The Three Crowns epub Read online

  “My cousin Barbara is more important than the Queen.” “My cousin Barbara only has to say what she wants and it is hers.” “The King loves my cousin Barbara more than anyone on earth.” “My cousin Barbara is really Queen, not that dull old Catherine.”

  Mary did not believe that. She loved her Aunt Catherine who was always kind to her; and she loved Uncle Charles; and when she saw them together they always seemed to be fond of each other and no one ever suggested—certainly not Charles—that Catherine was not the Queen.

  “You are always talking of your cousin Barbara Villiers,” said Mary, turning back to the window.

  “Well, would you rather talk of Margaret Denham who was killed because of your father?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You are a baby. You don’t know anything. You don’t really know why everyone is so glum today. All you know is that it’s because it’s the thirtieth. It’s silly anyway to pretend to be sad. It was all a long, long time ago. Before I was born.”

  “What was?”

  “The execution. That’s what they’re supposed to be remembering. But they are only really pretending to be sad.”

  “When was it?”

  “Don’t you know?” This was one of Elizabeth’s favorite remarks. She could never tell anything without prefacing her revelation with an incredulous observation on one’s ignorance. On this occasion Mary was too curious to pretend.

  “No, I don’t know,” she said.

  “They took him to the banquetting hall and chopped off his head.”

  “Who?”

  “Charles the First. Your grandfather, of course.”

  “Who did?”

  “The Parliament, of course.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “They did.” Elizabeth smiled knowledgeably. “It’s what they do to Kings and Queens when they don’t like them,” she said maliciously.

  Elizabeth knew when to make an exit. She retired, leaving a very uneasy little girl kneeling at the window seat. There was no pleasure now in looking out of the windows and trying to count the snowflakes. Every time a bell tolled she shivered. The world had become very insecure. Mary’s imagination was showing her her grandfather, who looked like her father or her Uncle Charles, only much older; his head was not on his shoulders. It rolled in the snow making it red instead of white. She pictured the crowds watching and they were whispering about her grandfather and her father. Margaret Denham had died because of her father—her good kind father who would never hurt anyone. What did it mean? There was so much in the world that she could not understand and Elizabeth was telling her that the world could be a frightening place.

  A terrible place indeed where the people cut off the heads of Kings.

  Elizabeth’s voice kept coming back to her.

  “It’s what they do to Kings and Queens—if they don’t like them.”

  James Scott, who had been known as Fitzroy and Crofts and was now the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, rode from Whitehall to Richmond on his way to visit his uncle the Duke of York, whom he would always loathe because he believed that but for him the King might have been persuaded to legitimize him.

  The King had said: “Now, Jemmy, ride over to Richmond where your uncle James is with his family. Make yourself pleasant. I like not quarrels in families.”

  Monmouth had scowled; he knew his father was very indulgent toward him and he exploited this; but there were occasions when Charles reminded him that he was the King and then Monmouth knew it was wiser to obey.

  So here he was, riding over to Richmond, in order to make himself pleasant to his uncle and his fat wife.

  There was one burning passion in Monmouth’s life and that was to be King of England. It seemed so cruel to him that merely because his father had omitted to marry his mother he should be set aside. Why should James’s children—those two girls and the sickly boys, whom everyone said would never reach maturity—come before him, simply because their father had married their mother. That marriage might so easily not have taken place, but Anne Hyde had been more fortunate than Lucy Walters.

  There were some who whispered to him that there had actually been a marriage—those he called his friends. Yet his father had not denied it but considering how at one time he had longed to make him legitimate, would he not have been delighted to admit he had married Lucy Walters if this had been the case?

  Monmouth believed he would have made a perfect Prince of Wales. The King doted on him, forgave him his misdeeds, had bestowed on him titles and a rich heiress. In fact, Charles had given him everything except the one thing he wanted: to be heir to the crown.

  People bowed to him as he passed. He was such a handsome fellow, so charming, so personable. The gay son of a gay king. His spirits rose for he was certain that the people wished he was Prince of Wales too. The Duke of York was not popular—or at least not as his father was; and who would better follow his father than his father’s son?

  Of course life in every other respect was good. He was eighteen, rich, honored wherever he went, the companion of the King, flattered, attractive to women; and although he was not clever or witty like the King and his friends, they excused that on account of his youth. He was clearly the King’s son; tall, dark, yet he had inherited his mother’s beauty; what he had taken from his father was a love of racing and women; he was no coward; he was generous. No one could doubt he was the son of his father.

  And now to Richmond. On what excuse? He was not going to let James think that he had come over to curry favor. What did he care for James? James was not very popular at the moment. The Denham affair was still remembered and whenever it was talked of James’s name was always mentioned.

  He would talk of the ballet he was planning for the King’s pleasure and tell them he hoped the Duke and the Duchess would take part, slyly suggesting the part of some sylph for the Duchess. That would be a good joke against her. As for James he should have the part of a libertine with sly references to his prowess which he would not see but the clever Court wits would soon understand.

  When he reached Richmond Palace he did not ask to be conducted to the Duke of York’s presence. It occurred to him that James might refuse to see him, or even make him wait. The Duke of Monmouth would accept no such insult from the Duke of York. Therefore he waved aside the Duke’s servants and said he was in no hurry. Thus, left to himself, he came to the children’s apartments and wandering in found Mary and Anne were with the Villiers girls. It appeared that the eldest of these girls was in charge. The Duke was not attracted by her; she was too plain, and there was a slight squint in her eyes. But his cousins were charming, particularly Mary, who rose at the sight of him and flushing a little came forward. It irritated him that her rank should be considered higher than his when she was merely the daughter of the Duke of York, and he was the son of the King. Yet because her father had married her mother.… It was the old complaint which made him almost sick with anger.

  “It is my cousin!” cried Mary, her dark almond-shaped eyes betraying her pleasure. She was an enchanting child and Monmouth, who always found beauty irresistible, knelt, and taking her hand kissed it.

  “Come here, Anne,” commanded Mary, and her sister waddled over to him. She was remarkably plump and even as she greeted her cousin she was sucking a sweet.

  “I trust I see you well,” he said.

  “We are well thank you, cousin,” answered Mary gravely. “And we trust you are also.”

  Elizabeth Villiers was pushing forward. A pox on her! thought Monmouth. These Villiers give themselves too many airs.

  “I was passing,” he said pointedly, “and I thought it would be pleasant to call on my cousins.”

  Elizabeth looked angry, her sisters watched her, ready to take their cue from her. Mary was not one to harbor grudges, but since Elizabeth had worried her with references to her father and grandfather she was glad to be relieved of her company; and she could not resist a glance over her shoulder a
s Monmouth took her hand and that of Anne and led them to a window seat.

  Monmouth, ever conscious of his birth, was ready on every occasion to assert his royalty and now implied that he regarded the Villiers girls merely as attendants on the King’s nieces. It was an insult for which Elizabeth would never forgive him.

  As Mary sat on the window seat with Anne, their cousin between them, she noticed that the Villiers girls had disappeared.

  “When are you coming to Court?” asked Monmouth.

  Mary said that neither her father nor her mother had told her.

  “Do they have plenty to eat at Court?” asked Anne, and Monmouth described the Whitehall banquets for Anne’s delight.

  Then he turned to Mary. “But you would rather dance, I’ll swear.”

  Mary admitted it.

  “Then you must come to Court and we will dance together. I will tell them to devise a ballet in which you shall join.”

  “Oh my lord Monmouth,” cried Mary, “that would be wonderful.”

  “I’m your cousin,” he replied. “You should call me Jemmy, as my father does.”

  “Cousin Jemmy,” repeated Mary looking happily into his face, which she thought was the most beautiful she had ever seen. He was grown up, yet not old. His skin was fresh and smooth, his eyes flashing and deeply set. He was kind, too.

  “Always at your service,” he said, standing up and bowing. Then he took her hand and made her dance a few steps.

  “You would be a good dancer,” he told her. “You must ask your father to have you taught.”

  “We are to be soon.”

  He whispered: “Before your sister grows too fat.”

  “I am always telling her she eats too much,” Mary whispered back.

  They laughed together; it was so pleasant sharing a joke with Cousin Jemmy.

  He showed her how to dance as they did in the ballet while Anne remained on the window seat; she was not interested in dancing; nor was she so taken with Cousin Jemmy who had brought her no sweetmeats when all the visitors who wished to please her brought them for her.

  As for Mary she clearly adored her cousin and he was delighted with her. She was a pretty creature, so innocent and unaware of her rank. He was certain that if he told her she took precedence over him she would not know to what he referred, and when he explained, assure him that he was certainly more important than she was. She soothed his mood, and to his surprise he found that his visit to the Duke of York’s house in Richmond was more pleasant than he had believed it could be.

  As they danced and smiled at each other Mary suddenly grew serious. He asked her if anything troubled her and after a moment’s hesitation she said: “Cousin Jemmy, could you tell me about my grandfather?”

  He looked at her in some astonishment. Then he said: “Oh, he lives in France now. He felt it was best to leave England for a while.”

  “I don’t mean Grandfather Clarendon but Grandfather Charles the Martyr. They cut off his head didn’t they … because they didn’t like him?”

  “Some didn’t like him. It was the wicked Parliament men. They cut off his head and afterward were made to wish they hadn’t.”

  “They were very wicked, were they?”

  “Very wicked.”

  “Cousin Jemmy, no one will cut off Uncle Charles’s head … or my father’s?”

  Cousin Jemmy laughed, not as Elizabeth laughed, but to show that what she suggested was not possible. She felt very relieved.

  “Lady Denham died because of my father …” she began.

  “Why,” said Jemmy, “you have been listening to the scandalmongers. There are always plenty of them about. The thing to do is to let what they say go into one ear and out of the other.” As he said this he was laughing; and somehow only to look at Cousin Jemmy’s kind face—which must also be the most handsome in the world—was a comfort.

  Mary found that it didn’t matter what Elizabeth said about kings or her father; Elizabeth was not important now that Cousin Jemmy was her friend, and that made her very happy. Whenever she was frightened or bewildered she would remember Jemmy; perhaps she could tell him what puzzled her and she was sure he would always be able to explain it.

  Jemmy took her hands and twirled her round; she was laughing and a little breathless but so happy.

  She was thinking how different everything seemed since he had come; as for Monmouth, he was asking himself why they had not married him to Mary. If Charles had no legitimate heirs and James’s sickly boys died, this girl could one day be Queen. If he had been her husband would they have been ready to waive his illegitimacy?

  This thought made him warm toward the enchanting little creature who so adored him.

  When James, Duke of York, entered the apartment, he saw the Duke of Monmouth dancing with his daughter, and Mary so evidently enjoying the boy’s company. There was nothing which could have endeared him more to his nephew than this friendliness toward his favorite daughter.

  Monmouth felt that visit to Richmond was well worthwhile. Effortlessly he had made peace with James; and it was pleasant to be adored by the Lady Mary of York who could, in certain circumstances, become the Queen of England.

  The Duchess of York lay on her bed, where she now spent a good deal of her time. Many thought her indolent physically, although mentally alert. She was growing more and more unwieldy and she knew that she would continue so unless she cut down the consumption of sweet things. A cup of chocolate! How soothing to the nerves! How comforting the hot sweet drink which helped to divert the thoughts from the dull nagging pain which she was feeling more and more frequently in her left breast.

  She was afraid of that pain; it had been slight at first—just a twinge which she had felt for the first time during a Court Levee; she had forgotten it until a month or so later when she had felt it again. Now scarcely a day passed when she was not given a twinge to remind her that all was not well.

  When one was young it was natural to believe that one would live forever. Death seemed so far away as to be an event which overtook others; but recurring pain brought death nearer, and to contemplate death meant that one grew more and more concerned with the hereafter. She was beginning to believe that the Catholic Faith was the true one.

  For this reason she often slipped out of the Palace of Whitehall or Richmond or wherever she should happen to be to visit Father Hunt, a Franciscan who talked with her, gently and persuasively and after each meeting with the friar she felt closer to Catholicism.

  It was dangerous. The people of England were firmly Protestant. The memory of the Smithfield fires was too recent; and some old men had heard their fathers talk of those days when the island had been under the shadow of an attack from Spain, when it had been feared that the ships of the Armada, which were being assembled to attack England, came not only with guns and weapons of war but the rack and all the Inquisition’s instruments of torture. “Never shall the Inquisition come to these shores!” said the English; “The Church of England for us. No popery!” The Sovereign of England was head of the English Church and the English wanted no direction from Rome.

  It was a dangerous matter therefore when the wife of the man who might well be the King of England should become a Catholic. Yet, if one believed one had discovered the truth, what was to be done? Worship in secret was the answer—as thousands were doubtless doing at this time.

  A difficult problem, but at least one which turned her mind from the nagging pain in her breast.

  She wanted to talk with James of her religious feelings and wanted to share this new experience with him, for she believed that he, like herself, would find much to attract him in Rome. But she was uncertain and this was a dangerous matter.

  Her women came in to help her to bed. Indolently she allowed them to disrobe her and put on her night clothes. She lay lazily on her bed when they had left her, thinking of the meeting with Father Hunt tomorrow, and the points she would raise with him; and at the same time hoping that the pain would not begin for she fanc
ied it was growing more acute.

  She slept and dreamed that a woman had come into her room, a shadowy form which glided to the bed and looked down at her. In the woman’s hand was a cup of chocolate.

  Anne rose on her elbows and cried: “You are Margaret Denham risen from the grave.”

  With that the figure disappeared and Anne was staring into the darkness not sure whether she had been dreaming this or whether the apparition had actually been in the room. It was so vivid that she made up her mind that she had actually been visited by Margaret Denham’s ghost.

  She felt the heat on her chin and putting her fingers to it found they were wet.

  She began calling for candles and in a short time several of her women were hurrying into the room. They gasped when they saw the blood on her face.

  “Your Grace, what has happened?” cried one.

  “Margaret Denham has been in this room,” answered Anne.

  “She … has harmed Your Grace?”

  Seeing that there was blood on her sheets Anne recoiled from it in dismay.

  By this time the commotion had awakened the Duke in the nearby chamber and he came hurrying in and when he saw the blood on the Duchess’s face he cried out in dismay and taking her in his arms demanded to know what had happened.

  “Margaret Denham came to me. This is the result.”

  The Duke called for more candles, and saw that the blood was coming from the Duchess’s mouth. When closer examination proved that she had bitten her tongue, there was great relief in the apartments.

  “It was the fright, Your Grace,” said one of her women.

  “Her Grace has had a bad dream,” said the Duke. “Awaken one of the physicians and send him here.”

  When the doctor came he was able to assure the Duke and Duchess that no harm was done; she had bitten her tongue, which would be a little sore, particularly when hot food was taken, but it would quickly heal.