliance with Holland, by means of which Charles succeeded in
compromising the Dutch so that when he was ready to fight them again they would
have no chance
of getting France to help them out. He intended, in fact, to have France on his
side in the next war and his correspondence with his sister was now directed
toward that end. The Dutch pact, together with secret treaties signed recently
with both France and Holland, had given England the balance of power in
Europe—and though accomplished by the grossest political chicanery it was
typical of the King's methods. For his charm and easy-going nature were a
convenient shield, hiding from all but the most astute the fact that he was a
cynical, selfish, and ruthlessly practical opportunist.

It
was the Earl of Rochester who said that the three businesses of the age were
politics, women, and drinking—and the first two, at least, were never quite
separate.

Charles
intensely disliked having a woman meddle in state affairs, but he found it
impossible to keep them out. Accordingly he accepted, as he usually did, what
he could not change. For as soon as a woman had attracted his attention or was
known to be his mistress she was besieged on all sides—as the Queen never
was—by petitions for help, offers of money in return for bespeaking a favour,
proposals to ally herself with one or another of the Court factions. Amber had
been involved in a dozen different projects before she was at Whitehall a
fortnight. And as the months went by she wound herself tighter and closer into
the web.

Buckingham,
from the night of her presentation at Court, had seemed friendly—at least he
always sided with her against Lady Castlemaine. Amber still mistrusted and
despised him, but she took care he should not know it, for though he would make
only a dubious friend he was sure to be a dangerous enemy. And she thought it
less to her disadvantage to have him as the former. But for several months they
made no demands upon each other, and neither made any test of the other's good
faith.

Then,
one morning in late March, he paid her an unexpected call. "Well, my
lord?" said Amber, somewhat surprised. "What brings
you
abroad
so early?" It was not quite nine, and his Grace was seldom to be seen out of
bed before midday.

"Early?
This isn't early for me—it's late. I've not yet been abed. Have you a glass of
sack? I'm damned dry."

Amber
sent for some sharp white wine and anchovies and while they waited for it to be
brought the Duke flung himself into a chair next the fireplace and began to
talk.

"I've
just come from Moor Fields. Gad, you never saw anything like it! The 'prentices
have pulled down a couple of houses, Mother Cresswell is yowling like a woman
run mad, and the whores are throwing chamber-pots at the 'prentices' heads.
They say they're coming next to pull down the biggest whorehouse of 'em
all." He gave a wave of his hand. "Whitehall."

Amber
laughed and poured out a glass of wine for each of
them. "And
I doubt not they'll uncover more strumpets here than they'd ever find in Moor
Fields."

Buckingham
reached into a coat-pocket and took out a wrinkled sheet of paper. It was
printed in careless uneven lines, the fresh black ink was smeared and several
thumb-prints showed. He handed it to her.

"Have
you seen this?"

Amber
read it over hastily.

It
bore the title, "Petition of the Poor Whores to my Lady Castlemaine";
and that was what it pretended to be, though judging by the spelling and
satirical content it was almost certainly the work of some person living close
to the Court. In coarse broad terms it called upon Barbara, as the chief whore
in England, to come to the aid of the beleaguered profession she had helped to
glorify. Amber realized at once that this must be another of the Duke's
whimsical inventions to plague his cousin, for she knew that they had been
quarreling again, and she was both pleased to have Barbara humiliated and
relieved that she herself had escaped.

She
smiled at him, handing it back. "Has she seen it yet?"

"If
she hasn't, she soon will. They're all over London. Vendors are hawking 'em
outside the 'Change and on every street corner. I saw a tiler laugh to read it
till he almost fell off the roof he was laying. Now, what kind of sorry devil
would plague her Ladyship with such a libel as that?"

Amber
gave him a wide-eyed look. "Lord, your Grace! Who, indeed? I can't
think—can you?" She sipped her wine, savouring the salt taste of the
anchovies.

For
a moment they looked at each other, and then both of them grinned.
"Well," said his Grace, "it's no matter, now it's been done. I
suppose it's come to your ears his Majesty is making her a present of Berkshire
House?"

Amber's
black eyebrows twisted. "Yes, of course. She makes mighty sure it comes to
everyone's ears, I'll warrant you. And what's more, she says he's going to
create a duchy for her."

"Your
Ladyship seems annoyed."

"Me—annoyed?
Oh, no, my lord," protested Amber with polite sarcasm. "Why should
I
be annoyed, pray?"

"No
reason at all, madame. No reason at all." He looked expansive and pleased
with himself, enjoying the warmth from the fire, the good wine in his stomach,
and some private knowledge of his own.

"I'd
be much less annoyed if he was giving Berkshire House to
me!
And as for
a duchy—there's nothing on earth I want so much!"

"Don't
worry. One day you'll have it—when he wants to get rid of you, as someday he
will."

She
looked at him for a moment in silence. "Do you mean to say, my lord—"
she began at last.

"I
do, madame. She's through here at Whitehall. She's done
for good and
all. I wouldn't give a fig for the interest she's got left at Court."

But
Amber was still skeptical. For eight years Barbara had ruled the Palace,
interfered in state business, bullied her friends and tormented her enemies.
She seemed as permanent and inalterable as the very bricks of the building.

"Well,"
said Amber. "I hope you're right. But only last night I saw her in the
Drawing-Room and she said that Berkshire House should be proof to all the world
his Majesty still loves her."

Buckingham
gave a snort. "Still loves her! He doesn't even lie with her any more. But
of course she hopes we'll all believe her tale. For if the world thinks the
King still loves her—why, that's as good as if he did, isn't it? But I know
better. I know a thing or two the rest of you don't."

Amber
did not doubt that, for his Grace had incalculable means of keeping himself
well-posted. Little passed at Whitehall, of small or great importance, which
escaped his drag-net of spies and informers.

"Whatever
your Grace knows," said Amber, "I hope is true."

"True?
Of course it's true! Let me tell you something, madame—I'm the means by which
her Ladyship's complete and final downfall was accomplished." He seemed
smug now and satisfied with himself, as though he had performed an act of unselfish
service to the nation.

Amber
looked
at
him narrowly. "I don't understand you, sir."

"Then
I'll speak more plainly. I knew Old Rowley's wish to be rid of her—but I knew
also the kind of bargain she'd try to drive. It was very simple: I merely told
him that the love-letters she's been threatening to publish were burnt many
years ago."

"And
he believed you?" Amber was now inclined to think that he had ruined
Barbara, duped the King, and was maneuvering to take some advantage of her.

"He
not only believed me—it's the truth. I saw 'em burnt myself. In fact, I advised
her to do it!" Suddenly he slapped his knee and laughed, but Amber
continued to watch him carefully, not at all convinced. "She's in a
blazing fury. She says she'll have my head for that one day. Well, she can have
it if she can get it—but Old Rowley's mighty well pleased with me just now—and
I've got a mind to die with my head on. Let her scheme and plan how she may—her
fangs have been drawn and she's helpless. You're looking somewhat cynical,
madame. It can't be you think I'm lying?"

"I
can believe you told him about the letters—but I can't believe he won't take
her back again; he always has before. Why should he give her that house and
promise her a duchy if he had done with her? It runs through the galleries he
even had to borrow money to buy Berkshire."

"I'll
tell you why, madame. He did it because he's softhearted. When he's had all he
wants of a woman he can never
bring himself to throw her aside. Oh, no. He must
always deal fairly with each of 'em, recognize their brats whether they're his
or not, pay 'em off with great sums of money to keep 'em from being slighted by
the malicious world. Well, madame—I should think this would be good news to
you. It was never my opinion you and Barbara Palmer had overmuch fondness for
each other."

"I
hate her! But after all the years she's been in power—I can scarce believe
it—"

"She
can scarce believe it herself. But she'll get accustomed to it before long. I
was tired of her vapourings—and so I took steps to be rid of her. She'll hang
on here at Whitehall, perhaps for years, but she'll never count for anything
again. For once Old Rowley is thoroughly tired of anyone, whether man or woman,
he has no further use for 'em. It's our best protection against the Chancellor.
Now, madame, it's occurred to me that this leaves a place wide open for some
clever woman to step into—"

Amber
returned his steady stare. No ally of Buckingham's was much to be envied. The
Duke engaged in politics for nothing but his own amusement. He had no
principles and no serious purpose but followed only his temporary whims,
rejecting friendship, honour, and morality. He was bound to no one and to
nothing. But in spite of all that he had a great name, a fortune still one of
the largest in England, and high popularity with the rich merchants, the
Commons, and the people of London. Even more persuasive, he had a streak of
vindictive malice which, though not always persistent, could do vast damage at
one impulsive stroke. Amber had long ago made up her mind about him.

"And
suppose someone does take her Ladyship's place?" she inquired softly.

"Someone
will, I'll pass my word for that. Old Rowley's been governed by a woman since
he first took suck from his wetnurse. And this time, madame, the woman might be
you. There's no one in England just now with so happy an opportunity. Those
gentlemen who are keeping company with the Duchess of Richmond these days are
but washing the blackamoor. She'll never please his Majesty long—that
empty-headed giggling baggage. I'll venture my neck on it. Now, I'm an old dog
at this, madame, and understand these matters very well—and I've come to offer
my services in your behalf."