A Health Unto His Majesty

SIX

It was springtime, and Catherine was filled with new hope. If all went well this time she might indeed present an heir to the nation. It was seven years since she had come to England, and she was more deeply in love with Charles than she had been during that ecstatic honeymoon. She no longer hoped to have his love exclusively; it would be enough for her if she might share it with all those who made demands upon it. He had so many mistresses that none was quite sure how many; he had taken a fancy to several actresses whom he saw at the theater; and, although his passion for these women was usually fleeting, he had remained constant to Eleanor Gwyn, who was affectionately known throughout the Court and country as Nelly. Barbara kept her place at the head of them, but that was largely due to Barbara herself; the King was too lazy to eject her from the position she had taken as a right; and until there came a mistress who would insist on his doing so, it seemed that there Barbara would remain.

As to Catherine, she allowed the King’s seraglio to affect her as little as possible. She had her own court of ladies—among them poor, plain Mary Fairfax, who had suffered through her husband as Catherine had through hers. Catherine had her private chapel in the Queen Mother’s residence of Somerset House; she had her own priests and loyal servants; the King was ever kind to her and she was not unduly unhappy.

Mary Fairfax, gentle, intelligent, and very patient, would sometimes talk of her childhood and the early days of her marriage which had been so happy, and how at that time she had believed she would continue to live in harmony with her husband all the days of her life. They had much comfort to bring each other.

They talked of pleasant things; they never mentioned Lady Castlemaine, whom Mary Fairfax regarded as her husband’s evil genius almost as much as Catherine regarded her as Charles’.

They talked of the coming of the child and the joy which would be felt throughout the country when it was born.

Lying back in her white pinner, the loose folds of which were wrapped about her thickening body, Catherine looked almost pretty. She was imagining Charles’ delight in the child; she saw him as a boy—a not very pretty boy because he would be so like his father; he would have bright, merry eyes, a gentle nature and a sharp wit.

They talked together and an hour passed merrily, but when Mary Fairfax rose to call her ladies to help the Queen disrobe, Catherine suddenly felt ill.

Her women came hurrying in, and she saw the anxiety on their faces; she knew they were wondering: Is the Queen going to miscarry again?

Catherine said quickly: “Send for Mrs. Nun. She is at dinner in Chaffinch’s apartments. I may need her.”

There was consternation throughout Whitehall. Mrs. Nun had been brought away from a dinner party in great haste at the Queen’s command, and this could mean only one thing; the Queen’s time had again come too soon.

Within a few days the news was out.

Catherine came out of her sleep of exhaustion, and the tears fell slowly down her cheeks as she realized that, once more, she had failed.

The Duke of Buckingham called on Barbara.

When they were alone, he said: “So Her Majesty has failed again!”

“The King should have married a woman who could bear him children,” declared Barbara.

“Well, cousin,” said the Duke, “you have proved that you could do that. The only thing that would need to be proved in your case would be that the King had begotten them.”

“It is only necessary for Queens to bear them,” said Barbara.

“And does your rope-dancer still give you satisfaction?” asked the Duke.

“I’ll be thankful if you will address me civilly,” snapped Barbara.

“A friendly question, nothing more,” said Buckingham airily. “But let us not quarrel. I have come to talk business. The King is gravely disappointed. He had hoped for a son.”

“Well, he’ll get over the disappointment, as he has been obliged to do before.”

“It is a sad thing when a King, knowing himself to be capable of begetting strong healthy children, cannot get an heir.”

Barbara shrugged her magnificent shoulders, but the Duke went on: “You indicate it is a matter of indifference. Know you not that if the King gets no legitimate son, one day we shall have his brother on the throne?”

“That would seem so.”

“And what of us when James is King?”

“Charles’ death would be calamity to us in any case.”

“Well, he is full of health and vigor. Now listen to me, Barbara; we must rid him of the Queen.”

“What do you suggest? To tie her in a sack and throw her into the river one dark night?”

“Put aside your levity. This is a serious matter. I mean divorce.”

“Divorce!” cried Barbara shrilly. “That he might marry again! Another barren woman!”

“How do we know she would be barren?”

“Royal persons often are.”

“Don’t look alarmed, Barbara. It cannot be Frances Stuart now.”

“That pockmarked hag!” Barbara went into peals of laughter, which the very mention of Frances Stuart’s name never failed to provoke. She was serious suddenly: “Nay! Let the Queen stay where she is. She is quiet and does no harm.”

“She does no good while she does not give the country an heir.”

“The country has an heir in James.”

“I’ll not stand by and see the King disappointed of a son.”

“There is nothing else you can do about it, cousin.”

“Indeed there is! Ashley and others are with me in this. We will arrange a divorce for the King, and he shall marry a princess who will bring him sons.”

Barbara’s eyes narrowed. She was ready to support the Queen, because the Queen was docile. How did she know what a new Queen would do? Was her position with the King so strong that she could afford to have it shaken? And, horror of horrors, what if he looked about his Court and selected one of the beauties to be his Queen? It might so easily have been Frances Stuart. What if he should choose some fiery creature who would insist on making trouble for Lady Castlemaine?

She would have nothing to do with this plot. She was all for letting things stay as they were.

“The poor Queen!” said Barbara. “This is shameful. So you plot against her … you and your mischief-making Cabal. Keep your noses out of the King’s marriage; meddle with matters more fitting. I tell you I’ll do nothing to help you in this vile plot. I shall disclose it to the King. I shall …”

The Duke took her by the wrist, but she twisted her arm free and dealt him a stinging blow across the face.

“There, Master George Villiers, that will teach you to lay hands on me!”

It was nothing. There had been quarrels between them before; there had been physical violence and physical tenderness; they were of a kind, and they recognized that in each other.

Now they surveyed each other angrily, for their interests were divided.

Buckingham laughed in her face. “I see, Madam, that your standing with the King is in such bad case that you fear a new queen who might decide to banish you forever.”

“You see too much, sir!” cried Barbara. “I have given you great support during the last years, but doubtless you forget this, as it suits you to. Do not forget that I, who have done you much good, could do you much harm.”

“Your wings are clipped, Barbara. The King but allows you to stay at Court out of laziness, rather than his desire to keep you there.”

“You lie.”

“Do I? Try leaving and see then how eager he will be to have you back.” Fear was in Barbara’s heart. There was some truth in Buckingham’s words.

“Go and do your worst!” she cried. “See if, without my help—which you consider so worthless—you can rid the country of the Queen.”

“So you have a fellow feeling with the Queen now,” sneered Buckingham. “Two poor deserted women! Mrs. Nelly, they say, is an enchanting creature. She is young; she is very pretty, and she makes the King laugh.”

“I pray you, leave my apartment,” said Barbara with dignity; but almost immediately that dignity deserted her. “Get out, you plotting hog! Get out, you murderer! I wonder poor Shrewsbury does not haunt you, that I do. Get out and plot with Shrewsbury’s widow.”

“So you refuse to help me?”

“Not only that; I’ll do all in my power to work against you.”

“Think awhile, Barbara. You’ll be sorry if you do anything rashly.”

“You dare to tell me I shall be sorry? You’ll be sorrier than I could ever be.”

“We Villierses should stand together, Barbara. You said that.”

“Not when it means bringing dishonor to an innocent woman,” said Barbara in a virtuous tone which sent Buckingham into hysterical laughter. Whereupon he gave, for Barbara’s benefit, an imitation of Barbara—the real Barbara, and Barbara, virtuous defender of the Queen.

Barbara was furious; she would have flown at him and dug her nails into his face, but he was quick, and before she could reach him he was through the door, and away.

Buckingham sought out the King and intimated that he came from the Council with a matter of grave importance to discuss.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “your Council and your country view with alarm the Queen’s sterility.”

Charles nodded. “It is a source of great disappointment to me. There was no reason for it. No accident. Nothing wrong. It is the same as that which happened previously. Again and again she loses the child she might have.”

“It is the way with some women, Sire. You have but to look back and consider Henry VIII and what difficulties he had in getting an heir. It brought much inconvenience to him.”

“And greater inconvenience to his wives, I fear,” added Charles.

“There was much unrest regarding the succession, because of the sterility of those women.”

“In my case I have a successor in my brother James.”

“Your brother, Sire, has turned to the Catholic Faith. Your Majesty knows what dissatisfaction that causes in the country.”

“James is a fool,” said Charles.

“All the more reason why Your Majesty should make sure that he is not your successor.”

“I have tried to make sure of that, George. God knows”—he smiled wryly—“I have tried very hard indeed.”

“All know Your Majesty’s labors have been tireless, But … there is no child, and it would seem that the Queen will never have one.”

“Alas, it is a sad fate.”

“Your Majesty would seem to accept it with resignation.”

“I learned in my early youth to accept with resignation that which could not be avoided.”

“There are means of avoiding most things, Sire.”

“Are you back to the divorce?” asked the King.

“It is the only way in which we may reach a satisfactory conclusion to this affair of the succession.”

“On what grounds could one divorce as virtuous a lady as the Queen has proved herself to be?”

“On her inability to bear an heir to the crown.”

“Nonsense! Moreover she is a Catholic and would not agree to be divorced.”

“She might be urged to go into a nunnery.”

The King was silent, and Buckingham was delighted. He did not press the point. He would wait awhile. He believed the King greatly wished to be rid of his wife; it was not that he hated her; he was, in his way, fond of her; but because of her mildness, because of her resignation, she bothered him. She made him continually conscious of the way in which he treated her. He could no more deny himself the pleasure of falling in and out of light love affairs than he could stop breathing; but such was his nature that, knowing this hurt the Queen, he was uneasy in her presence; and it was of the very essence of his nature that he should avoid that which was unpleasant.

A divorce from the Queen! Catherine to spend the rest of her days peacefully in a nunnery!

It was a good idea. And for him the pleasure of choosing a new wife. This time he would choose with the utmost care.

When Buckingham left the King, the Duke’s hopes were high indeed.

At all costs he must prevent his enemy, the Duke of York, mounting the throne—even if it meant making the bastard Monmouth heir of England.

Wild schemes formed in Buckingham’s mind. What if Charles had really been married to Lucy Water! Then Monmouth would in truth be heir to the throne. What if a box were found … a box containing papers which proved the marriage to have taken place? An excellent scheme but a wild one.

It would be far, far better for the King to divorce Catherine, remarry, and let a new Queen produce the heir.

Well, he decided, he was moving forward. He had discovered something. The King would not be averse to a divorce. He sought out Lauderdale and Ashley to tell them the good news.

Barbara’s spies quickly brought the information to her.

She sat biting her lips and contemplating the possible danger to herself from a new and beautiful Queen.

I am satisfied with the Queen, she mused. I like the Queen—a mild and sensible lady who understands the King and his ways.

What if the King married? She pictured another such as Frances Stuart ruling the Court. The first thing such a woman would do would be to clear out the seraglio; and who would be the first to go? Those whom she most feared and whom the King was not determined to keep.

Barbara would certainly not allow these plans to proceed, for the deeper they were laid the more difficult they would be to frustrate, and it might well be that her persistent relative would set about making things so very uncomfortable for the Queen that she would sigh for the quiet walls of a convent.

Barbara sought audience with the Queen and, when she was with her, told her that what she had to say was for her ears alone.

She fell on her knees before Catherine and kissed her hand; then she lifted those bright flashing eyes to Catherine’s face and said: “I have come to warn Your Majesty.”

“Of what?” inquired Catherine. She spoke harshly. She was tormented by hundreds of mental pictures when this woman stood before her. She saw her in the arms of the King; she thought of his passionate lovemaking; she thought of all she had heard of this infamous woman, of the numerous lovers she took, and how she kept some as servants in her household so that she might call them instantly when she needed them. She thought of those days during her honeymoon, when Lady Castlemaine had been merely a name to be shuddered over and never mentioned.

Barbara boldly answered: “Of your enemies, who seek to destroy you. They would part you from the King.”

Catherine turned pale in spite of her determination to remain controlled before this woman.

“How … how could they do that, Lady Castlemaine?”

“Madam, you have failed to give the King children.”

Catherine winced and thought again of the many times this woman had been brought to bed, as she said, of the King’s child.

“And,” went on Barbara, “there are certain of his ministers who seek to have him set you aside. They talk of divorce.”

“I would not agree.”

“Your Majesty should never … never agree to that!”

“Lady Castlemaine, you have no need to urge me to my duty.”

“Madam, you misunderstand me. Nor do you understand how wicked, how determined are these men who scheme to displace you. They will try persuasion at first, and if that fails they will seek to compel you.”

“They dare not compel me. If they harmed me, they would have to answer to my brother.”

Barbara raised her well-arched brows, indicating that Pedro of Portugal already had too many commitments to leave his country and sail across the seas in what would be a feeble attempt to defend his sister.

“But Madam, I came to tell you of plans I have discovered, plans which are indeed being set on foot to force Your Majesty from the throne.”

“It is fantastic.”

“Nevertheless, Madam, it is true.”

“The King would not consent.”

“The King must have an heir, Madam.”

“He would never treat me thus.”

“He can be persuaded.”

“No … no. He is too noble … too good to agree to such a thing.”

“Madam, I warn you. I beg of you, take my advice. The King has a tender heart; we both know that. You must win him to your side against your enemies. You must implore him to protect you against those who would destroy you. The King is tenderhearted. If you can move him with your tears … if you can but bring him to pity you, your enemies will have no power to harm you.”

The two women looked at each other as though measuring each other’s strength and sincerity.

Barbara was aging and the signs of debauchery were beginning to show on her handsome face, but however old she was, she would still be handsome. Catherine was pale from her miscarriage and in despair because she could not produce the heir so necessary to the country. They had been rivals for so long; they had hated each other; and now it was clear to them both that at last they must become allies.

“I must thank you, Lady Castlemaine,” said the Queen, “for coming to me thus.”

Barbara knelt and kissed the Queen’s hand. For the first time Catherine saw Barbara humble in her presence; and she realized that Barbara feared the future even as she did.

It was rarely, Catherine reflected bitterly, that she had an opportunity of being alone with the King. She had become resigned to the relationship between them; she had schooled herself not to show how hurt she was every time she saw him becoming enamored of a new woman. She had learned to hesitate before entering her own apartments, lest he should be there, kissing one of her maids, and she surprise them.

She had learned to subdue her jealousy; and now she realized that she would endure any humiliations which life with Charles brought her rather than suffer the lonely despair of life without him.

She waited for one of the nights when they were alone together. At such times she felt that he was more her husband than her King. He would then modify that brilliant wit of his and attune his conversation to suit her; he was unfailingly courteous. If she were ill he would tend her carefully; he never failed to be considerate of her health. She fancied that that expression of melancholy regret, which she saw so often on his face when he was in her company, meant that he was sorry because he could not be a better husband to her.

She now said to him: “Charles, it seems that there are many in your counsels who believe I am incapable of bearing children.”

That light and easy smile flashed across his face as he prevaricated. “Nay, you must not despair. We have been unfortunate. There have been a few disappointments …”

She looked about the chamber of this apartment in Hampton Court and thought of other queens who had, within these very walls, despaired of their ability to produce an heir to the throne. Was there a curse on queens? she wondered.

“Too many disappointments,” she said. “It does not happen with … others.”

“They are stronger than you. You must take better care of your health.”

“Let us be frank one with the other, Charles. There are men who plan to destroy me.”

“To destroy you! What words are these?”

“They wish to rid you of me, that you may marry again. Buckingham, Ashley, Lauderdale … all the Cabal … and others. They offer you a new and beautiful wife who can give you sons. Oh, Charles, do not think I cannot understand the temptation. I am not beautiful … and you so admire beauty.”

He was beside her; his arms were about her. “Now, Catherine, what tales are these you have heard? You are my wife. For you I have the utmost affection. I know I am not a good husband, but you took me, Catherine, and, Od’s Fish, you’ll have to stick to me.”

“They seek to destroy me,” she repeated blankly. “They seek to send me away from you. Do not deny it. You cannot deny it, can you, Charles?”

He was silent for a while; then he said gently: “They have thought that there is much of which you disapprove in our sinful Court. They have seen you so devout, and have thought that mayhap you would be happier in a nunnery.”

She looked at him quickly, and she was overcome with anguish. Was that an expression of hopeful anticipation she saw on his face? Was he asking her to leave him for a nunnery?

Sudden determination came to her. She would not leave him. She would fight for what she wanted. She would never give up hope that one day he would turn to her for the love which she was but waiting to bestow upon him. Surely, when they were both old, when he had ceased to desire so many women, surely then he would understand the value of true love, the quiet affection which was so much more lasting than physical desire. She would wait for that. She would never despair of getting it; and she was going to fight all her enemies in this country until that day when Charles turned to her for what he needed most.

He was the kindest man she had ever known; he was the most attractive, the most tolerant; he would have been a saint, she supposed had he not been entirely sensual. It was that sensuality which caused her such misery, because she herself was not endowed with the necessary weapons to appeal to it in competition with such women as Barbara, Frances Stuart, Moll Davies, Mrs. Knight and Nelly.

But she would never give him up.

She turned to him: “Charles,” she cried, “I will never willingly leave you.”

“Of a certainty you shall not.”

She threw herself at his feet. She was suddenly terrified. He was so careless, so easy-going, so ready with light promises; and those about him were ruthless men who stopped at nothing. She thought of Buckingham, determined to destroy her, his hands red with the blood of his mistress’ husband. She thought of Ashley, that terrifying little man, with his elegant clothes, his head—adorned with a fair periwig—which seemed too big for his frail body, his sharp wit and that soft and gentle voice which belied the ruthless determination behind it; she thought of other members of the Cabal who had determined to provide a new wife for the King.

“Charles,” she implored, “save me from those men. Do not let them send me away from you.” She could no longer hide emotion. The tears streamed down her cheeks, and she knew that he could not bear to see a woman’s tears. They never failed to move him deeply; he was even ready at all costs to stop the tears of women such as Barbara, who turned them on and off according to whether they would be effective.

“Catherine,” he said in dismay, “you distress yourself unnecessarily.”

“It is not unnecessary, I know. Charles … they will do anything to separate us. I know full well it is not merely their hatred of me which makes them determined to ruin me. What do they care for me! Who am I? A poor woman of no importance … unloved … unwanted….”

“I’ll not have you say that. Have I not cared for you?”

She shook her head sadly. “You have been kind to me. Are you not kind to all? Your dogs enjoy your kindness…. The animals in your parks benefit from it. And … so do I. Nay! They do not hate me. I am unworthy of hate … unworthy of love. They hate your brother. They are his sworn enemies. They are determined he shall not rule. They are determined on a Protestant heir. Oh, this is nothing so simple as their hatred for one poor woman…. It is a policy … a policy of state. But, for the sake of that policy, I shall be condemned to a life of misery. Charles, they will trample on my life as Buckingham trampled on Shrewsbury’s. Charles, save me … save me from my enemies.”

He lifted her in his arms and, sitting down, held her on his knee, while he wiped the tears from her face.

“Come, Catherine,” he murmured, as though she were a child. “Have done with weeping. You have no cause to weep. Od’s Fish! You have no cause whatsoever.”

“You are gentle with me. But you listen to them.”

“Listen to their roguery? I will not!”

“Then Charles, you will not let them turn me away?”

“I’ll not allow it.”

“My lord Buckingham makes many plots, and this is no less likely to be carried out than others.”

“Nay! You listen to gossip. You and I will not allow them to separate us. If they come to me with their tales, I shall dismiss them from the Court. And, moreover, we’ll foil them! They say we cannot have children. We’ll show them otherwise.”

He kissed her and she clung to him passionately.

He soothed her; he was adept at soothing hysterical women.

Buckingham, Ashley and Lauderdale laid their plans before the King.

“Your Majesty, the Queen cannot bear children, and we fear that the country is growing restive because of this.”

“The Queen is a young woman yet,” murmured Charles.

“There has been more than one miscarriage.”

“’Tis true.”

“If Her Majesty would be happy in a nunnery …”

“She has told me that she would never be happy in a nunnery.”

Buckingham murmured in a low and wheedling voice: “If Your Majesty gave me permission, I would steal the Queen away and send her to a plantation, where she would be well and carefully looked after but never heard of more. The people could be told that she had left Your Majesty of her own free will, and you could divorce her for desertion.”

Charles looked into the cunning, handsome face before him, and said quietly and with that determination which he rarely used: “Have done and hold your tongue! If you imagine that I shall allow an innocent woman to suffer through no fault of her own, you are mistaken.”

Lauderdale began: “But Your Majesty would wish to take a new wife. Your Majesty could choose any beautiful princess.”

“I am well satisfied with the ladies of my Court.”

“But the heir …”

“My wife is young yet; and hear me this: If she should fail to get children, that is no fault of hers. She is a good and virtuous Princess, and if you wish to keen my good graces you will no more mention this matter to me.”

The three statesmen were aghast.

They were determined that Catholic James should never have the throne. If he ever came to it, their ambitions would be at an end; moreover they foresaw a return to the tyranny of Bloody Mary.

Lauderdale then ventured: “The Duke of Monmouth is a brave and handsome gentleman. Your Majesty is justly proud of such a son.”

“You speak truth there,” said Charles.

“Your Majesty must wish,” said Ashley, “that he were your legitimate son. What joy for England—if you had married his mother!”

“If you had known his mother you might not have thought so. I doubt whether the people of England would have accepted her as their Queen.”

“She is dead,” said Buckingham. “God rest her soul. And she gave Your Majesty a handsome boy.”

“I am grateful to Lucy for that.”

“If he were but your legitimate son, what a happy thing for England!”

Charles laughed lightly. He turned to Buckingham; he knew him to be a dangerous adventurer but, because he was the most amusing man at his Court, he could not resist his company.

“Have done with making trouble with my brother,” said Charles. “Try cultivating his friendship instead of arousing his enmity.”

“Your Majesty, I live in terror of the Duke, your brother,” said Buckingham. “He threatens my very life!”

“I beg of you, no playacting,” said the King, and he began to laugh. “I confess that to see you riding in your coach protected by your seven musquetoons for fear my brother will take your life … is the funniest thing I have witnessed for a long time.”

“I am grateful to have brought a little sunshine into Your Majesty’s life.”

“George! Have done with your plotting and scheming. Let matters lie as they are. The Queen and I may yet get an heir. If not …”

“The Duke of Monmouth is a worthy heir, Your Majesty.”

“A bastard heir for England?”

“We could discover that Your Majesty married his mother. Leave it to me, Sire. I will find a box in which are the marriage lines…. She begged you, she implored you … for the sake of her virtue … and Your Majesty, being the man you always are with the ladies, could not find it in your heart to refuse her!”

The King laughed aloud but his eyes were shrewd. He knew they were speaking only half in jest.

He said abruptly: “Have done! Have done! The Queen stays married to me. I’ll not have the poor lady, who is the most virtuous in the land, plagued by you. As for Monmouth, I love the boy. I am proud of the boy. But he is a bastard and I’d see him hanged at Tyburn before I’d make him heir to my throne.”

The members of the Cabal retired, temporarily defeated. And the matter of the divorce was dropped, for another more serious one arose. This concerned the secret treaty of Dover in which the King, unknown to his people and the majority of his ministers, agreed to become a Catholic and lead the country to do the same; for such services to Catholic France he would become the pensioner of that country. The matter had given Charles much grave thought. He was in dire need of money; he was verging on bankruptcy. There were two ways of raising money; one was by taxing his subjects, as Cromwell had done to such extent that they could bear little more; and the other was by making promises to the King of France—which might never be kept—and allowing France to wipe out England’s deficit.

These matters occupied his mind continually and, when the sister whom he loved so tenderly came to England as the emissary of the King of France, when he realized how deeply she desired his signature to the treaty and all that his signature would mean to her, and how such a signature could make her unhappy life in France supportable through the love of Louis, he agreed—and the very few of his counsellors who were in the secret were of his opinion—that the best way out of England’s troubles was the signing of the treaty.

There were fêtes and balls in honor of the King’s sister, and Catherine was moved to see how tender was the love between Charles and Henriette of Orléans.

How sad he was when he bade farewell to his sister; and how much sadder he would have been, could he have known that he would never see her face again, for only a few weeks after her return to France Henriette died suddenly. During the King’s grief at the loss of this beloved sister it was Catherine who brought him most comfort. She would sit with him, while he talked of Henriette, and of those rare occasions in her childhood when he had been able to enjoy her company.

He wept, and Catherine wept with him; and she believed that in his unhappiness she meant more to him than any woman of his Court.

She thought then: This is a foretaste of the future.

When he is old, when he no longer feels the need to go hunting every pretty thing that flits across the scene—like a boy with a butterfly net—then he and I shall be together in close unity; and those will be the happiest days of my life, and perhaps of his.

Buckingham had not forgotten his threat to punish Barbara for not supporting him in the matter of the Queen’s divorce. His spies had informed him that Barbara had whispered to the Queen of his plots against her, even telling her that he had suggested kidnapping her and taking her to a plantation—an idea too fantastic to have been meant in true earnest. And, because she had been warned, the Queen had been able to pour out her tears and pleadings to the King who, softened by these, had determined to turn his thoughts from the idea of divorce.

It was infuriating. For Charles was certainly tired of his Queen; he had never been in love with her; she was a plain little woman and by no means a clever one. Buckingham, Ashley and Lauderdale had several fascinating and beautiful creatures with whom to tempt the King; but they had been defeated by the Queen’s tears which were the result of Barbara’s perfidy.

Barbara should be shown that she could not work against her kinsman in this way; it should be borne home to her that her position at Court was far from secure.

When Charles’ sister had visited him for the last time she had brought in her train a charming little Breton girl, named Louise de Kéroualle, who had taken Charles’ fancy immediately; and, after the death of Henriette, Louis had sent the girl to Charles’ Court, ostensibly to comfort him, but more likely to act as spy for France.

She was a very beautiful young girl, and it was clear that the King was ready to fall more deeply in love with her than was his custom.

This meant that Barbara would have a new and very serious rival; and the fact that the King had showered great honors on Barbara was an indication that he was expecting her to retire from Court. She had been created Baroness of Nonesuch Park, Countess of Surrey and Duchess of Cleveland; he had given her £30,000 and a grant of plate from the jewel house and, as she was already receiving an annual income of £4,700 from the post office, she was being amply and very generously paid off; but Barbara, while accepting these gifts and honors, omitted to remove herself from the Court and continued to pretend that she occupied the place of maîtresse en titre.

The King was uneasy. He saw trouble ahead between the newcomer—who, some said, had not yet become his mistress—and Barbara, now known by the grand title of Duchess of Cleveland.

Barbara continued to flaunt her jewels and her person at Court functions; she was often seen at the playhouse wearing her jewels, worth more than £40,000, so that all other ladies, including the Queen and the Duchess of York, seemed far less splendid than she.

She gave up none of her lovers and had even taken a new one—one of the handsomest men about the Court. Barbara’s lovers were always handsome.

The latest was John, son of a Sir Winston Churchill, gentleman, of Devonshire. John Churchill had been a page to the Duke of York and had later received a commission as ensign in the Foot Guards. The Duke of York had shown him great favor, which might have been due to the fact that the Duke had cast a covetous eye on John’s sister, Arabella.

Barbara had seen the young man and had immediately desired him as her lover. Barbara handsomely paid those whose services she used in this way; she lavished rich presents upon her young men, and made the way to advancement easier for them. If they could please the Duchess of Cleveland, it was said, their fortunes might be made; and John Churchill was soon on the way to making his.

Buckingham watched the affair, and considered that, if he could arrange for the King to catch them flagrante delicto, he would by such a device supply the King with a food excuse for ridding himself of a woman who was growing irksome to His Majesty; he would, moreover, be doing the King a good turn while letting Barbara see that she was foolish to work against her cousin.

It was not difficult to discover when the two would be together. Barbara had never made any great secret of her love affairs; and one afternoon, when Buckingham knew that Barbara was entertaining the handsome soldier in her apartments, he begged the King to accompany him thither.

The King agreed to go, and together they made their way to Barbara’s apartment. When Buckingham saw the consternation of her women, he guessed that he had come at the right moment. Mrs. Sarah made excuses to delay them, saying that she would go to warn her mistress of their arrival, but the Duke pushed her aside and, throwing open the door of Barbara’s bedchamber, could not repress a triumphant laugh.

Barbara was in bed, pulling the clothes about her; John Churchill, hearing the commotion without, had managed to scramble into a few of his more essential garments.

Taking one look at the Duke, and seeing the King behind him, the young lover could think of only one thing: escape.

He forthwith ran to the window and leaped out of it. The Duke of Buckingham burst into uproarious laughter; Barbara picked up an ebony-handled brush which lay on a table beside the bed and threw it at her cousin, while the King, striding to the window, called out after the departing figure of Churchill: “Have no fear, Master Churchill. I hold nothing against you. I know you do it for your bread!”

Barbara, furious at the insulting suggestion that she now found it necessary to pay her lovers, and mad with rage against the Duke, found herself for once without words to express her anger and indignation.

Nor did the King give her time to recover her calm. He strode out of the room. Only Buckingham turned to give a brief imitation of John Churchill, surprised and leaping to safety.

Barbara’s rage was boundless and for some hours her servants dared not approach her.

She turned and pummeled her pillows, while Mrs. Sarah wondered which of those men she would have preferred to attack: the Duke for his perfidy in exposing her thus; John Churchill for running away; or the King for his cool and careless indifference to what lovers she might take.

It was clear that the King had ceased to regard her as his mistress; and very shortly afterwards her name failed to appear on the list of Ladies of the Queen’s Bedchamber. Furthermore, when her daughter Barbara was born, and the girl was seen to bear a strong resemblance to John Churchill, the King flatly refused to acknowledge her as his.

Barbara’s day was over.