A Health Unto His Majesty

FIVE

Alas, as Catherine’s health improved the King’s devotion waned. It was not that he was less affectionate when they were together; it was merely that they were less frequently together. Irresistible attractions drew him away from Catherine’s side.

Barbara had been delivered of a fine son whom she called Henry. The King had refused to own him as his child, yet Catherine knew that he often visited Barbara’s nurseries to see those children whom he did accept, and it had been reported to her that he was mightily wistful when he regarded the new baby, and that Barbara was hopeful.

What a cruel fate this was! Barbara had child after child; in fact it seemed that no sooner was one born than another was on the way; and yet Catherine, who so longed for a child, who so needed a child, had lost hers and she was so weak after her long illness that it was doubtful whether she would be fit to have another for some time.

It was a source of grief and humiliation to her to know that Barbara championed her, so little did the woman regard her as a rival. She had heard that Barbara had prayed fervently for her recovery—not out of love for her, of course, but because as a Queen she was so ineffectual that there was not the slightest need to be jealous of her.

The woman whom all were watching now, some with envy, some with speculation, was Frances Stuart. The King was becoming more and more enamored every day, and Frances’s determination not to become his mistress, while it might have seemed laudable to some, was ominous to others. The affair of the calash seemed significant.

This beautiful glass coach, the first of its kind ever seen in England, was a French innovation which Louis’s ambassador, hoping to ingratiate himself and his country with the King, had presented to Charles. The entire Court was enchanted by the dazzling vehicle and, as Charles gave most of his presents to one of his mistresses—usually Barbara—it was Lady Castlemaine who immediately declared her intention of being the first to be seen in it.

Barbara visualized the scene—herself ostentatiously cutting a fine figure in Hyde Park with the crowd looking on. They would have heard of the presentation of the calash, and they would realize when they saw her within it that her favor was as high as ever with the King.

There had been a reconciliation between Charles and her, for, although the King was in love with Frances Stuart, he could not remain faithful to a woman who denied him her favors, and he was still supping now and then at Barbara’s house, although often it was necessary for her to have Frances as a guest in order to ensure the King’s attendance.

Barbara was pregnant again, and although the King had not yet accepted Henry, she was certain that he would do so ere long, and she assured him that the child she now carried was undoubtedly his.

It was evening of the day when Gramont had presented the glass coach, and the King and Barbara were at last alone. Barbara, remembering how soulful Charles had looked while he watched the simpering little Stuart building her card houses after she had insisted on the company’s joining her in a madcap and very childish game of blindman’s buff, had determined to show the Court and the world that her hold on the King was still firm.

“Tomorrow,” she announced, “the calash should be shown to the people.”

“Ah, yes,” said the King absently. He was wondering whether Frances had seemed a little more yielding this evening. When he had kissed her during the game of blindman’s bluff she had not turned away; she had just laughed on a note of shrill reproof which might not have been reproof after all.

“You know how they hate things to be hidden from them, and they will have heard of the calash. They will expect to see it in Hyde Park as soon as the weather permits.”

“’Tis true,” said the King.

“I would wish to be the first to ride in it.”

“I hardly think that would be meet,” said the King.

“Not meet! In what way?”

“The Queen has said that she would wish to ride in it with my brother’s wife. She says that is what the people will expect.”

“The people will expect no such thing.”

“You are right,” said the King ruefully. “And that points to our bad conduct in the past.”

“Bad conduct!” snorted Barbara. “The people want to see the calash, not the Queen.”

“Then since it is the calash they wish to see, and the purpose of the ride is to please them, it matters not who rides in it. Therefore the Queen and the Duchess of York should do so.”

Barbara stood up, her eyes flashing. “Everything I ask is denied me. I wonder that you can treat me thus!”

“I have always thought the truth much more interesting than falsehood,” said the King. “You know you have been denied very little, and it is tiring to hear you assert the contrary.”

Barbara’s common sense warned her. Her position with the King was not what it had been. Her great sensuality could stand her in good stead only for the immediate future. She knew that Frances Stuart had first place in the King’s heart. But it maddened her now to think that it might have been Frances herself who had suggested that the Queen should be the first to ride in the calash. The sly creature was forever declaring her devotion to the Queen; it was part of her campaign, like as not.

But Barbara was determined to ride in the calash.

She cried: “So you are tired of me! You have taken my youth … all the best years of my life … and now that I have born so many children …”

“Of whose parentage we must ever remain in doubt.”

“They are your children. Yours … yours! It is no use denying your share in the making of them. I have devoted my life to you. You are the King, and I have sought to serve you …”

“Barbara, I beg of you, make no scenes now. I have had enough of them.”

“Do not think to silence me thus. I am to have our child … our child, sir. And if you do not let me ride first in the calash I shall miscarry this child. Aye, and all the world shall know it was through the ill treatment I received from its father.”

“They would not be very impressed,” said Charles lightly.

“Do not dare to laugh at me, or I shall kill myself … as well as the child.”

“Nay, Barbara. You love yourself too well.”

“Oh, will I not!” She looked about her and called wildly: “A knife! A knife! Bring me a knife. Mrs. Sarah! Do you hear me?”

The King went to her swiftly and placed his hand over her mouth. “You will make it impossible for me to visit you,” he said.

“If you did not, I should make you repent it!”

“I shall repent nothing. It is only the righteous who repent.”

“You will. I swear you will. All the world shall know of what has been between us.”

“Calm yourself, Barbara. The world already knows half and the other half it will guess.”

“Don’t dare talk to me thus.”

“I am weary of quarrels.”

“Yes, you are weary of everything but that smug-faced idiot. Do you imagine that she would interest you beyond a week? Even her simple mind realizes that. It is why she is so simperingly virtuous. She knows full well that once she gave way you’d be sick to death of her simplemindedness. Simpleminded! She is half-witted. ‘Play a game of blindman’s buff, sire?’” squealed Barbara and curtsied, viciously demure. “‘I do like a nice game of blindman’s buff, because I can squeal so prettily, and say Nay, nay, nay when Your Majesty chases me!’ Bah!”

In spite of his annoyance, Charles could not help laughing, for her mimicry, though cruelly exaggerated, had a certain element of truth in it.

“Charles,” she wheedled, “what is it to you? Pray you let me ride in the calash … just once; and after that let the Queen and the Duchess take the air in Hyde Park. You know the people would rather see me than the Queen or the Duchess. Look at me….” She tossed back her hair and drew herself to her full magnificent height. “Would the calash not become me, think you? ’Twould be a pity to let it take its first airing in the Park without the most becoming cargo.”

“Barbara, you would wheedle the crown off my head.”

And I would, she thought, but for my cursed husband! And while I am fettered to him, Miss Stuart stays coy and hopeful; and doubtless, in spite of all her piety and friendship for the Queen, she prays for Catherine’s death.

Still, the calash, not the crown, was the immediate problem, and she believed that Charles was about to give way. She knew the signs so well.

Abruptly she stopped speaking of it and gave herself up to passion with such abandonment that she could not fail to win his response.

But when he left her in the early morning his promises about the calash were vague, and she was faintly worried.

Many heard the loud quarrels between Charles and Barbara. Now the Court was saying that Barbara had declared her intention of miscarrying the child—which she insisted was the King’s—providing she was not the first to ride in the calash.

The Queen heard this and remembered with humiliation her request to the King that she and the Duchess should be the first to use it.

What mattered it, thought Catherine, who rode in the coach? It was not the actual riding which was significant.

The King put off the decision. He wanted to please the Queen, yet he was afraid of Barbara. He could not be sure what she would do. She made wild threats; she was always declaring that she would strangle this child, murder that servant, if her whims were not satisfied. So far as he knew, she had not carried out these threats to kill, but her temper was violent and he could not be sure to what madness it would lead her.

The Court sniggered about the wrangle concerning the calash. The country heard and murmured about it. It was a great joke—the sort of joke with which the King so often amused his people. But the calash was not seen in the Park, simply because the King did not wish to offend the Queen and dared not offend Barbara.

A few evenings later the King was supping in the apartments of Frances Stuart, and as she was sitting at the table—with him beside her—Frances’s beautiful blue eyes were fixed on the flimsy structure of cards before her, while the King’s passionate dark ones were on Frances. She turned to him suddenly and said: “Your Majesty has often declared that you would wish to give me something which I dearly desired.”

“You have but to ask, as you know,” said the King, “and it is yours.”

Everyone was listening. All were deciding: This is the end of her resistance. Frances has decided to become the King’s mistress.

“I desire to be the first to ride in the calash,” said Frances.

The King hesitated. This was unexpected. He was beginning to wish he had never been presented with the thing.

He was aware of Barbara’s burning blue eyes on him; he saw the danger signals there.

Frances continued to smile artlessly and continued: “Your Majesty, the coach should be seen. The people long to see it. It would greatly please me to be the first to ride in it.”

Barbara stepped up to the table. With an impatient gesture she knocked down the house of cards. Frances gave a little cry of dismay, but the eyes which looked straight into Barbara’s were pert and defiant.

Barbara said in a low voice: “I have told the King that if I am not the first to ride in the coach I shall miscarry his child.”

Frances smiled. “It is a pity,” she said. “And if I am not the first to ride in the coach I shall never be with child.”

It was a challenge. There were three contestants now. The Court laughed more merrily than before.

They were sure it would be a battle between Barbara and Frances.

The King, faintly exasperated by this public display of rivalry, said: “This calash seems to have turned all heads. Where is my lord Buckingham? Ah, my lord Duke, sing to us … sing, I pray you. Sing of love and hate, but sing not of coaches!”

So Buckingham sang; and Barbara’s blazing eyes were fixed on the slender, youthful figure of Frances Stuart while he did so.

The battle was over.

The Queen sat sadly in her apartments. She almost wishes that she had not recovered from her illness. She mused: While I was ill he loved me. If I had died then I should have died happy. He wept for me; his hair turned gray for me; it was he who smoothed my pillows. I remember his remorse for all the jealousy I had been made to suffer on his account. He was truly sorry. Yet, now that I am well, I suffer as I ever did.

Barbara’s jealousy took another form.

She strode up and down her apartment, kicking everything in her path out of the way. No servants would come near her except Mrs. Sarah, and even she took good care to keep well out of reach.

All thought Barbara might do herself some injury; many hoped she would.

In her rage she tore her bodice into shreds; she pulled her hair; she called on God to witness her humiliation.

Meanwhile Frances Stuart was riding serenely in Hyde Park, and the calash made a very pleasant setting for such a beautiful jewel.

The people watched her go by and declared that never—even in those days when Lady Castlemaine had been at the height of her beauty—had there been such a lovely lady at the Court.

Catherine, watching the game Charles played with the women of his Court, often wondered whether he were capable of any deep feeling. Barbara took lovers shamelessly yet remained the King’s mistress; in fact, he seemed quite indifferent to her amatory adventures which were the scandal of the Court. He seemed only to care that she received him whenever he was ready to visit her.

Frances, after the affair of the calash, had continued to hold back. She had promised nothing, she declared; and her conscience would not allow her to become the King’s mistress.

Catherine was unsure of Frances. The girl might be a skilful coquette—as Barbara insisted that she was, for Barbara made no secret of her enmity now—or she might indeed be a virtuous woman.

Catherine believed her to be virtuous. It certainly seemed to her that Frances was sincere when she confided to the Queen that she wished to marry and settle down in peace away from the Court.

“Your Majesty must understand,” she had said, “that the position in which I find myself is none of my making.”

Catherine determined to believe her, and sought to help her on every occasion.

She pondered often on the King’s devotion to women other than herself. She remembered too the case of Lady Chesterfield. The Chesterfields remained in the country, but news came that the Earl was as much in love with his wife as he had been at Court, and that she continued to scorn him.

Catherine talked of this with Frances Stuart, and Frances answered: “It was only when he saw how others admired her that he began to do so. That is the way of men.”

And I, thought Catherine, admired Charles wholeheartedly. I showed my admiration. I was without guile. He knew that no other man had ever loved me.

Edward Montague was often in attendance. He would look at her sadly when such affairs as that of the calash took place; it was clear that he pitied her. He was invariably at her side at all gatherings; his position as master of her horse necessitated that, but she was sure his feelings for her were stronger than those of a servant.

She often studied Edward Montague; he was a handsome young man and there was surely something of which to be proud in the devotion of such as he; so she smiled on him with affection, and it began to be noticed that the friendship between them was growing.

Catherine knew this, but did nothing to prevent it; it was, after all, a situation she had striven to create.

Montague’s enemies were quick to call the King’s attention to this friendship with the Queen; but Charles laughed lightly. He was glad that the Queen had an admirer. It showed the man’s sound good sense, he said, because the Queen was worthy to be admired.

He was certainly not going to put a stop to the friendship; he would consider it extremely unfair to do so since he enjoyed so many friendships with the opposite sex.

Catherine, seeing his indifference to her relationship with her handsome master of horse, made another of those mistakes which turned the King’s admiration for her to indifference.

Catherine’s great tragedy was that she never understood Charles.

It so happened that, when she alighted from her horse and he took her hand, Montague held it longer than was necessary and pressed it firmly. It was a gesture of assurance of his affection and sympathy for her, and Catherine knew this; but when, longing for Charles’ attention and desperately seeking to claim it, she artlessly asked what a gentleman meant when he held a lady’s hand and pressed it, she was feigning an innocence and ignorance of English customs which were not hers.

“Who has done this?” asked the King.

She answered: “It is my good master of horse, Montague.”

The King looked at her with pity. Poor Catherine! Was she trying to be coy? How ill it became her!

He said lightly: “It is an expression of devotion, but such expressions given to kings and queens may not indicate devotion but a desire for advancement. Yet it is an act of insolence for Your Majesty’s master of horse to behave thus to you, and I will take steps to see that it does not happen again.”

She believed she had aroused his jealousy. She believed he was thinking: So other men find her attractive; and she waited to see what would happen next.

Alas, Charles’ attention was still on his mistresses and Catherine merely lost her one admirer.

Edward Montague was dismissed his office; not on account of the King’s jealousy, but because Charles feared that Catherine’s innocence might betray her into indiscretion if the man remained.

The King’s love for Frances did not diminish.

He was subdued and often melancholy; a listlessness—so unusual with him—crept into his behavior. He had accepted her reluctance at first as the opening phase in the game of love; but still she was unconquered; and he began to believe that she would never surrender.

His feelings were more deeply stirred than they had ever been before. For the first time in his life the King was truly in love.

Sometimes he marveled at himself. It was true that Frances was very beautiful, but she completely lacked that quick wit which he himself possessed and which he admired in others. Frances was just a little stupid, some might say; but that seemed to make her seem more youthful than ever. Perhaps she provided such a contrast to Barbara. She never flew into tantrums; she was invariably calm and serene; she rarely spoke in an ill-natured fashion of anyone; she asked for little—the affair of the calash was an exception, and he believed she may have been persuaded to that, possibly by Buckingham whose head was, as usual, full of the most hare-brained schemes; all she wished was to be allowed to play those games which delighted her. Frances was like a very young and guileless girl and as such she deeply touched the heart of the King.

It was Frances who now adorned the coinage—a shapely Britannia with her helmet on her charming head and the trident in her slender hands.

He brooded on her constantly and wrote a song to explain his feelings.

“I pass all my hours in a shady old grove,

But I live not the day when I see not my love;

I survey every walk now my Phyllis is gone,

And sigh when I think we were there all alone;

O then, ’tis O then, that I think there’s no hell

Like loving like loving too well.

While alone, to myself I repeat all her charms,

She I love may be locked in another man’s arms,

She may laugh at my cares, and so false may she be

To say all the kind things she before said to me;

O then, ’tis O then that I think there’s no hell

Like loving too well.

But when I consider the truth of her heart,

Such an innocent passion, so kind without art;

I fear I have wronged her, and hope she may be

So full of true love to be jealous of me;

And then ’tis, I think, that no joy be above

The Pleasures of love.”

And while the King brooded on his unfulfilled passion for Frances, state matters were not progressing satisfactorily. He would be called to hasty council meetings and there were long consultations with Clarendon, whose dictatorial manner was often irritating. But, like Clarendon, Charles was alarmed by the growing hostilities on the high seas between the Dutch and the English.

The Duke of York, who had won fame as an Admiral of the Fleet, was growing more and more daring. He had the trading classes of the country behind him; and it was becoming clear that these people were hoping for a war with Holland. The Duke had captured Cape Corso and other Dutch colonies on the African coast, a matter which had caused some concern to the Chancellor which he had imparted to Charles. These conquests, insisted Clarendon, were unjust and were causing bad blood between the two countries. The Duke’s retort to Clarendon’s warnings was to capture New Amsterdam on the coast of North America and immediately rename it New York. He declared that English property in North America had been filched by the Dutch, and it was only seemly that it should be filched back again. Meanwhile there were frequent hostile incidents when the ships of both nations met.

Charles could see that if events continued to follow this course there would indeed be war, for it seemed that he and the Chancellor were the only men in the country who did not wish for it. He himself was very much bound by his Parliament, and Clarendon was fast becoming the most unpopular man in the country. The Buckingham faction had set in progress rumors damaging to Clarendon, so that every difficulty and disaster which arose was laid at his door. It was now being whispered that the selling of Dunkirk to the French had been Clarendon’s work, and that he had been heavily bribed for his part in this, which was untrue. Dunkirk had been sold because it was a drain on the expenses of the Exchequer which was in urgent need of the purchase money. Clarendon had only helped set the negotiations in motion once it had been decided that the deal should go forward.

So these were melancholy days for Charles. State affairs moving towards a climax which might be dangerous; Charles for the first time in love and denied the satisfaction he asked.

Mary Fairfax, the Duchess of Buckingham, was giving a ball.

While her maids were dressing her she looked at her reflection in the Venetian mirror with a fearful pride. Her jewels were of many colors, for she liked to adorn herself thus and she knew she wore too many and of too varied colors, but she could never decide which she ought to discard. She was too thin, completely lacking the slender grace of Frances Stuart; she was awkward, and never knew what to do with her large hands, now ablaze with rings. She feared though that the jewels she wore did not beautify; they merely called attention to the awkwardness of those hands. Her nose was too large as was her mouth; her eyes large and dark, but too closely set together. She had always known she was no beauty; and she could never rid herself of the idea that brightly colored gowns and many jewels would help her to hide her deficiencies; it was only when she was in the company of some of the beauties of the Court—ladies such as Lady Chesterfield, Miss Jennings, Lady Southesk, Barbara Castlemaine and, of course, the most beautiful Mrs. Stuart—that she realized that all of them, including Barbara, had achieved their effects by less flamboyant means than she had employed.

She was neglected by her husband, the great Duke, but she never resented this; she was constantly aware that she, Mary Fairfax, was the wife of the handsomest man she had ever seen; not only was he handsome, but he was witty, amusing, sought after by the ambitious; and she continually told herself that she was the most fortunate of women merely to be his wife.

She was remembering, as her maids dressed her, that happy time immediately following her marriage, before the King’s return to England, when the Duke had played the faithful husband, and her father had told her so often that he rejoiced in her marriage.

Mary’s husband was a strange man. He was brilliant, but it seemed that always there must be some plot forming itself within his mind. What joy when that plot had been to marry Mary Fairfax; and afterwards, when he had planned to make Mary a good husband! They had lived quietly in the country—she, her dearest George and her father. How often had she seen them, her father and her husband, walking arm in arm while George talked of the book he was planning to write on her father’s career. Those had been the happiest days of her life and, she ventured to think, of his. But the quiet life was not for him; and with the Restoration it was only reasonable that he should become a courtier and statesman. At Court it was natural that he should become the King’s companion and the friend of those profligate gentlemen who lived wildly and consorted with women whose reputations were as bad as their own.

“Marriage,” he had said, “is the greatest solitude, for it makes two but one, and prohibits us from all others.” A different cry that from the words he had so often spoken immediately before and after their marriage. Nor did he accept this “solitude” nor did he “prohibit himself from all others.”

Life had changed, and she must accept the change; she was grateful for those occasions when she did see him, when, as on this one, he needed her help. It was rarely that he did so and it was not often that they were together.

Her father worried a great deal about the change in their relationship; he complained bitterly of the way in which George treated her. She was fortunate to be so loved by a great man like her father, but now he blamed himself because he had brought about this marriage; and again and again she soothed him and assured him that he had not wished for the marriage more than she had. All knew that Buckingham neglected her, that he had married her when his fortunes were at a low ebb and it had seemed as though the Monarchy would never be restored, but that marriage with the daughter of an old Parliamentarian was the best a man could make. She was glad that she had turned from Lord Chesterfield to Buckingham; she would never regret it, never, even though those who wished her well were sorry for her. Only recently one of the Duke’s servants had made an attempt on his life when they had spent the night at the Sun Inn at Aldgate after returning from the Newmarket races. George had quickly disarmed the man. But the affair became widely known; and it was disconcerting that the point of the story should not be that the Duke was almost done to death by a mad servant, but that he should have been about to spend the night with his own wife.

Such slights, such humiliations, she accepted. They were part of the price which a plain and homely woman paid for union with one of the greatest Dukes in the country.

Now she asked her maids: “How like you my gown?”

And they answered: “Madam, it is beautiful.”

They were sincere. They really thought so.

“Ah,” said Mary quickly, “if I could but get me a new face as easily as I get me a new gown, then I might be a beauty.”

The maids were excited because they knew that this was to be a very grand ball, and the King himself was to be present.

They did not know the purpose of the ball.

George had explained it to his wife. It was one of his plots and in this his conspirators were Lord Sandwich and Henry Bennet—who was now Lord Arlington.

“We cannot,” George had said, “allow the King to become morose. He neglects his state business and he is not so amusing as he once was. The King wants one thing to make him his merry self again; and we are going to give it to him: Frances Stuart.”

“How will you do this?” she had asked. “Is it not for Frances Stuart to make the necessary decision?”

“We shall be very, very merry,” said the Duke. “There will be dancing and games such as Frances delights in. There shall be drink … potent drink, and we must see that Frances partakes of it freely.”

Mary had turned a little pale.

“You mean that she is to be made incapable of knowing what she does!”

“Now you are shocked,” said the Duke lightly. “That is your puritan stock showing itself. My dear Mary, stop being a hopeless prude, I beg of you. Move with the times, my dear. Move with the times.”

“But this girl is so young and …”

“And wily. She has played her games long enough.”

“George, I …”

“You will do nothing but be hostess to the guests; and make sure that we have a rich apartment ready for the lovers when they need it.”

She had wanted to protest; but she could not bear his displeasure. If she must play such a part for the sake of her Duke, she had no alternative but to do so.

She took one last look at herself and went downstairs to be ready to greet her guests.

And when she was in that glittering assembly she knew at once that her jewels were too numerous, the bright scarlet of her gown unbecoming to one of her coloring; she realized afresh that she was the ugly Duchess of the most handsome of Dukes.

Mrs. Sarah wanted a word with her mistress, and she wanted it in private.

Barbara left her friends to hear what her servant had to say. She knew that Mrs. Sarah, while often denouncing her to her face, was loyal.

Mrs. Sarah began: “Now, if I tell you something your ladyship won’t like to hear, will you promise to hear me out without throwing a stool at me?”

“What is it?” said Barbara.

“Your promise first! It’s something you ought to know.”

“Then unless you tell me this instant I’ll have the clothes torn from your back and I’ll lay about you with a stick myself.”

“Now listen to me, Madam.”

“I am listening. Come closer, you fool. What is it?”

“There is a ball this night at my lord Buckingham’s.”

“And what of that? The fool can give a ball if he wishes to, without asking me. Let him sing his silly songs; let him do his imitations…. I’ll warrant he has a good one of me.”

“The King is to be present.”

Barbara was alert. “How know you this?”

“My husband, who is cook to my lord Sandwich …”

“I see … I see. The King is there; and is that sly slug there with him?”

“She is, Madam.”

“Playing card houses, I’ll swear. Let them. That’s all the game he’ll play with that lily-livered virgin.”

“Mayhap not this night.”

“What do you mean, woman?”

“There is a plot to bring them together this night. My lord Arlington …”

“The pompous pig!”

“And my lord Sandwich …”

“That prancing ape!”

“And my lord Buckingham …”

“That foul hog!”

“I beg of you remember, Madam, stay calm.”

“Stay calm! While that merry trio work against me? For that is what they would do, Sarah. They strike at me. They use that simpering little ninny to do so, but they strike at me. By God and all the saints, I’ll go there and I’ll let them know I understand their games. I’ll throw their silly cards in their faces and I’ll …”

“Madam, remember, so much is at stake. I beg of you do nothing rash. She remains calm. That is why she keeps his regard.”

“Are you telling me what to do, you … you …”

“Yes, I am,” said Sarah. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself! It is not I who shall get hurt. Do you think I do not know how to look after myself?”

“Yes, Madam, I do think that. I think that, had you been calmer and more loving and not so ready to fly into tantrums, His Majesty would have continued to love you even though, such being the royal nature, he hankered after Frances Stuart. Let me finish what I began to say. This night they plan to bring this affair to a conclusion. They will so bemuse Mrs. Stuart this night that it will be easy to overcome her resistance. And when that is done, there will be the apartment waiting and the royal lover to conduct her to it.”

“It shall not be. I’ll go there and drag the little fool away, if I have to pull her by her golden hair.”

“Madam, think first. Be calm. Do not demean yourself. There is one other who would not wish for the surrender of Mrs. Stuart. Why not let her do your work this night? It would be better so if you would hold His Majesty’s regard, for I verily believe that she who takes from him the pleasure he anticipates this night will not long hold his love.”

Barbara did not answer immediately; she continued to look at Mrs. Sarah.

The two women faced each other.

This is the woman, thought Catherine, who has destroyed my happiness. She it was who, as a mere name long ago in Lisbon, filled me with misgivings.

Barbara thought: I would not barter my beauty for her plain mien even though the crown went with it. Poor Charles, he is indeed gallant to feign tenderness for such a one. She could never have appealed to him during all those weeks when he played the loving husband.

Barbara said: “Your Majesty, this is not a time when two women should weigh their words. A plot is afoot this night to make an innocent young girl a harlot. That is putting it plainly, but it is nonetheless the truth. The young girl is Frances Stuart, and I beg of Your Majesty to do something to prevent this.”

Catherine felt her heart beat very fast; she said: “I do not understand your meaning, Lady Castlemaine.”

“Buckingham is giving a ball. The King is there. And so is Mrs. Stuart. It is the Duke’s plan to make her so bemused that she will be an easy victim.”

“No,” cried Catherine. “No!”

“’Tis so, Your Majesty. You know the girl. She is not very intelligent but she is virtuous. Can you stand aside and allow this to happen?”

“But no,” said Catherine.

“Then may I humbly beg of Your Majesty to prevent it?”

“How could I prevent that on which the King has set his heart?”

“You are the Queen. The girl is of your household. Your Majesty, if you attended this ball … if you brought her back with you to your apartments, because you had need of her services, none could say you nay. The King would not. You know that he would never humiliate you … on a matter of etiquette such as this would be.”

Catherine felt her cheeks burning. She gazed at the insolent woman, and she knew her motive for wishing to rescue Frances had nothing to do with the preservation of Frances’ virtue. Yet she could not allow Charles to do this. She could not allow Frances to become his unwilling mistress.

She was not sure what it was that prompted her to act as she did. It might have been jealousy. It might have been for the sake of Frances’s virtue, for the sake of Charles’ honor. She was sure that in all his numerous love affairs there could never yet have been an unwilling partner.

She turned to Barbara and said: “You are right. I will go to the ball.”

It was three o’clock when the Queen arrived.

By this time the fun was fast and the games very wild and merry. Frances, the center of attraction, had been induced to drink far more than usual; she was flushed and her eyes bright with the excitement which romping games could always arouse in her.

The King had scarcely left her side all the evening. Three pairs of eyes watched Frances—Buckingham’s, Arlington’s and those of Sandwich—and their owners were sure that very soon Frances would be ready to fall into the arms of the King.

And then the Queen arrived.

Buckingham and his Duchess must declare their delight in this unexpected honor. They hoped Her Majesty would stay and join the dance.

She danced for a while, and then she declared that she would return to Whitehall and take Frances Stuart with her.

If Frances left there was nothing to detain the King at the ball; so the evening ended very differently from the way in which it had been planned, and Frances and the King left for Whitehall in the company of the Queen.

Affairs of state were occupying the King continuously, so that he had little time for following pleasure. The Parliament were declaring that the damage inflicted on English ships was doing a great deal of harm to English trade. The merchants were demanding that the Dutch be taught a lesson. Dutch fishermen met English fishermen in the North Sea and fought to the death. On the African coasts Dutch and English sailors were already at war. In Amsterdam scurrilous pamphlets were published concerning the life of the King of England; and pictures were distributed showing a harassed King pursued by women who tried to drive him in all directions.

Charles was anxious. He loathed the thought of war, which he believed could bring little profit even to the victors. He had seen much of the sufferings due to war; his thoughts went back to that period of his life which would ever live vividly in his memory. He remembered Edgehill where he and James had come near to capture; but more clearly than anything that had ever happened to him would be the memory of disaster at Worcester and those weeks when he had skulked, disguised as a yokel, afraid to show his face in the country of which he called himself King.

But he knew that his wishes would carry little weight, for the whole country was calling out for war with the Dutch.

Every day, instead of sauntering in the Park he was on the Thames, inspecting that Fleet of which he was more proud than anything else he possessed.

He had told of his pride in it to the Parliament when he had asked them for money to maintain that Fleet.

“I have been able to let our neighbors see that I can defend myself and my subjects against their insolence. By borrowing liberally from myself out of my own stores, and with the kind and cheerful assistance which the City of London hath given me, I have a Fleet now worthy of the English nation and not inferior to any that hath set out in any age.”

After that speech he had been voted the great sum of two and a half million pounds for the equipment and maintenance of the Fleet; and although his pride in it was high, he was fervently hoping to avoid making open war on the Dutch.

That winter was the coldest that men remembered; but the great news was not of the phenomenal weather; it concerned the exploits of Dutchmen, for if Charles had a great Fleet, so had they, and they were as much at home on the high seas as were the English.

Barbara had given birth to another child—this time a daughter whom she named Charlotte. She declared she was the King’s child, and this time the King was too immersed in matters of state to deny this.

By March it was necessary to declare war on Holland, and the whole country was wild with excitement. The City of London built a man-of-war which they called Loyal London; and the Duke of York took command of the Fleet.

The spring came, warm and welcome after the long, hard winter, and all at home waited news of the encounter between the Dutch and English navies. In London the gunfire out at sea could be heard, and the nation was tense yet very confident. They did not know that the money voted by Parliament for the conduct of the war—a sum which seemed vast to them—was inadequate. There was one man who knew this and suffered acute anxiety. This was the King; he knew the state of the country’s finances; he knew that he could not go on indefinitely subscribing to the maintenance of the Fleet in war out of his inadequate allowance; he knew that the Dutch were wealthier than the English, and that they were as worthy seamen.

When the news came of the victory over the Dutch, when the bells of the city pealed out and the citizens ran into the streets to snatch up anything that would make a bonfire, the King was less inclined to gaiety than any; he had heard news that Berkeley—recently become the Earl of Falmouth—had perished in the battle. He had known Berkeley, well, and he guessed that he would be but one of many to suffer if the war continued.

Then in the streets of London there appeared a more cruel enemy than the Dutch.

In that warm April a man, coming from St. Paul’s into Cheapside, was overcome by his sickness, and lay down on the cobbles since he could go no farther. Shivering and delirious, he lay there, and in the morning he was dead; and those who approached him saw on his breast the dreaded macula and, shuddering, ran from him. But by that time others were falling to the pestilence. From the Strand to Aldgate men and women on their ordinary business would stagger and hurry blindly to their homes. Some of those stricken in the streets could go no farther; they lay down and died.

The plague had come to London.

Who could now rejoice wholeheartedly? It was true that the English had taken eighteen capital ships from the Dutch off Harwich, and had destroyed another fourteen. It was known that Admiral Obdam had been blown up with his crew and would no longer worry the English. And all this had been achieved for the loss of one ship. It was true that many good sailors had been lost—Falmouth among them—with Marlborough and Portland and the Admirals Hawson and Sampson.

But the plague was on the increase, and its effect was already being severely felt in London. The weather was hotter than usual after the bleak winter. Stench rose from the gutters; refuse was emptied from windows by people who could not leave their houses since they kept a plague victim there. Men and women were dying in the streets. It was dangerous to give succor to any who fell fainting by the roadside. All indisposition was suspect. Many were frightened into infection in that plague- and fear-ridden atmosphere. Death was in the fetid air and terror stalked the streets.

The river was congested with barges carrying away from the City those who were fortunate enough to be able to leave the plague spots.

The Court had retired, first to Hampton, and then, when the plague stretched its greedy maw beyond the metropolis, farther afield to Salisbury.

Albemarle took command of London and, with the resourcefulness of a great general, made plans for taking care of the infected and avoiding the spread of the plague. He arranged that outlying parishes should be ready to take in all those who could arrive uninfected from the city.

London continued to suffer in the heat.

Grass was now growing among the cobbles, for the business of every day had ceased. Those merchants who could do so, left their businesses; those who could not, stayed to nurse their families and to die with them. Trade had come to a standstill and the City was like a dead town. Those who ventured into its streets did so muffled in close garments covering their mouths that they might not breathe the polluted air.

Almost every door bore a red cross with the inscription “Lord Have Mercy Upon Us” to warn all to keep away because the plague was in the house; by night the pest carts roamed the streets to the tolling of a dismal bell and the dreadful cry of “Bring out your dead.”

By the time that terrible year was over about 130,000 people had died of the plague in England. The citizens returned to London to take possession of their property, but the losses of life and trade were so great that the country, still engaged in war, was in a more pitiable plight than it had ever been in during the whole of its history.

It was at this time that Catherine discovered she was pregnant, and her hopes of giving birth to an heir were high.

The year 1666 dawned on a sorrowing people.

The plague had crippled the country more cruelly than many suspected. Since trade had been brought to a standstill during the hot summer months there was no money with which to equip the ships of the Navy. The French chose this moment to take sides with the Dutch, and England, now almost bankrupt and emerging from the disaster of the plague, was called upon to face two enemies instead of one.

The English were truculent. They were ready for all the “Mounseers,” they declared; but the King was sad; he was alarmed that that nation, to which his own mother belonged and to which he felt himself bound so closely, should take up arms against his; moreover two of the greatest Powers in the world were allied against one crippled by the scourge of death which had lately afflicted it and by lack of the means to carry on a successful war.

In March of that year bad news was brought from Portugal, but on the King’s advice it was not immediately imparted to the Queen.

“It will distress her,” said Charles, “and in view of her delicate health at this time I would have the utmost care taken.”

But it was impossible to keep the news long from Catherine. She knew by the tears of Donna Maria that something had happened, and she guessed that it concerned their country, for only then would Donna Maria be so deeply affected.

And at length she discovered the secret.

Her mother dead! It seemed impossible to believe it. It was but four years since they had said their last goodbyes. Much had happened in those four years, and perhaps in her love for her husband Catherine had at times forgotten her mother; but now that she was dead, now that she knew she would never see her again, she was heartbroken.

She lay in her bed and wept silently, going over every well-remembered incident of her childhood.

“Oh, Mother,” she murmured, “if you had been here to advise me, mayhap I should have acted differently; mayhap Charles would not now regard me with that vague tolerance which seems so typical of his feelings for me.”

Then she remembered all her mother had bidden her do; she remembered how Queen Luiza had determined on this match; how she had again and again impressed on her daughter that she, Catherine, was destined to save their country.

“Mother, dearest Mother, I will do my best,” she murmured. “Even though he has nothing more than a mild affection for me, even though I am but the wife who was chosen for him and there are about him beautiful women whom he has chosen for himself, still will I remember all that you have told me and never cease to work for my country.”

Tempers ran high during those anxious months.

When Catherine decreed that, in mourning for her mother, the Court ladies should appear with their hair worn plain, and that they should not wear patches on their faces, Lady Castlemaine was openly annoyed. She was affecting the most elaborate styles for her hair and set great store by her patches. Several noticed that, with her hair plain and her face patchless, she was less strikingly beautiful than before.

This made her ill-humored indeed; and in view of the King’s continued devotion to Frances Stuart, her temper was not improved.

As Catherine sat with her ladies one day in the spring, and Barbara happened to be among them, they talked of Charles.

Catherine said she feared his health had suffered through the terrible afflictions of last year. He had unwisely taken off his wig and pourpoint when he was on the river and the sun proved too hot; he had caught a chill and had not seemed to be well since then.

She turned to Barbara and said: “I fear it is not good for him to be out so late. He stays late at your house, and it would be better for his health if he did not do so.”

Barbara let out a snort of laughter. “He does not stay late at my house, Madam,” she said. “If he stays out late, then you must make inquiries in other directions. His Majesty spends his time with someone else.”

The King had come into the apartment. He looked strained and ill; he was wondering where the money was coming from to equip his ships; he was wondering how he was going to pay his seamen, and whether it would be necessary to lay up the Fleet for lack of funds; and if that dire calamity should befall, how could he continue the war?

It seemed too much to be borne that Catherine and Barbara should be quarreling about how he spent his nights—those rare occasions when he sought a little relaxation in the only pastime which could bring him that forgetfulness which he eagerly sought.

He looked from Catherine to Barbara and his dark features were stern.

Catherine lowered her eyes but Barbara met his gaze defiantly. “Your Majesty will bear me out that I speak the truth,” she said.

Charles said: “You are an impertinent woman.”

Barbara flushed scarlet, but before she could give voice to the angry retorts which rose to her lips, Charles had continued quietly: “Leave the Court, and pray do not come again until you have word from me that I expect to see you.”

Then, without waiting for the storm which his knowledge of Barbara made him certain must follow, he turned abruptly and left the apartment.

Barbara stamped her foot and glared at the company.

“Is anybody here smiling?” she demanded.

No one answered.

“If any see that which is amusing in this, let her speak up. I will see to it that she shall very soon find little to laugh at. As for the King, he may have a different tale to tell when I print the letters he has written to me!”

Then, curbing her rage, she curtsied to the Queen who sat stiff and awkward, not knowing how to deal with such an outrageous breach of good manners.

Barbara stamped out of the apartment.

But on calmer and saner reflection, considering the King’s cares of state and his melancholy passion for Mrs. Stuart, she felt she would be wise, on this one occasion, to obey his command.

Barbara left the Court.

Barbara was raging at Richmond. All those about her tried in vain to soothe her. She was warned of all the King had had to bear in the last few years; she was discreetly reminded of Frances Stuart.

“I’ll get even with him!” she cried. “A nice thing if I should print his letters! Why, these Hollanders would have something to make pamphlets of then, would they not!”

Mrs. Sarah warned her. She must not forget that although Charles had been lenient with her, he was yet the King. It might be that he would forbid her not only the Court but the country; such things had happened.

“It is monstrous!” cried Barbara. “I have loved him long. It is six years since he came home, and I have loved him all that time.”

“Others have been his rivals in your affections, and fellow guests in your bedchamber,” Mrs. Sarah reminded her.

“And what of his affection and his bedchamber, eh?”

“He is the King. I wonder at his tenderness towards you.”

“Be silent, you hag! I shall send for my furniture. Do not imagine I shall allow my treasures to remain at Whitehall.”

“Send a messenger to the King,” suggested Mrs. Sarah, “and first ask his permission to remove your possessions.”

“Ask his permission! He is a fool. Any man is a fool who chases that simpering ninny, who stands and holds cards for her card houses, who allows himself so far to forget his rank as to play blind man’s buff with an idiot.”

“He might not grant that permission,” suggested Mrs. Sarah.

“If he should refuse to let me have what is mine …”

“He might because he does not wish you to leave.”

“You dolt! He has banished me.”

“For your insolence before the Queen and her ladies. He may be regretting that now. You know how he comes back again and again to you. You know that no one will ever be quite the same as you are to him. Send that messenger, Madam.”

Barbara gazed steadily at Mrs. Sarah. “Sarah, there are times when I think those who serve me are not all as doltish as I once thought them to be.”

So she took Sarah’s advice and asked the King’s permission to withdraw her goods; the answer she had hoped for came to her: If she wished to take her goods away she must come and fetch them herself.

So, with her hair exquisitely curled, and adorned by a most becoming hat with a sweeping green feather, and looking her most handsome, she took barge to Whitehall. And when she was there she saw the King; and, taking one look at her, and feeling, as Mrs. Sarah had said he did, that no one was quite like Barbara, he admitted that her insolence at an awkward moment had made him a little hasty.

Barbara consented to remain at Whitehall. And that night the King supped in her apartments, and it was only just before the Palace was stirring to the activities of a new day that he left her and walked through the privy gardens to his own apartments.

All that summer the fear of plague was in the hearts of the citizens of London; the heat of the previous summer was remembered, and the dreadful toll which had been taken of the population. Through the narrow streets of wooden houses, the gables of which almost met over the dark streets, the people walked wearily and there was the haunting fear on their faces. From the foul gutters rose the stink of putrefying rubbish; and it was remembered that two or three times in every hundred years over the centuries the grim visitor would appear like a legendary dragon, demanding its sacrifice and then, having taken its fill of victims, retreat before the cold weather only to strike again, none knew when.

Catherine found this time a particularly anxious one. She was worried about her brother Alphonso who she knew was unfit to wear the crown; she knew that Pedro, her younger brother, coveted it; and now that the restraining hand of her mother would not be there to guide them, she wondered continually about the fate of her native country.

The condition of her adopted country was none too happy at this time. She knew of Charles’ anxieties. She knew too that he was beginning to despair of her ever giving him an heir. Again her hopes had been disappointed. Why was it that so many Queens found it hard to give their husbands sons, while those same Kings’ mistresses bore them as a matter of course? Barbara had borne yet another child—this time a handsome boy, whom she called George Fitzroy. Barbara had, as well as her voluptuous person, a nursery full of children who might be the King’s.

In June of the year which followed that of the great plague the Dutch and English fleets met. De Ruyter and Van Tromp were in charge of the Dutchmen, and the English Fleet was under Albemarle. There were ninety Dutch ships opposed to fifty English, and when the battle had been in progress for more than a day, the Dutch were joined by sixteen sail. Fortunately Prince Rupert joined the Duke of York and a mighty battle was the result; both sides fought so doggedly and so valiantly that neither was victorious; but, although the English sank fifteen Dutch ships and the Dutch but ten English, the Dutch had invented chain shot with which they ruined the rigging of many more of the English ships; and all the latter had to retire into harbor for refitting.

Yet a few weeks later they were in action once more, and this resulted in victory for the English, with few English losses and the destruction of twenty Dutch men-of-war.

When the news reached England, the bells rang out in every town and hamlet and there was general rejoicing in London which, but a year ago, had been like a dead and desolate city.

These celebrations took place on the 14th of August. Hopes were high that ere long these proud and insolent Dutchmen would realize who would rule the sea.

It was less than two weeks later when, in the house of Mr. Farryner, the King’s baker, who lived in Pudding Lane, fire broke out in the early morning; and as there was a strong east wind blowing and the baker’s house was made of wood, as were those of his neighbors, in a few hours all Pudding Lane and Fish Street were ablaze and the streets were filled with shouting people who, certain that their efforts to quench the raging furnace were in vain while the high wind persisted, merely dragged out their goods from those houses which were in danger of being caught by the flames, wringing their hands, and declaring that the vengeance of God was turned upon the City.

Through the night, made light as day by the fires, people shouted to each other to come forth and flee. The streets were filled with those whose one object was to salvage as many of their household goods as was possible; and the wind grew fiercer as house after house fell victim to the flames. People with blackened faces called to each other that this was the end of the world. God had called vengeance on London, cried some, for the profligate ways of its people. Last year the plague and the Dutch wars, and now they were all to be destroyed by fire!

Showers of sparks shot into the air and fell like burning rain when a warehouse containing barrels of pitch and tar sent the blaze roaring to the sky. The river had suddenly become jammed with small craft, as frantic householders gathered as many as possible of their goods together and sought the green fields beyond the City for safety. Many poor people stood regarding their houses with the utmost despair, their arms grasping homely bundles, both to leave their homes until the very last minute. Pigeons, which habitually sheltered in the lofts of these houses, hovered piteously near their old refuge and many were lying dead and dying on the cobbles below, their wings burned, their bodies scorched.

And all through the night the wind raged, and the fire raged with it.

Early next morning Mr. Samuel Pepys, Secretary of the Navy, reached Whitehall and asked for an audience with the King; he told him all that was happening in the City, and begged him to give instant orders that houses be demolished, for only thus could such a mighty conflagration be brought to a halt. The King agreed that the houses which stood in the way of the fire must be pulled down, as only by making such gaps could the conflagration be halted, and gave orders that this should be done.

Pepys hurried back to the City and found the Lord Mayor in Cannon Street from where he was watching the fire and shouting in vain to the crowds, imploring them to listen to him, and try to fight the fire.

“What can I do?” he cried. “People will not obey me. I have been up all night. I shall surely faint if I stay here. What can I do? What can any do in such a raging wind?”

The Secretary, thinking the man was more like a fainting woman than a Lord Mayor, repeated the King’s order.

“I have tried pulling down houses,” wailed the Lord Mayor. “But the fire overtakes us faster than we can work.”

They stood together, watching the flames which, in some places, seemed to creep stealthily at first, as tongues of fire licked the buildings and then suddenly, with a mighty roar, would appear to capture yet another; the sound of falling roofs and walls was everywhere; the flames ran swiftly and lightly along the thatches; now many streets were avenues of flame. People screamed as the fire drops caught them; flames spread like an arch from one side of London Bridge to the other; the air was filled with the crackling sound of burning and the crash of collapsing houses. It was almost impossible to breathe the dense smoke-filled air.

On Tuesday morning the fire was still raging, and the King decided that he dared no longer leave the defense of his capital to the Lord Mayor and the City Fathers.

Fleet Street, the Old Bailey, Ludgate Hill, Warwick Lane, Newgate, Paul’s Chain and Watling Street were all ablaze. The heat was so fierce that none could approach near the fire, and when a roof fell in, great showers of sparks would fly out from the burning mass to alight on other dwellings and so start many minor fires.

The King with his brother, the Duke of York, were in the center of activity. It was they who directed the blowing up of houses in Tower Street. The citizens of London saw their King then, not as the careless philanderer, but the man of action. It was he, his face blackened by smoke, who directed the operations which were to save the City. There he stood passing the buckets with his own hands, shouting to all that their help was needed and they would be rewarded for the work they did this day. There he stood, with the dirty water over his ankles, encouraging and, being the man he was, not forgetting to joke. It was while he stood in their midst that the people ceased to believe those stories which the Puritans had murmured about God’s vengeance. This fire was nothing but the result of an accident which had taken place in a baker’s kitchen and, on account of the high wind, the dry wood and thatch of the houses all huddled so closely together, had turned the fire in Pudding Lane into the Fire of London.

By Thursday the fire showed signs of being conquered. The heat from smoldering buildings was still intense; fires raged in some parts of the City, but that great ravaging monster had been checked.

It was said that day that all that was left of London owed its existence to the King and his brother James.

Now it was possible to look back and see the extent of the disaster.

The fire, following so soon on the plague, had robbed the country of the greater part of its wealth. London was the center of the kingdoms riches, for more than a tenth of the population had lived in the Capital. Now the greater part of the City lay in ruins, and for months afterwards ashes, charred beams and broken pieces of furniture were found in the fields of the villages of Knightsbridge and Kensington; and the people marveled that the effects of the great fire could still be seen at such great distance.

But there were more terrible effects to be felt. In the fields the homeless huddled together, having nowhere to go. The King rode out to them, bags of money at his belt; he distributed alms and ordered that food and shelter should be found for these sufferers.

His heart was heavy. He knew that never before in her history had England been in such a wretched plight. There was murmuring all over the country and in particular throughout the stricken City. England was no longer merry, and people were beginning to think of the period of Puritan rule as the “good old days.” The wildest rumors were in the air. New terrors stalked the smoldering streets. The fire was the work of Papists, said some. Those who were suspected of following the Catholic religion were seized and ill-treated and some were done to death by the mob. Feeling ran high against the Queen. She was a Papist, and trouble had started during the last King’s reign, declared the people, on account of his Papist wife. Others said the profligate life led by the King and his associates was responsible for the fire.

“This is but the beginning,” cried some. “The destruction of England is at hand. First the plague; then the war; and now the great fire. This is Sodom and Gomorrah again. What next? What next?”

The King realized that there was nothing to be done but lay up the Fleet, for where in his suffering country could he get means to maintain it? And to lay up the Fleet meant suing for peace.

Sailors were rioting in the stricken City’s streets because they had not been paid. There was revolution in the air. Charles himself rode out to do what he could to disperse the groups of angry seamen. In vain did his Chancellor and those about him seek to restrain him. His subjects were in an ugly mood; insults had been hurled at the King on account of his way of life. But Charles insisted on going among them. He was bankrupt in all save that one thing which had stood him in good stead all his life; his charm was inviolate as was his courage.

So he rode out into the midst of the brawling crowds of angry sailors who stood about in the heart of the City amid the blackened buildings and heaps of ashes and rubble. He knew their mood; yet he was smiling, with that charming rueful smile. His manner was dignified, yet all those men were aware of the easy affability which had always been shown to any who came near him whatever their rank, and which had done much to make all submit to his charm.

They fell back before him; they would have expected him to come with soldiers behind him; but he came alone, and he came unarmed. So they fell back before him and they were silent as he spoke to them.

It was true they had not been paid. The King would remedy that as soon as it were possible to do so. They had fought gallantly. Would they tell themselves that they had fought for their country, and would that suffice for a temporary reward? He promised them that they should be paid—in time. They would be wise men to wait for that payment rather than to persist in acts which would lead themselves and others into misfortune likely to end in the traitor’s fate on the gallows.

They had all suffered terribly. The plague last year; the fire this. Never in the country’s history had such calamities befallen it. Yet had they not given good account of insolent Dutchmen? Let them all stand together; and if they would do this, their King doubted not that ere long they would have little cause for complaint.

Then suddenly someone in the crowd cried: “Long live the King!” and then others joined in and helped to disperse the mob.

On that occasion trouble had been avoided, but revolt continued to hang in the air.

The people looked about them for a scapegoat and, as usual at such times, their thoughts turned to the Chancellor. Crowds gathered outside the fine house he had built for himself in Piccadilly; they murmured to one another that he had built the palace with the bribes he had been paid by the French King to advise the selling of Dunkirk. It was remembered that he, the commoner, was linked with the royal family through the marriage of his daughter Anne Hyde with the King’s brother. It was said that he had procured Catherine of Braganza for the King because he knew she would never bear children and thus leave the succession clear for the offspring of his own daughter. Everything that was wrong in the country was blamed on Clarendon; and this attitude towards the poor Chancellor was aggravated by such men as Buckingham—urged on by Lady Castlemaine—Arlington, and almost all the King’s ministers.

A gibbet was set up on a tree outside the Chancellor’s house, and on it was an inscription:

“Three sights to be seen—Dunkirk, Tangier and a barren Queen.”

For the sale of Dunkirk, the possession of an unprofitable seaport and the Queen’s inability to bear children successfully were all laid at Clarendon’s door.

The King sought to throw off his melancholy and was already instructing his architect, Christopher Wren, to make plans for the rebuilding of the City; he was urging the Parliament to find money somehow for the refitting of his ships that they might, with the coming of spring, be ready to face their Dutch enemies. He sought to find consolation among the many ladies who charmed him, but he found that his desire for the still unconquered Frances Stuart made contentment impossible.

There were men about the King now who, perceiving his infatuation for Frances Stuart, reminded him of how his predecessor, Henry VIII, had acted in similar circumstances. Chief among these was the Duke of Buckingham who, much to Barbara’s annoyance, had made himself chief adviser and supporter of Frances Stuart.

What if there were a divorce? The Queen’s religion displeased the people. After the disaster of the fire it could easily be suggested that this had been started by Papists. No English man or woman would desire then to see the King remain married to a member of that wicked sect. Moreover, the Queen was barren and surely that was a good enough reason for divorcing her. It was necessary for the King to have an heir and Charles had proved again and again that he was not to blame for this unfruitful marriage.

“It should not be difficult to obtain a divorce,” said Buckingham. “Then Your Majesty would be free to marry a lady of your own choice. I doubt that Mrs. Stuart would say no to a crown.”

The King was tempted. Frances had become an obsession. Through her he was losing his merry good humor. He was angry far more often than he used to be. He was melancholy; he wanted to be alone, whereas previously he had enjoyed company; he was spending more and more time in his laboratory with his chemists, but what compensation could that offer? It was Frances whom he wanted; he was in love. If Frances would become his mistress he was sure that he could forget, for long spells at a time, the sorry condition of his realm and all the troubles that were facing him.

Then he remembered Catherine—the Catherine of the honeymoon—so naively eager to please him, so simple, so loving. He had wronged her when he had made her accept Barbara. No! In spite of his love for Frances he would not agree to ill-treat Catherine.

He continued melancholy; but his temper blazed out when Clarendon again took up his tutorial attitude towards him.

“It is more important to Your Majesty to give attention to state matters than to saunter and toy with Lady Castlemaine.” How often had the man said those or similar words, and how often had they been received with a tolerant smile!

Now the Chancellor was told to look to his own house and not try to set that of his master in order.

Clarendon was unrepentant; he prided himself on his forthright manners. He knew he was unpopular but he did not care; he said that all that mattered to him was that he should do his duty.

The Chancellor began to look upon Frances Stuart as an unhealthy influence, and thought that the best thing she could do was to marry. Her cousin, the Duke of Richmond—another Charles Stuart—was one of the many young men who were in love with her and having recently become a widower was eager to marry her. He was rich, of high rank, being distantly related to the King as Frances was. The Chancellor therefore called the young Duke to him and urged him to continue with his wooing. And when he had seen him and discovered that was just what the young man was most eager to do, he sought an audience with the Queen.

They looked at each other—Queen and Chancellor.

Catherine’s appearance had not been improved by all she had suffered. She knew of the people’s animosity towards herself; she knew that they hated her because she was a Catholic, and concocted rhymes about her which they sang in the streets; and that these rhymes were witty and ribald after the manner of the day.

She guessed too that certain of the King’s ministers had spoken against her, because Charles had been particularly kind to her of late, which meant, she realized now that she had come to know him, that he felt sorry for her and was doubtless urging himself not to listen to his ministers’ advice.

There was a numb desolation in Catherine’s heart. She knew that they were advising him to rid himself of her. What would become of her? she wondered. Whither should she go? Home to Portugal where her brothers wrangled for the crown, a disgraced Queen, turned away by her husband because she could not bear him children and had failed to win his love and that of his subjects? No! She could not go back to Portugal. What was there for her, but a nunnery! She thought of the years stretching out ahead of her—she was a young woman still—of matins and complines, of bells and prayers; and all the time within her there would be longings which she must stifle, for whatever happened she would never forget Charles; she would love him until the day she died.

Last night he had stayed with her; he had resisted all temptation to go to one of his mistresses. She had been sick and overtaken with trembling, so fearful was she of what the future held for her.

How she despised herself! When she had the opportunity of being with him she was unable to make use of it. How could she hope to arouse anything but pity within him? His kindness she enjoyed was due, not to her attractiveness nor her cleverness, but merely to his goodness of heart. When she had been sick it was he who had brought the basin, and held her head and spoken soothing words; it was he who had called her women, to make her clean and comfortable, while uncomplaining he left the royal bed and moved to another room.

She could enjoy his kindness, but never his love.

Those were her thoughts when Clarendon was shown into her presence.

The Chancellor spoke in his usual blunt but somewhat pompous and authoritative manner.

“Your Majesty will have heard rumors concerning Mrs. Stuart?”

“Yes, my lord, that is true,” agreed Catherine.

“I am sure Your Majesty will agree with me that the Court would be a happier place if Mrs. Stuart were married, and mayhap left it for a while. Her cousin, the Duke of Richmond, would be an excellent match. It would be well for those of us who wish Mrs. Stuart good to do all in our power to bring such a match about.”

“You are right, my lord.”

“Perhaps a word to the Duke from Your Majesty would be of use; and, as Mrs. Stuart’s mistress, Your Majesty might see that the young people have every opportunity to meet.”

Catherine clenched her hands tightly together and said: “I will do all in my power to bring this matter to a happy conclusion.”

Clarendon was pleased. He, the Queen and the Duke of Richmond were determined to bring about this marriage. There was one other who would be equally delighted to see it take place. That was Lady Castlemaine. And if Frances herself could be made to realize the advantages of the match, it must surely come about.

Barbara, whose spies were numerous, discovered that the Duke of Richmond was often in the company of Frances Stuart and that the conversations which took place between them were of a tender nature. Infuriated by the rumors she had heard of the King’s contemplating a divorce that he might marry Frances, Barbara had one object in mind—and that was to ruin Frances in the King’s eyes.

She did not believe that Frances was seriously contemplating marriage with her cousin, the Duke of Richmond. What woman, thought Barbara scornfully, would become a Duchess when the prospect of becoming a Queen was dangling before her?

She suspected Frances of being very sly and, in spite of her apparent ingenuousness, very clever. Barbara could be angry with herself when she came to believe that she, no less than others, had been duped by Frances’s apparent simplicity.

No! said Barbara. What the sly creature is doing is holding on to her virtue where the King is concerned, following the example of other ladies in history such as Elizabeth Woodville and Anne Boleyn. It may even be that she is not averse to entertaining a lover in private!

One day she discovered through her spies that the Duke of Richmond was in Frances’ apartment, and she lost no time in seeking out the King.

She waved away his attendants in a manner which annoyed him, but he did not reprove her for this until they had left.

Then she shouted at him: “Would you have them remain to hear what I have to say? Would you have them know—though doubtless they do already—what a fool Frances Stuart makes of you?”

The King’s calmness could always be shaken by the mention of Frances, and he demanded to know to what she referred.

“We are so virtuous, are we not?” mimicked Barbara. “We cannot be your mistress because we are so pure.” Her blue eyes flashed, and her anger blazed forth. “Oh, no, no, no! We cannot be your mistress because we think you may be fool enough to make us your Queen.”

“Be silent!” cried the King. “You shall leave the Court. I’ll never look on your face again.”

“No? Then go and look on hers now…. Go and catch her and her lover together, and then thank me for showing you what a fool that sly slut has made of you.”

“What is this?” demanded the King.

“Nothing…. Nothing at all. Merely that your pure little virgin is at this moment languishing in the arms of another Charles Stuart. It would seem that she hath a fancy for the name. Only one is a King and to be dangled on a string, and the other … is merely a Duke, so there is no sense in being quite so pure with him.”

“You lie,” growled the King.

“You are afraid of what you’ll discover. Go to her apartment now. Go … Go! And then thank me for opening your besotted eyes.”

The King turned and hurried from the room. He went immediately to Frances’s apartments; he pushed aside her attendants and went straight into that chamber where Frances was lying on a couch and the Duke of Richmond was sitting beside her holding her hand.

The King stood, legs apart, looking at them.

The Duke sprang to his feet. Frances did likewise.

“Sire …” began the Duke.

“Get out of here,” said the King ominously; and the Duke backed to the door and hurried away.

“So,” said the King, turning to Frances, “you entertain your lovers alone at times. Did you find his proposals to your liking?”

Frances said: “They were honorable proposals.”

“Honorable! And he here alone in your apartment?”

“Your Majesty must see that …”

“I know nothing of your behavior to this man,” said the King. “I can only draw conclusions, and I see this: that you, who have been so careful not to be alone with me, employ not the same care in his case.”

Frances had never seen Charles angry with her before, and she was alarmed; but she did not tremble before him; she knew he would not harm her.

She said: “Your Majesty, the Duke came hither to talk to me in an honorable fashion. He has no wife.”

“How far has this gone?”

“No farther than you saw. How could it? I would never submit to any man except my husband.”

“And you plan that he shall be that?”

“I plan nothing … yet.”

“Then he should not be here in your apartments.”

“Are the customs of the Court changing then?”

“We have always heard that you were set apart, that you did not accept the standards of the rest of us frail folk.”

He took her by the shoulders suddenly; his face was dark with passion.

“Frances,” he pleaded. “Have done with folly. Why do you so long hold out against me?”

She was frightened; she wrenched herself free and, running to the wall, clutched at the hangings as though childishly wishing to hide herself among them.

“I beg of Your Majesty to leave me,” she said.

She realized that his anger was still with him. He said: “One day mayhap you will be ugly and willing! I await that day with pleasure.”

Then he left her, and she knew that her relationship with the King had taken a new turn.

Frances, her fear still upon her, sought audience with the Queen.

She threw herself at Catherine’s feet and burst into tears.

“Your Majesty,” she cried, “I beg of you to help me. I am afraid. I have aroused the wrath of the King, and I have never seen him angry before. I fear that when his wrath is aroused it is more terrible than in those to whom anger comes more often.”

“You had better tell me what has happened,” said Catherine.

“He disturbed me with the Duke. He was furious with us both. The Duke has fled from Court. I know not what to do. He has never looked at me as he did then. He suspected … I know not what.”

“I think,” said Catherine sadly, “that he will not long be displeased with you.”

“It is not that I fear his displeasure, Your Majesty. He believes the Duke to be my lover; and I fear he will not have the same respect for me as hitherto.”

“That may be true,” agreed Catherine.

She felt then that she hated the beautiful face which was turned up to hers, hated it as much as she hated that other bold and arrogant one. These women with their beauty! It was cruel that they should have the power to take so easily that for which she longed, and longed in vain.

At that moment she would have given her rank and all she possessed to be in Frances Stuart’s place, loved and desired by the King.

He was angry with this girl, she was thinking; yet with me he never cared enough to be anything but kind.

She was aware of a rising passion within herself. She longed to rid the Court of all these women who claimed his attention. She believed he was tiring of Barbara, whose continual tantrums were at last wearing him down; but this young girl with her matchless beauty and her girlish ways was different. He loved this girl; he had even contemplated making her his wife. Catherine was sure of this.

She said suddenly: “If you married the Duke you would have a husband to protect you. You would show the King that he was mistaken in thinking you had taken a lover. Would you marry the Duke? He is the best match you could make.”

“Yes,” said Frances, “if it were possible. I would marry the Duke.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“But of course, Madam.”

“Then say nothing of this, but be ready to leave the Palace should the summons come.”

“Whither should I go?”

“To marriage with the Duke.”

“He has gone away. I do not know where he is.”

“Others will have means of knowing,” said the Queen. “Now go to your room and rest. Be ready to leave the Palace if need be.”

When Frances had gone, Catherine marveled at herself. I have come alive, she mused. I am fighting for what I desire more than anything on Earth. I have ceased to sit placidly waiting for what I want. Like others, I go out to get it.

Then she summoned one of her women and bade her bring the Chancellor to her.

Clarendon came, and they talked long and secretly together.

The King’s fury and sorrow, when he learned that Frances had eloped, was boundless.

He could not bear to think of Frances and her Duke together. He knew the young husband to be a worthless person, a devotee of the bottle, and he did not believe that Frances was in love with him. That she should have chosen such a man increased his rage. He declared he would never see Frances again. He blamed himself for having caused that scene in her apartments; he suspected several people of being concerned in helping the lovers to elope, and he vowed that he would never forgive them. The only person he did not suspect was the Queen.

He believed Clarendon to be the prime mover in the affair, and both Buckingham and Barbara confirmed this belief.

Barbara was delighted. Not only was she rid of her most dangerous rival, but Clarendon was in disgrace because of it.

The King’s natural easy temper deserted him on this occasion. He accused Clarendon and his son, Lord Cornbury, of conspiring to bring about the elopement, and for once would not let them speak in their defense. He was unable to hide his grief. All the Court now understood the depth of his feeling for Frances and that it was very different from the light emotions he felt for his mistresses.

This was the most unhappy time of his life. He dreaded the coming of the spring when his ships, still laid up and in need of repairs, would be required to set out to face their enemies; he did not know how he was going to make good the country’s losses which were a direct result of the plague and the fire.

His position was wretched, and there was only one person at that time who could have made him feel that life was worthwhile. Now he had to think of her—for he could not stop thinking of her—in the arms of another man.

His rage and grief stayed with him; and at length he turned to one whose very outspoken vulgarity seemed to soothe him.

Barbara was in the ascendant again, and it seemed that the King was spending as much time with her as he had in the first days of his infatuation.

Barbara was determined that Buckingham should not go unpunished for his support of Frances Stuart, which was blatantly inimical to her interests.

Buckingham had become involved with a woman, notorious for her love affairs. This was Lady Shrewsbury, a plump, languorous beauty whose lovers were said to be as numerous as those of Barbara herself. She was a woman who seemed to incite men to violence, and several duels had been fought on her account. When he fell under her spell, Buckingham appeared to become more reckless than even he had been before, and was continually engaged in quarreling with almost everyone with whom he came into contact. His passion for Lady Shrewsbury increased as the months passed. He followed her wherever she went; and she was by no means loath to add the brilliant and witty, as well as rich and handsome, Duke to her list of lovers. On their first meeting, the Earl of Shrewsbury had quarreled with Buckingham, but neither Lady Shrewsbury nor Buckingham took the slightest notice of their marriage vows; and both the Earl and Lady Buckingham should, from their long experience, not have expected them to take such notice. Buckingham could not tear himself away from his new love; he was drinking heavily; he quarreled with Lord Falconbridge, and the quarrel threatened to end in a duel. He tried to quarrel with Clarendon; he attacked the Duke of Ormond; at a committee meeting he pulled the nose of the Marquess of Worcester; he insulted Prince Rupert in the street, whereupon the Prince pulled him off his horse and challenged him on the spot. Only the King could pacify his infuriated cousin. There was a quarrel at the theater whither he had gone with Lady Shrewsbury. Harry Killigrew, who was in the next box and was one of Lady Shrewsbury’s discarded lovers, began attacking them both and shouting to all in the theater that Lady Shrewsbury had been his mistress—and declaring indeed there was not a man in the theater who might not aspire to the lady’s favors, for she was insatiable in her demand for lovers—and that if the Duke believed he was her sole lover they could wager the very shirts on their backs that he was wrong.

The audience watched with great interest while the Duke ordered Killigrew to be quiet, and Lady Shrewsbury leaned forward in her box, sleepy-eyed, half smiling; for, next to getting men to make love to her, she liked setting them to fight each other; nor did she in the least mind being stared at.

Killigrew drew his sword and struck the Duke with the flat side of it. Buckingham thereupon sprang out of his own box and into Killigrew’s, but Killigrew had already leaped out of his and was scuttling across the theater. The Duke flew after him, to the delight of the audience who found this far more entertaining than the play which was being performed on the stage. The Duke caught Killigrew, snatched off his periwig and threw it high in the air; then he set upon the man until he begged for mercy.

Killigrew was given a short term of imprisonment for the offense, and banished; and Barbara persuaded the King that her relative should also be banished until he learned to be less quarrelsome.

So Buckingham departed for the country, taking with him his wife and Lady Shrewsbury. There, he declared, he was content to stay. He had his music and his mistress, his chemists and his uncomplaining wife.

He knew though that Barbara was responsible for his banishment, and he promised himself that he would not let her escape punishment altogether, although he agreed that in trying to promote a marriage between Frances and the King he had not acted in the interest of his fiery cousin.

In his pastoral retreat he would have stayed, had not one of those men, who had professed to be his friends, made an accusation of high treason against him; the charge was of forecasting the King’s death by horoscope.

He was ordered to return to London and sent to the Tower.

Barbara was now furious that a member of her family should be so imprisoned. She had merely wished that he should receive a light rap over the knuckles for having supported Frances’s interest against hers.

She had forgotten that the King was no longer in love with her, and that it was only his acute sorrow in the loss of Frances which had made him turn to her. She believed her power to be as great as it had ever been, and she strode into his apartments, as soon as she heard the news, and cried aloud: “What means this? You would imprison your best servant on the false testimony of rogues!”

The King cried in exasperation: “You are a meddling jade who dabbles in things of which she knows nothing.”

Barbara was furious. “You are a fool!” she shouted, not caring who heard her.

“Be careful!” he warned.

“Fool! Fool! Fool!” was Barbara’s retort. “If you were not one, you would not suffer your business to be carried on by fools that do not understand it, and cause your best subjects and those best able to serve you to be imprisoned.”

“Have done, you evil woman,” cried the King.

He strode away and left her; she fumed up and down the apartment, declaring that ere long she would have her cousin free. It should be learned that any who dared imprison a noble Villiers was the enemy of the entire family.

By that she meant Clarendon.

And it was not long before Barbara had her way. No case could be proved against Buckingham. The paper on which he was supposed to have drawn up the horoscope was given to the King, who confronted Buckingham with it; but the Duke declared he had never before seen it, and asked the King if he did not recognize his (Buckingham’s) sister’s writing upon it.

“Why, ’tis the result of some frolic of hers about another person whose birthday happens to be the same as Your Majesty’s. Your Majesty’s name does not appear on the paper.”

The King studied the paper afresh; he considered the whole matter to be too trivial for his attention, and he said so.

“Have done with this business,” he cried. “There is no need to press the matter further.”

Buckingham was released, though he was wise enough to know that he must not yet appear at Court.

Clarendon had imprisoned him. He decided, and Barbara agreed, that Clarendon’s day must soon be over.

The Fleet was crippled; the navy in debt to the extent of over a million pounds. There were two alternatives: not to repair the ships but to keep them laid up, and sue for peace; or bankruptcy.

Charles, with his brother, their cousin Rupert, and Albemarle passionately declared that the ships should be refitted at whatever cost to the nation; but the will of the Council prevailed.

The Dutch, however, were not prepared to make an easy peace. Why should they? They had had peaceful months in which to refit their ships; they had spent three times as much on the war as the English had. They believed that action was better than words at a conference table; and they were not going to lay up their ships merely because their enemy had been forced to do so.

It seemed to all Englishmen in the years to come that in June of the year 1667 there fell upon their land the greatest calamity which had ever touched its pride and honor.

On that warm summer’s day some nine months after the Fire of London, the Dutch fleet sailed up the Medway as far as Chatham. They burned the Royal Oak, the Royal James and the Loyal London, together with other men-of-war; they blew up the fortifications and, towing the Royal Charles, they returned the way they had come, while their trumpeters impudently played the old English song “Joan’s Placket is Torn” and on either side of the river Englishmen looked on, powerless to prevent them.

Crippled by the great plague and the great fire of London, England suffered the most shameful defeat of her history.

The people were numb with shame and anger.

They could not understand how such an insult could be aimed at them. They had believed they were winning the war against Holland. They had shown themselves to be seamen equal to—nay, better than—the Dutchmen. They had not been defeated in action. It was plague and fire which had defeated them, together with the threat of bankruptcy.

Revolution was again in the air. Much money had been raised for the conduct of the war; why then had it come to such a shameful end?

Someone was wrong. Someone must be blamed. And it was the custom to look to the most unpopular man in the kingdom on whom to fix blame.

Mobs pulled up the trees in front of Clarendon’s Piccadilly house. It was true, shouted the people, that he had betrayed them. Was he not the friend of the French, and were the French not siding with the Dutch enemies of England? Who had sold Dunkirk? Who had married the King to a barren Queen that his own grandchildren might inherit the throne of England?

The people needed a scapegoat and, as Charles studied their mood, he knew that they must have him before Parliament reassembled.

Clarendon had been universally disliked since the early days of the Restoration; never had a man possessed more enemies. But for Charles’ protection over the last years, he would have long ago been set down from his high post.

Now Charles himself no longer desired his services. He had grown tired of the man’s continual reproaches. No Chancellor should speak to a King as Clarendon talked to his. Charles had always been ready to listen to reproaches from men of virtue, because he knew that he himself was far from virtuous. He had always maintained that every man had a right to his opinion and to the expression of that opinion. It was a view with which Clarendon had not approved. But, thought Charles, while those virtuous people, who spoke their minds freely concerning the faults of others, might in many cases have right on their side, they became increasingly unattractive; moreover it was other people’s faults which they surveyed with such contempt, while they were apt to turn a blind eye to their own. Such as Clarendon believed that if a man lived a pious life and was faithful to one woman—and she his wife—intolerance, cruelty and carelessness of the feelings of others were no sins. That is where I differ, thought Charles; for I hold malice to be the greatest of sins; and I cannot believe that God would wish to make a man miserable for the sake of taking a little pleasure out of his way.

But Clarendon must go. The country was demanding it; and if he stayed, the people might be incited to revolution. Moreover, Charles did not feel inclined to protect a man who, he was sure, had done everything in his power to rob him of Frances Stuart.

But he did not wish Clarendon to suffer more than need be. He remembered the good advice the old man had given him when he was a wandering prince.

So he called the Duke of York to him—for, after all, James was Clarendon’s son-in-law—and they talked together concerning the Chancellor.

“He has to go,” said Charles.

James did not think so. James was a fool, alas. Charles wondered what would happen to him if he lived to wear the crown, which might easily come to pass, as he, Charles, was possessed, it would seem, of a barren wife.

“He is blamed for the conduct of the war,” said Charles. “Did you not know that on the day the Dutch sailed up the Medway the mob broke his windows and pulled down the trees before his house?”

“He is not to blame. He took little part in the conduct of the war and only agreed to the suggestions of the experts.”

“People rage against him. They say he has excluded the right men from ministerial posts and given those posts to those whom he considered to be of the nobility. Since you made his daughter a possible queen, he has, you will admit, been inclined to be haughty to the more lowly.”

James’ mouth was stubborn. Charles knew that in supporting his father-in-law he was obeying his wife, for James was known to be under Anne Hyde’s control. Only a short while ago, Charles remembered, he had likened his brother to the henpecked husband in Epicene, or The Silent Woman, a play which had afforded him much amusement. Charles remembered ruefully that when he had mentioned this, one of the wits who surrounded him—and whom he had ordered to forget “His Majesty” in the cause of wit—had wanted to know whether it was better to be henpecked by a mistress than a wife.

That made him think momentarily of Barbara. He was wishing that he could rid himself of her. Her rages were becoming more and more unbearable; they ceased to amuse as they had once done. If only Frances were at Court, and amenable!

The memory of Frances turned his thoughts back to Clarendon who, he was sure, had done his best to arrange Frances’ marriage.

He said: “The people accuse him of advising me to rule without a Parliament.”

“That,” said James, “was what our father tried to do.”

“I have no intention of doing it. James, face the truth. The peace we have concluded with the French and Dutch at Breda is a shameful one. The people must have a scapegoat. They demand a scapegoat, and none will do but Clarendon. Do you know that I have been threatened with the same fate which befell our father if I do not part with him? As for myself, his behavior and humors are insupportable to me and all the world else. I can no longer live with it. I must do those things which must be done with the Parliament, or the Government will be lost. James, do you want to set out on your wanderings once more? Have you forgotten the Hague and Paris? Have you forgotten what it means to be an exile? But mayhap we were lucky to be exiles. Our father was less fortunate. Be practical, brother. Be reasonable. He is your father-in-law. He was my old friend. I forget not his services to me. Do not let his enemies seize him and make a prisoner of him. God knows what would be his fate if he were taken to the Tower. Go to him now. Urge him to retire of his own free will. I doubt not that then he will be saved much trouble.”

The Duke at length saw the wisdom of his brother’s plan and agreed to do this.

After his interview with the Duke of York, Clarendon came to see the King. He still spoke in the manner of a schoolmaster. “And have you forgotten the days of your exile so soon then?” he asked. “Can you be so ungrateful as to cast off an old and faithful servant?”

Charles was moved to pity. He said: “I warn you. I am sure that you will be impeached when the next Parliament sits. Too many are your enemies. If you value your own safety, resign now. Avoid the indignity of being forced to do so.”

“Resign! I have been your chief minister ever since you were a King in fact—and indeed before that. Resign because my enemies blame me for the Dutch disaster! Your Majesty knows that my policy was not responsible for that defeat.”

Charles said: “The plague, the fire, our lack of money—they are responsible for our disasters. I know that, my friend. I know it. But you have many enemies, many who have determined on your ruin. You are growing old. Why should you not spend your remaining days in comfortable retirement? That is what I should wish for you. I implore you, give up the Seal on your own account, before they take it from you and inflict God knows what. They are in an ugly mood.”

“I shall never give up the Seal unless forced to do so,” said Clarendon.

Charles lifted his shoulders and left the apartment.

Barbara knew that Clarendon was with the King; she knew that the old man was receiving his dismissal. She was hilarious in her delight. For years she had worked for this—ever since the day he had refused to allow his wife to visit her.

Now she waited in her bedchamber and joked with those who had gathered round her to witness what they knew to be the humiliating dismissal of the Chancellor.

“Who was he to forbid his wife to see me!” demanded Barbara. “I was the King’s mistress; his daughter was the Duke’s before she duped him into making her his wife. And do you remember how he disowned her … how he declared he would rather see her James’ mistress than his wife! Yet he thought his family too fine … too virtuous to consort with me. Old fool! Mayhap he wishes he had not been so fine and virtuous now.”

“He has left the King,” cried one of her friends. “He comes across the gardens now.”

Barbara ran out into her aviary that she might not miss the sight of the old man’s humiliation.

“There he goes!” she called. “There goes the man who was the Chancellor. Look you! He holds not his head so high as he once did.”

Then she broke into peals of mocking laughter, in which her companions joined.

Clarendon walked quickly on as though he did not hear them.

Clarendon’s enemies, led by Buckingham, were not content with Clarendon’s dismissal. They were determined to arraign him on a charge of high treason. Charges were drawn up, among which was one accusing him of betraying the King’s confidences to foreign Powers, and as this was nothing less than high treason it was clear that his enemies were after the ex-Chancellor’s blood.

Charles was perturbed. He agreed that Clarendon was too old for his task, that his manner caused nothing but trouble to all those—including the King himself—who came into contact with him; he knew that his enemies had determined to destroy him.

He wished to be rid of Clarendon; yet he would not stand by and see an old friend forced to the executioner’s block if he could help it.

He sent word in secret to Clarendon, telling him that unless he left the country at once he would find himself facing a trial for high treason.

Clarendon at last saw reason.

On the night after he had received Charles’ message he was on his way to Calais.

Barbara was delighted with the dismissal of Clarendon. She felt that her ascendancy over Charles was regained. She was congratulating herself on the disgrace of Frances Stuart who, she was sure, had wounded the King’s amour propre to such an extent that she would never be taken back into favor again.

Barbara laughed over the affairs of Mrs. Stuart and Clarendon with her newest lover—little Henry Jermyn, one of the worst rakes at Court, and one of the smallest men to be met there; it was amusing to have for lovers the little Jermyn and the six-foot-tall King. Barbara was momentarily contented.

As for Catherine, she was hopeful. She did not believe that Charles was really in love with Barbara, and she knew that he was deeply wounded by the elopement of Frances; she often rode out with the King, and the people who, blaming Clarendon for the Dutch disaster, had taken Charles back completely into their affection, would cheer them.

Everywhere the King went was sung the latest song from the play Catch that Catch Can or The Musical Companion; and it was sung wholeheartedly.

“Here’s a health unto His Majesty,

With a fa, la, la;

Conversion to his enemies,

With a fa, la, la.

And he that will not pledge his health,

I wish him neither wit nor wealth,

Nor yet a rope to hang himself,

With a fa, la, la.”

Catherine would discuss with Charles his plans for rebuilding the City and, as he seemed to ceased mourning over past failures and had his eyes firmly fixed on the future, she found that she could follow his lead.

If only she could have a child! Then she believed that, with his own legitimate son and a wife who was ready to love him so tenderly, she and Charles could build a very happy relationship. God knew that she was willing and she could not believe that he, who was the kindest man in the world, could feel otherwise.

Charles believed that the new cabinet council would succeed where Clarendon had failed. This was already beginning to be called the “Cabal” because of the first letters of the names of the five men who were its members: Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham, Ashley and Lauderdale. He was seeing Christopher Wren every day, and it seemed that before long a new City would spring up to replace the old one of wooden houses and narrow streets.

Catherine was delighted to hear good news from her own country, and to learn that her brother, Don Pedro, had now succeeding in deposing his brother Alphonso; for Alphonso had become duller-witted as time passed and now, being almost an imbecile, it had seemed that unless there could be a peaceful abdication and the security of Portugal assured by Pedro, the Spaniards might march and subdue the disunited land.

Everything is working towards some good end, decided Catherine.

But one day Donna Maria asked her if she had noticed that the King was visiting the theater more regularly than usual. Donna Maria had heard that there was a reason for this, other than the play itself.

Barbara was fuming.

“I can scarcely believe it!” she cried. “So His Majesty will demean himself as far as that! He will go to a theater and, because some minx on the stage leers boldly enough, the King is delighted. The King is in love with a low playing wench.”

“Madam,” said Mrs. Sarah, “I beg of you make no scenes in public.”

Barbara slapped the woman’s face, but not too hard. She valued Mrs. Sarah too much.

“Madam,” said Mrs. Sarah, standing back a little and placing her hands on her hips, “the King is enamored of a wench at the play. She dances a merry jig, and that pleases him.”

“A pretty state of affairs! No wonder the young men of this City are such that modest maidens dare not go abroad. No wonder no woman is safe!”

Mrs. Sarah had turned aside to hide a titter.

“Don’t dare laugh at me, woman, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

“Come, my lady, you’re not afraid to go abroad!”

“By God, no!” cried Barbara. “Nor to go to the theater and to order the crowd to pelt the lewd creature with oranges and to hoot her off the stage.”

“The King would not be pleased.”

“The King will not be pleased! And should I be pleased to see him so demean himself?”

Mrs. Sarah turned away. Even she dared not say that there were some who would consider he demeaned himself far more by his subservience to Lady Castlemaine than by any light fancy he might have for a play-actress.

Barbara demanded that her hat with the yellow plume be brought for her, her carriage called.

“You’re not going to the play, my lady?” cried Mrs. Sarah.

“Of a certainty I am going to the play,” retorted Barbara.

With the patch under her right eye to set off the brilliance of those features, and the small spot by her mouth to call attention to the fullness of her lips, and ablaze with jewels to the value of some £40,000, she set out to see Dryden’s new play The Maiden Queen, for the part of Florimel was played by an Eleanor Gwyn, and it was said that the King was somewhat taken with the actress, although he was more deeply involved with another playgirl named Moll Davies.

“Play-girls!” muttered Barbara. “This is too much to be borne.” She would sit in her box—next to the King’s—and she would look haughtily at the stage, and then perhaps he would compare her with the low creature who, it was said, had caught his fancy with her merry jig and playing of a part.

She was aware of the interest of the pit as she took her place in the box. She looked over their heads and appeared to be concentrating on the stage. She liked the common people to stare at her, and she was glad she was glittering with jewels, and that the yellow plume in her hat so became her. The orange-girls stared at her in candid admiration; all eyes in the house were on her. The King and his brother, however, were watching the stage, and that maddened her.

And there was the girl—a small, bright, slender thing with tumbled curls and a cockney wit which the part would not suppress. A low-born player! thought Barbara; yet the King and the Duke were intent. And the player knew it; that was evident from the way in which she darted quick glances at the royal box.

The King knew Barbara was there; but he was growing very indifferent to Barbara—even to the scenes she would create. He kept his eyes on the stage.

But now one of the players had caught Barbara’s attention. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever set eyes on, and what a physique! Her eyes glittered and narrowed; mayhap there was an attraction about these players.

She turned to the woman who had accompanied her, and pointed to the man.

“Charles Hart, my lady. Eleanor Gwyn, they say, is his mistress.”

Barbara felt an inclination to laugh. She said to her woman: “You will go to Mr. Charles Hart and tell him that he may call on me.”

“Call on your ladyship!”

“Are you deaf, fool? That was what I said. And tell him there should be no delay. I will see him at eight of the clock this night.”

The woman was alarmed, but, like all those in Barbara’s service, realizing the need for immediate obedience, left Barbara’s box.

Barbara sat back, vaguely aware of the King in his box, of the girl on the stage, and the play which was about to end.

“I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty,” said the impudent little player, “and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five and twenty.”

The pit roared its approval and called: “Dance your jig, Nelly. Dance your jig!”

The girl had come forward and was talking to them, and the King was laughing and applauding with all those in the pit.

Charles Hart! thought Barbara. “What a handsome man!” Why had she not come to the theater to look for a lover before now? And how piquant to take the lover of that brazen creature who was daring to throw languorous glances at the King!

The King was visiting Barbara less frequently; his relationship with the Queen had settled into a friendly one, but Catherine knew that she was as far as ever from reaching that relationship which she had enjoyed during the honeymoon. And it seemed to her that morals at the Court were growing more and more lax with the passing of the years.

The affair of Buckingham was characteristic of the conduct of the times. The Earl of Shrewsbury had challenged the Duke to a duel on account of his misconduct with Anna Shrewsbury, and on a cold January day they met. Their seconds engaged each other and one was killed, another badly wounded, so Buckingham and Shrewsbury were left to fight alone. Buckingham fatally wounded Shrewsbury, and a week or so later Shrewsbury was dead. There was an uproar in the Commons against the duelists even before Shrewsbury died, and the King promised that he would impose the extreme penalty in future on any who engaged in dueling; sober people were disgusted that one of their chief ministers should have engaged himself in a duel over his mistress; and when Shrewsbury died, Buckingham came very near to being expelled from the Cabal. Wild rumors were circulated. It was said that Lady Shrewsbury, disguised as a page, had held her lover’s horse and witnessed her husband’s murder, and that the two lovers, unable to suppress their lust, satisfied it there and then while Buckingham was still bespattered with the husband’s blood.

Buckingham was reckless and quite indifferent to public abuse. When Lady Shrewsbury was a widow he took her to Wallingford House, where the Duchess of Buckingham was living, and when she protested that she and her husband’s mistress could not live under the same roof, he answered her coolly: “I did think that also, Madam. Therefore I ordered your coach to carry you back to your father’s house.”

Some of those who followed the course of events were shocked; more were merely amused. The King had his own seraglio; it was understandable that those about him should follow his example. Lady Castlemaine had never contented herself with one lover; as she grew older she seemed to find the need for more and more.

After her association with Charles Hart she discovered a fancy for other players.

One day, masked and wrapped in a cloak, she went to St. Bartholomew’s Fair and saw there a rope-dancer—who immediately fascinated her. His name was Jacob Hill, she was told, and after his performance she sent for him.

He proved so satisfactory that she gave him a salary which was far greater than anything he had dreamed of earning; and thus, she said, he could give up his irksome profession for a more interesting one.

Like the King, she was learning that there was a great deal of fun to be had outside Court circles.

Catherine tried to resign herself, to content herself because the news from Portugal was good. Her young brother Pedro had contrived to establish himself firmly on the throne; he had arranged that his sister-in-law, Alphonso’s wife, should obtain a divorce and marry him; Alphonso was put quietly away and all seemed well in Portugal. Catherine had hopes that one day the dowry promised by her mother would be paid to Charles; and she marveled at the goodness of her husband who never but once—and that when he was deeply incensed with her for denying him the one thing he had asked of her—had mentioned the fact that the dowry (the very reason for his marrying her) had not been paid in full.

So, saddened yet resigned, she continued to love her husband dearly and to hope that one day, when he tired of gaiety and his mistresses, he would remember the wife who, for the brief period of a honeymoon at Hampton Court, had been the happiest woman in the world because she had believed her husband loved her.

Then Frances Stuart came back to Court.

The King received the news calmly. All were watching him to see what his reaction would be. Barbara was alert. She had her troupe of lovers, but she was as eager as ever to keep the favor of the King; she still behaved as maitresse en titre, but she was aware that the King knew of her many lovers, and the fact that he raised no objection was disconcerting. What would happen, she asked herself, now that Frances had returned? Frances, the wife of the Duke of Richmond and Lennox, might, as a married woman, find herself more free to indulge in a love affair with the King than she had been as an unmarried one. If she did, Barbara believed she would have a formidable rival indeed.

Catherine was uneasy. She knew that a faction about the King had never ceased to agitate for a divorce, and that the powerful Buckingham was at the head of this contingent. Catherine had proved, they said, that she could not bear children; the King had proved that he was still potent. It was unsound policy, declared these men, to continue in a marriage which was fruitless. England needed an heir. These men were influenced by another consideration: If the King died childless, his brother, the Duke of York, would follow him, and the Duke of York had not only adopted the Catholic religion but he was the enemy of many of these men.

Catherine knew that they were her bitter enemies. She was unmoved by the arrival of Frances. Frances could not now become the wife of the King since she had a husband of her own; and if she became the King’s mistress, she would now be one of many.

But when the King and Frances met, the King received her coolly. It was clear, said everyone, that when she had run away with the Duke of Richmond and Lennox she had spoiled her chances with the King.

It was not long after Frances’s return to Court that all had an opportunity of understanding the depth of Charles’ affection for his distant cousin.

Frances was now even more beautiful than when she had left. Marriage with the Duke had sobered her; she was less giddy; if she still played card houses it was with an abstracted air. The Duke, her husband, was not only besotted, he was indifferent; he had wished to marry her only because the King had so ardently desired her; in fact, Frances had quickly realized that her marriage had been one of the biggest mistakes of her life. She had her apartments in Somerset House, the home of the King’s mother, Henrietta Maria, for she was not invited to take up residence in her old apartments in Whitehall. It was very different being merely the wife of the Duke of Richmond and Lennox and a woman who had offended the King so deeply that she would never be taken back into his favor again. There were fewer people to visit her and applaud all she did. Buckingham and Arlington, those devoted admirers, seemed now to have forgotten her existence. Lady Castlemaine laughed at her insolently whenever they met. Barbara was determined to flaunt her continued friendship with the King, which had lasted nearly ten years; Frances’s spell of favor had been so very brief.

“The King must amuse himself,” Barbara said in her hearing. “He takes up with women one week and by the next he finds it difficult to recall their names.”

So Frances, the petted darling of the Court, the King’s most honored friend, found herself neglected because she no longer held the King’s favor. There was no point in seeking to please her; for what good could her friendship bring them? It was astonishing how many of those who had sworn she was the most beautiful creature on Earth now scarcely seemed to notice her.

She was beautiful—none more beautiful at the Court; she was far less foolish than she had been, but her circle of friends had dwindled astonishingly and she was often lonely in her rooms at Somerset House. Now and then she thought of returning to the country.

Sitting solitarily, building card houses, she thought often of the old days; she thought of the charm of the King and compared it with the ungracious manners of her husband; she thought of the Duke’s indifference to her and of the King’s continual care.

She covered her face with her hands and wept. If ever she had been in love with anyone it had been with Charles.

She left her card house to collapse onto the table, and went to a mirror; her face looked back at her, perfect in contour and coloring; lacking the simplicity it had possessed when Charles had so eagerly sought her, but surely losing nothing of beauty for that.

She must go to Court; she must seek him out. She would humbly beg his pardon, not for refusing to become his mistress—he would not expect that—but because she had run away and married against his wishes, because she had flouted him, because she had been such a fool as to prefer the drunken Duke to her passionate, but so kind and affectionate King.

She called to her women.

“Come,” she cried. “Dress me in my most becoming gown. Dress my hair in ringlets. I am going to pay a call … a very important call.”

They dressed her, and she thought of the reunion as they did so. She would throw herself onto her knees first and beg his forgiveness. She would say that she had tried to go against the tide; she had believed in virtue, but now she could see no virtue in marriage with a man such as she had married. She would ask Charles to forget the past; and perhaps they would start again.

“My lady, your hands are burning,” said one of her women. “You are too flushed. You have a fever.”

“It is the excitement because I am to pay a most important call … I will wear that blue sash with the gold embroidery.”

Her women looked at each other in astonishment. “There is no blue sash, my lady. The sash is purple, and the embroidery on it is silver.”

Frances put her hand to her head. “Dark webs seem to dance before my eyes,” she muttered.

“You should rest, my lady, before you pay that call.”

Even as they spoke she would have fallen if two of them had not managed to catch her.

“Take me to my bed,” she murmured.

They carried her thither, and in alarm they called the physician to her bedside. One of the women had recognized the alarming symptoms of the dreaded smallpox.

The Court buzzed with the news.

So Frances Stuart was suffering from the smallpox! Fate seemed determined to put an end to her sway, for only if she came unscathed from the dread disease, her beauty unimpaired, could she hope to return to the King’s favor.

Barbara was exultant. It was hardly likely that Frances would come through unmarked; so few people did, and Barbara’s spies informed her that Frances had taken the disease very badly. “Praise be to God!” cried Barbara. “Madam Frances will no longer be able to call herself the beauty of the Court. Dolt! She threw away what she might have had when she was young and fair and the King sought her; she married her drunken sot, and much good has that done her. I’ll swear she was planning to come back and regain Charles’ favor. She’ll see that the pockmarked hag she’ll become will best retire to the country and hide herself.”

The King heard the sly laughter. He heard the whispers. “They say the most beautiful of Duchesses has become the most hideous.”“Silly Frances, there’ll be no one to hand her her cards now.”“Poor Frances! Silly Frances! What had she but her beauty?”

Catherine watched the King wistfully. She saw that he was melancholy, and she asked him to tell her the reason.

He turned to her frankly and replied: “I think of poor Frances Stuart.”

“It has been the lot of other women to lose their beauty through the pox,” said Catherine. “Her case is but one of many.”

“Nay,” said the King. “Hers is unique, for the pox could never have robbed a woman of so much beauty as it could rob poor Frances!”

“Some women have to learn to do without what they cannot have.”

He smiled at Catherine. “No one visits her,” he said.

“And indeed they should not. The infection will still be upon her.”

“I think of poor Frances robbed of beauty and friends, and I find myself no longer angry with her.”

“If she recovers it will bring great comfort to her to know that she no longer must suffer your displeasure.”

“She needs comfort now,” declared the King. “If she does not have it, poor soul, she will die of melancholy.”

He was thinking of her in her little cocked hat, in her black-and-white gown with the diamonds sparkling in her hair—Frances, the most beautiful woman of his Court, and now, if she recovered, one of its most hideous. For the pox was a cruel destroyer of beauty, and Frances was suffering a severe attack.

Catherine, watching him, felt such twinges of jealousy that she could have buried her face in her hands and wept in her misery. She thought: If he could speak of me as he speaks of her, if he could care so much for me if I suffered the like affliction, I believe I would be willing to suffer as Frances has suffered. He loves her still. None of the others can mean as much to him as that simple girl, of whom it was once said: “Never had a woman so much beauty, and so little wit.”

He smiled at Catherine, but she knew he did not see her. His eyes were shining and his mouth tender; he was looking beyond her into the past when Frances Stuart had ridden beside him and he had been at his wit’s end to think of means to overcome her resistance.

He turned and hurried away, and a little later she saw him walking briskly to the river’s edge where his barge was waiting.

Catherine stood watching him, and slowly the tears began to run down her cheeks.

She knew where he was going. He was going to risk infection; he was going to do something which would set all the Court talking; for he was going to show them all that, although he had been cool towards the lovely Frances Stuart because she had flouted him in her marriage, all was forgiven the poor, stricken girl who was in danger of losing that very beauty which had so attracted him.

For love like that, thought Catherine, I would welcome the pox. For love like that I would die.

Frances lay in her bed. She had asked for a mirror, and had stared a long time at the face she saw reflected there. How cruel was fate! Why, she asked herself, should it have made her the most beautiful of women, only to turn her into one of the most hideous! If only the contrast had been less marked! It was as though she had been shown the value of beauty in those days of the Restoration, only that she might mourn its loss. Gone was the dazzling pink-and-white complexion; in its place was yellow skin covered by small pits which, not content with ravaging the skin itself, had distorted the perfect contours of her face. The lid of one eye, heavily pitted, was dragged down over the pupil so that she could see nothing through it, and the effect was to make her look grotesque.

Nothing of beauty was left to her; even her lovely slender figure was wasted and so thin that she feared the bones would pierce her skin.

Alone she lay, for none came to visit her. How was that possible, who would dare risk taking the dread disease?

And when I am recovered, she thought, still none will visit me. And any who should be so misguided as to do so will be disgusted with what they see.

She wanted to weep; in the old days she had wept so easily. Now there were no tears. She was aware only of a dumb misery. There was none to love her, none to care what became of her.

Perhaps, she pondered, I will go into a convent. How can I live all the years ahead of me, shut away from the world? I am not studious; I am not clever. How can I live my life shut away from the Court life to which I have grown accustomed?

How would it be to have old friends, who once had been eager to admire, turning away from her in disgust? There would be no one to love her; she had nothing to hope for from her husband. He had married the fair Stuart whom the King so desired because he had believed that, the King finding her so fair, she must be desirable indeed. Now … there would be none.

She could see from her bed the boulle cabinet inlaid with tortoiseshell and ivory. It was a beautiful thing and a present from the King in those days when he had eagerly besought her to become his mistress. She remembered his pleasure when he had shown her the thirty secret drawers and the silver gilt fittings. The cabinet was decorated with tortoiseshell hearts, and she remembered that he had said: “These are reminders that you possess one which is not made of tortoiseshell and beats for you alone.”

Beside her bed was the marquetry table, ebony inlaid, and decorated with pewter—another of Charles’ elaborate presents.

She would have these to remind her always that once she had been so beautiful that a King had sought her favors. Few would believe that in the days to come, for they would look at a hideous woman and laugh secretly at the very suggestion that her beauty could ever have attracted a King who worshipped beauty as did Charles.

All was over. Her life had been built on her beauty; and her beauty was in ruins.

Someone had entered the room, someone tall and dark.

She did not believe it was he. She could not. She had been thinking of him so vividly that she must have conjured him up out of her imagination.

He approached the bed.

“Oh, God!” she cried. “It is the King … the King himself.”

She brought up her hands to cover her face, but found she could not touch the loathsome thing she believed that face to be. She turned to the wall and sobbed: “Go away! Go away! Do not look at me. Do not come here to mock me!”

But he was there, kneeling by the bed; he had taken her hands.

“Frances,” he said, in a voice husky with emotion, “you must not grieve. You must not.”

“I beg of you go away and leave me in my misery,” she said. “You think of what I was. You see what I have become. You … you of all people must be laughing at me … you must be triumphant…. If you have any kindness in you … go away.”

“Nay,” he said. “I would not go just yet. I would speak with you, Frances. We have been too long bad friends.”

She did not answer. She believed the hot, scalding smart on the face she loathed meant tears.

She felt his lips on her hands. He must be mad. Did he not know that there might still be danger of contagion?

“I came because I could not endure that we should be bad friends, Frances,” he said. “You were ill and alone, so I came to see you.”

She shook her head. “Now go, I beg of you. I implore you. I know you cannot bear to look at anything so ugly as I have become. You cannot have anything but loathing for me now.”

“One does not loathe friends—if the friendship be a true one—whatever befalls them.”

“You desired me for my beauty.” Her voice broke on a cracked note. “My beauty…. I am not only no longer beautiful, I am hideous. I know how you hate everything ugly. I can appeal only to your pity.”

“I loved you, Frances,” he said. “’Od’s Fish! I did not know how much until you ran away and left me. And now I find you sick and alone, deserted by your friends. I came hither to say this to you, Frances: Here is one friend who will not desert you.”

“Nay … nay …” she said. “You will never bear to look upon me after this.”

“I shall visit you every day until you are able to leave your bed. Then you must return to Court.”

“To be jeered at!”

“None would dare jeer at my friend. Moreover, you despair too soon. There are remedies for the effects of the pox. Many have tried them. I will ask my sister to tell me what the latest French remedies are for improving the skin. Your eye will recover its sight. Frances, do not despair.”

“If I had been less beautiful,” she murmured, “it would have been easier.”

He said: “Let us talk of other matters. I will tell you of the fashions of which I hear from my sister. The French are far in advance of us and I will ask her to send French dresses for you. How would you like to come to Court in a dress from Paris?”

“With a mask over my face, mayhap I might,” said Frances bitterly.

“Frances, this is not like you. You used to laugh so gaily when the card houses of others collapsed. Do you remember?”

She nodded. Then she said sadly: “Now my house has collapsed, and I see that cards were such flimsy things … so worthless with which to build a house.”

He pressed her hands; and she turned to look into his face, hoping for what she could not possibly expect to find; the tenderness of his voice deceived her.

How could he love her—hideous as she had become? She thought of the flaming beauty of Barbara Castlemaine; she thought of the dainty gamin charm of the player with whom she had heard he was spending much time. And how could he love Frances Stuart who had had nothing but her unsurpassed beauty, of which the hideous pox had now completely robbed her?

She had caught him off his guard.

She had allowed him to see her once beautiful face hideously distorted, and he knew and she knew that, whatever remedies there were, nothing could restore its beauty; and she also knew that what had prompted him to visit her was nothing but the kindness of heart he would have for any sick animal. Thus would he have behaved for any of his little dogs or the creatures he kept in his parks.

Of all those who had courted and flattered her in the days when she had enjoyed the power her beauty had brought, there was only one who came now to visit her—the King himself; and, because of this, when she was well and no longer a danger to them, others would come, not because they cared what became of her, but because it was the custom to follow the King.

He had come in her affliction; she would always remember that. He had risked grave sickness and possibly death by coming to her when she had felt prepared to take a quick way out of this world.

Now he sat there on the bed and was trying to act a part; he was trying to be gay, trying to pretend that soon she would be back at Court, and the old game—she evasive, he persuasive—would begin again.

But although he was a tolerably good actor, there had been one moment of revelation when she had seen clearly that he had no feeling for her but one, and that was pity.