Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

THREE

King took several brisk turns round his privy gardens. It was early morning; it was his custom to rise early, however late he had retired, for his energy outstripped that of most of his courtiers, and when he was alone in the morning he walked at quite a different pace from that which he employed in his favorite pastime of sauntering, when he would fit his steps to those of the ladies who walked with him, pausing now and then to compliment them or throw some witty remark over his shoulder in answer to one of the wits who invariably accompanied him at sauntering time.

But in the early morning he liked to be up with the sun, to stride unattended through his domain—quickly round the privy garden, a brisk inspection of his physic garden, perhaps a turn round the bowling green. He might even walk as far as the canal in the park to feed the ducks.

During these walks he was a different man from the indolent, benevolent Charles whom his mistresses and courtiers knew. Those lines of melancholy would be more pronounced on his face as he took his morning perambulation. Sometimes he recalled the carousal of the previous day and regretted the promises he had made and which he knew he would not be able to keep; on other occasions he meditated on the virtuous and noble actions which he had left undone and all the subterfuges into which his easygoing nature and love of peace had led him.

It was more than seven years since he had ridden triumphantly into Whitehall, and this city had been gay with its flower-strewn streets, the banners and tapestries, the fountains flowing with wine, and most of all its cheering hopeful citizens.

And during that time how far had his people’s hopes been realized? They had suffered plague in such degree as had rarely been known in all previous visitations; their capital city had been in great part destroyed; they had suffered ignoble defeat by the Dutch and had experienced the humiliation of seeing Dutchmen in their own waters. They had deplored the Puritan spoilsports but what had they in place of them? A pleasure-loving King who more frequently dallied with his mistresses and the debauched Court wits who surrounded him, than attended to affairs of state! The fact that he was in full possession of a lively mind, that he could, if he had been less indolent and more in love with politics than with women, have grown into one of the most astute statesmen of the times, made his conduct even the more to be deplored.

But even while he walked and considered himself and his position in his country, a sardonic smile curved his lips as he remembered that when he went into the streets the people still cheered him. He was their King and, because he was tall and commanding in appearance, because the women at the balconies who waved to him as he passed recognized that overwhelming charm in him, because the men, in their way, recognized it no less and were compensated for all the hardships they suffered when the King addressed them in the easy familiar way he had towards his subjects, rich or poor, they were satisfied and well content.

Such was human nature, thought Charles wryly; and why should I wish to change it when it is so beneficial to myself?

He had made peace with the French, Danes, and Dutch at Breda in the summer, and soon he hoped to conclude the triple alliance by which England, Sweden, and Holland bound themselves to assist Spain against the French. The French had recently proved themselves no friends of his and although it had been deplorable that there should be open strife between them, Charles knew that the one man he must watch more carefully than any other was Louis XIV of France.

There were times when he was excited by the game of politics, but he tired quickly. Then he would want the witty gentlemen of his Court about him—and most of all the beautiful women—for during his years of exile he had grown so cynical that he found it difficult to have much faith in anything, or any man. Pleasure never failed him. It always gave what he asked and expected. So many times he had seen plans come to nothing through no fault of the planners; he had seen men work diligently towards an ideal, only to be cheated of it by a trick of fate. He could not forget the years of bitterness and exile, the heartbreak of Worcester. Then he had given all his youthful idealism to regaining his kingdom; the result—dismal failure and humiliation. He had changed after Worcester. He had gone back to his life of wandering exile, the excitement of his days being not the plans he made for the regaining of his kingdom but those for the conquest of a new woman; and then suddenly Fortune had smiled on him. Through little effort of his own, without conflict and bloodshed, he was called back to his kingdom. He was welcomed with flowers and music and shouts of joy. England welcomed the debauchee, the careless cynic; almost ten years before, after disastrous Worcester, they had hounded the idealist from their shores. Such experiences made a deep impression on a pleasure-loving nature.

So now, as he walked through his garden, his cynical smile expanded. He must keep disaster at bay and enjoy life.

But even in this matter of enjoyment life had changed. He was heartily tired of Barbara Castlemaine. In the first years of their relationship he had found her tantrums amusing; he no longer did so. Why did he not banish her from the kingdom? Her amours were notorious. He could not bring himself to do it. She would storm and rage; and he had formed a habit, long ago, of avoiding Barbara’s storms and rages. It was simpler to let her alone, to avoid her, to let her continue with her love affairs. They said of him, in the language of the card tables: “His Majesty never discards; he adds to his hand.” It was true. Discarding was such an unpleasant affair; you could keep the uninteresting cards in your hands even though you rarely used them. It was much the more peaceable method.

Frances Stuart had bitterly disappointed him. Silly little Frances, with her child’s mind and her incomparably beautiful face and figure. In spite of her simplicity, he would have married Frances if he had been free to do so, for her beauty had been such that it haunted him day and night. But Frances had run away and married that sot Richmond. Much good had this done her. Now poor Frances was a victim of the smallpox, and had lost her beauty and with it her power to torment the King.

Then there was Catherine, his wife—poor Catherine, with her dusky looks and her rabbits’ teeth and her overwhelming desire to please him. Why had his own wife to fall in love with him? It was a situation which the wits of his Court regarded as extremely piquant. Piquant it might have been, but he was a man of some sensibility and if there was one thing he hated more than having to refuse something that was asked, it was to see a woman distressed. He must live continually with Catherine’s distress. She had been brought up in the strict Court of Portugal. He hated hurting her, yet he could no more help doing so than he could help being himself. He must saunter with his mistresses; his mistresses were more important to him than his crown. He was a deeply sensual man and his sexual appetite was voracious so that the desire to appease it surmounted all other desires.

Therefore with his countless mistresses he must displease his queen who had had the childish folly to fall in love with him.

He was beset by women. By far the more satisfactory mistresses were those who could be called upon when desired and made few demands. It was small wonder that the Dutch had made cartoons of him, clinging to his crown as he ran, pursued by women.

He it was who had brought change to England. Less than ten years ago there had been strict puritanism everywhere; he liked to think that he had brought back laughter to England; but it was often laughter of a satirical kind.

The conversation of the people had changed; they now openly discussed subjects which, ten years ago, they would have blushed to speak of and would have pretended did not even exist. Throughout the country the King’s example was followed, and men took mistresses as naturally as previously they had taken walks in the sunshine. The poets jeered at chastity. Maidens were warned of flying time, of the churlishness of holding out against their lovers; the plays were frankly bawdy and concerned mainly with one subject—sexual adventure.

The King had brought French manners to England, and in France a King’s mistress—not the Queen whom he had married for expedience—ruled with him in his Court.

The men of letters who surrounded him—and his greatest friends, and those who received his favors, were the witty men of letters—were, almost every one of them, rakes and libertines. Buckingham had recently been involved in a brawl with Henry Killigrew in the Duke’s Theater, where they had bounded from their boxes to fight in the pit while the play was in progress; and the cause of this was Lady Shrewsbury, that lady whose reputation for taking a string of lovers matched that of the King’s own mistress, Castlemaine. Killigrew, himself a rake and a notorious liar, had fled to France.

Henry Bulkeley had fought a duel with Lord Ossory and had been involved in a tavern brawl with George Etherege. Lord Buckhurst had recently been making merry at Epsom in the company of Sedley and an actress from the King’s own theater. Rochester, the best of the poets and the greatest wit and libertine, possessed of the most handsome face at Court, had abducted a young heiress, Elizabeth Malet. It had been deemed necessary to imprison him in the Tower for a spell—though not for long, as Charles liked to have the gay fellow at his side. There was not another who could write a lampoon to compare with his; and if they were most scurrilous and that scurrility was often directed against the King himself, they were the most pointed, the most witty to be found in the kingdom. Rochester, the most impudent and arrogant of men, had since married the very willing Elizabeth Malet, confounded her family, and taken charge of her great fortune.

All these happenings were characteristic of life at the Court.

As the King walked through his gardens he saw coming towards him a young man; and as he gazed at the tall and handsome figure, the cynicism dropped from his face. For this young man, who was by no means possessed of the wit the King loved, had the King’s love as no other had at Court.

“Why, Jemmy!” he called. “You’re early abroad.”

“Following Your Majesty’s customs,” said the young man.

He came and stood before the King without ceremony, and Charles put his arm about the young man’s shoulders.

“I had thought, after your revelry of last night, that you would have lain longer abed.”

“I doubt my revelry equaled that of Your Majesty.”

“I am accustomed to combining revelry and early rising—a habit few of my friends care to adopt.”

“I would follow you in all things, Father.”

“You would do better to follow a course of your own, my boy.”

“Nay, the people love you. Thus would I be loved.”

Charles was alert. James’ words were more than flattery. James was looking ahead to a time when he might wear the crown; he was seeing himself riding through the Capital, smiling at the acclaim of the people, letting his eyes rest on the prettiest of the women in the balconies.

Charles drew his son towards him with an affectionate gesture.

He said: “Fortunate James, you will never be in the public eye as I am. You can enjoy the pleasures of the Court without suffering its more irksome responsibilities.”

James did not answer; he was too young and not clever enough to hide the sullen pout of his lips.

“Come, Jemmy,” said Charles, “be content with your lot. ’Tis a good one and might have been not good at all. You are more fortunate than you know. Do not seek what can never be yours, my son. That way can disaster lie—disaster and tragedy. Come, let us make our way back to the Palace. We’ll go through my physic garden. I want to show you how my herbs are progressing.”

They walked arm-in-arm. James was conscious of the King’s display of affection. Charles knew he was glancing towards the Palace, hoping that many would see him walking thus with the King. Alas, thought Charles, his desire to have my arm through his is not for love of me; it is for love of my royalty. He is not thinking of my fatherly affection but implying: See, how the King loves me! Am I not his son? Does he not lack a legitimate heir? Will that rabbit-toothed woman ever give him one? He is rarely with her. With what passion could such a woman inspire a man like my father? See how he scatters his seed among the women around him. He has many children, but not one by Rabbit teeth to call his legitimate son and heir to the throne. I am his son. I am strong and healthy; and he loves me dearly. He has recognized me; he has made me Baron Tyndale, Earl of Doncaster, and Duke of Monmouth. I have precedence over all Dukes except those of the royal blood. I am empowered to assume the royal arms—with the bar sinister, alas—and all this shows how the King delights to honor me. Why should he not make me his legitimate heir, since it is clear that the Portuguese woman will never give him one?

Ah, Jemmy, thought Charles, I would it were possible.

But had he, in his affection, showered too much favor on this impetuous boy who was not twenty yet, and because of the love the King had for him was fawned upon and flattered by all?

How often did Charles see his mother in him! Lucy with the big brown eyes; Lucy who had seemed the perfect mistress to the young man Charles had been in those days of exile. Those were the days before he had suffered the defeat at Worcester. He had loved Lucy—for a little while, but she had deceived him. Poor Lucy! How could he blame her, when he understood so well how easy it was to deceive? Even in those days he had understood. And out of that relationship had come this handsome boy.

He was glad he had loved Lucy. He would long ago have forgotten her, for there had been so many mistresses, but how could he ever forget her when she lived in this handsome boy?

James had inherited his mother’s beauty and, alas, her brains. Poor Jemmy! He could never pit his wits against such as Rochester, Mulgrave, Buckingham, and the rest. He excelled in vaulting, leaping, dancing; and had already given a good account of himself with the ladies.

Now Charles thought it necessary to remind James of his lowly mother, that his hopes might not soar too high.

“It was on such a day as this that Ann Hill brought you to me, Jemmy,” he said. “That was long before I regained my kingdom, as you know. There was I, a poor exile confronted with a son only a few years old. A bold little fellow you were, and I was proud of you. I wished that your mother was a woman I could have married, and that you could have been my legitimate son. Alas, it was not so. Your mother died in poverty in Paris, Jemmy, and you were with her. What would have happened to you, had good Ann Hill not brought you and your sister Mary to me, I know not.”

James tried not to scowl; he did not like to be reminded of his mother.

“It is so long ago,” he said. “People never mention my mother, and Your Majesty has almost forgotten her.”

“I was thinking then that I never shall forget her while I have you to remind me of her.”

There was a brief silence and, suddenly lifting his eyes, the King saw his brother coming towards him. He smiled. He was fond of his brother, James, Duke of York, but he had never been able to rid himself of a faint contempt for him. James, it seemed to him, was clumsy in all he did—physically clumsy, mentally clumsy. He was no diplomatist, poor James, and was most shamefully under the thumb of his wife—that strongminded lady who had been Anne Hyde, the daughter of disgraced Clarendon.

“What!” cried Charles. “Another early riser?”

“Your Majesty sets such good examples,” said the Duke, “that we must needs all follow them. I saw you from the Palace.”

“Well, good morrow to you, James. We were just going to look at my herbs. Will you accompany us?”

“If it is your pleasure, Sir.”

Charles grimaced slightly as he looked from one to the other of the two men who fell into step beside him: Young James, handsome, sullen, and aloof, unable to hide his irritation at the intrusion; older James, less handsome, but equally unable to hide his feelings, his face clearly showing his mistrust of young Monmouth, his speculation as to what the young man talked of with his father.

Poor James! Poor brother! mused Charles. Doomed to trouble, I fear.

James, Duke of York, was indeed a clumsy man. He had married Anne Hyde when she was to have his child, ignoring convention and the wishes of his family to do so—a noble gesture in which Charles had supported him. But then, being James, he had repudiated her just when he was winning the support of many by his strong action; and in repudiating her—after the marriage of course—he had deeply wounded Anne Hyde herself, and Charles had no doubt that Anne was a woman who would not easily forget. Anne was now in control of her husband.

Poor James indeed. Contemplating him, Charles was almost inclined to believe that it might have been a good idea to have legitimized young Monmouth.

Monmouth was at least a staunch Protestant while James was flirting—nay, more than flirting—with the Catholic Faith. James had a genius for drifting towards trouble. How did he think the people of England would behave towards a Catholic monarch? At the least sign of Catholic influence they were ready to cry “No Popery!” in the streets. And James—who, unless the King produced a legitimate heir, would one day wear the crown—must needs consider becoming a Catholic!

If he ever becomes King, thought Charles, God help him and God help England.

Charles was struck by the significance of the three of them walking thus in the early morning before the Palace was astir. Himself in the center—on one side of him James, Duke of York, heir presumptive to the crown of England; and on the other side, James, Duke of Monmouth, the young man who would have been King had his father married his mother, the young man who had received such affection and such honors that he had begun to hope that the greatest honor of all would not be denied to him.

Yes, thought Charles, here am I in the center, keeping the balance … myself standing between them. Over my head flows mistrust and suspicion. This uncle and nephew are beginning to hate one another, and the reason is the crown, which is mine and for which they both long.

What an uneasy thing a crown can be!

How can I make these two good friends? There is only one way: produce a legitimate son. It is the only answer. I must strike the death knell of their hopes and so disperse that suspicion and mistrust they have for one another; remove that state of affairs and, in place of growing hate, why should there not be growing affection?

The King shrugged. There is no help for it. I must share the bed of my wife more frequently. Alas, alas! It must not be that for want of trying I fail to provide England with a son.

Later that morning the Howards sought audience of the King.

Charles was not eager for their company; he found them dull compared with sharp-witted Rochester. It was typical of Charles that although he personally liked the Howards and disliked Rochester, he preferred the company of a man who could amuse him to that of those whom he admitted to be of better character.

Edward Howard had recently been subjected to the scorn of the wits who criticized his literary achievements unmercifully. Shadwell had pilloried him in the play, The Sullen Lovers, and all the wits had decided that Edward and Robert Howard should not be taken seriously as writers; only the mighty Buckingham who was, of all the wits, more interested in politics and diplomacy, remained their ally.

Now Robert said to Charles: “Your Majesty should go to the Duke’s Theater this day. Pretty little Moll Davies never danced better than she has of late. I am sure that the sight of her dancing would be a tonic to Your Majesty.”

“I have noted the lady,” said Charles. “And mighty charming she is.”

The brothers smiled happily. “And seeming to grow in beauty, Your Majesty, day by day. A good girl, too, and almost of the gentry.”

Charles looked at the brother slyly. “I have heard that she has relations in high places. I am glad of this, for I feel sure they will do all in their power to elevate her, doubtless in compensation for her begetting on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“It may be so,” said Robert.

“And would it please Your Majesty to call at the Duke’s this day to see the wench in her part?” asked Edward a little too eagerly.

Charles ruminated. ’Tis true, he thought; they are dunces indeed, these Howards. Why do they not say to me: Moll Davies is of our family—a bastard sprig; but we would do something for her. She is an actress and high in her profession; we should like to see her elevated to the position of your mistress? Such plain speaking would have amused him more.

“Mayhap. Mayhap,” he said.

Robert came nearer to the King. “The wench believes she saw Your Majesty look with approval upon her. The foolish girl, she was almost swooning with delight at the thought!”

“I was never over-fond of the swooning kind,” mused Charles.

“I but spoke metaphorically, Your Majesty,” said Robert quickly.

“I rejoice. I would prefer to keep my good opinion of little Moll Davies. A mighty pretty creature.”

“And gentle in her ways,” said Edward. “A grateful wench, and gratitude is rarely come by in these days.”

“Rarely indeed! Now, my friends, I will bid you goodbye. Matters of state … matters of state …”

They bowed themselves from his presence, and he laughed inwardly. But he continued to think of Moll Davies. For, he said to himself, my indolent nature is such, I am amused that my friends should bring my pleasures to me rather than that I should go in search of them. There are so many beautiful women. I find it hard to choose, therefore deem it thoughtful of my courtiers to do the choosing for me. This avoids my turning with regret from a beautiful creature and having to murmur apologies: Not yet, sweet girl. I am mighty capable, but even I must take you all in turn.

Buckingham presented himself.

“Your Majesty, have you seen Mrs. Nell Gwyn in the Beaumont and Fletcher revival of Pilaster?.”

Charles’ melancholy eyes were brooding. “Nay,” he answered.

“Then, Sir, you have missed the best performance ever seen upon the stage. She plays Bellario. Your Majesty remembers Bellario is sick of love and follows her lover in the disguise of a page boy. This gives Nelly a chance to swagger about on the stage in her breeches. What legs, Sir! What a figure! And all so small that ‘twould seem a child’s form but for those delicious curves.”

“’Twould seem to me,” said the King, “that you are enamored of this actress.”

“All London is enamored of her, Sir. I wonder your fancy has not turned to her ere this. What spirit! What zest for living!”

“I am weary of spirit in ladies—for a while. I have had over-much of spirit.”

“My fair cousin, eh? What a woman! Though she be my kinswoman and a Villiers, I pity Your Majesty. I pity you with all my heart.”

“I conclude you and the lady have fallen out. How so? You were once good friends.”

“Who would not fall out in due time with Barbara, Sir?” You know that better than any of us. Now Nelly is another matter. Lovely to look at, and a comedienne to bring the tears of laughter to the eyes. Nelly is incomparable, Sir. There is not another on the stage to compare with Nelly.”

“What of that pretty creature at the Duke’s—Moll Davies?”

“Bah! Forgive me, Sir, but Bah! and Bah I again. Moll Davies? A simpering wench compared with Nelly. No fire, Your Majesty; no fire at all.”

“I am a little scorched, George. Mayhap I need the soothing balm that comes from simpering wenches.”

“You’d tire of Moll in a night.”

Charles laughed aloud. What game was this? he wondered. Buckingham is determined to put Barbara out of countenance; I know they have quarreled. But why should the Howards and my noble Duke have turned procurers at precisely the same time?

Moll Davies? Nell Gwyn? He would have one of them to entertain him that night.

He was a little put out with Buckingham, who had for most of last year been under a cloud, and, not so long before that, banished from Court for returning there without the King’s permission. Buckingham was a brilliant man, but his brilliance was marred continually by his hare-brained schemes. Moreover the noble Duke gave himself airs and had an exaggerated opinion of his own importance and the King’s regard for him.

Charles laid his hand on the Duke’s shoulder. “My dear George,” he said, “your solicitude for little Nelly touches me. It is clear to me that one who speaks so highly of a pretty actress desires her for himself. You go to my theater this day and court Nelly. I’ll go to the Duke’s and see if Moll Davies is the enchanting creature I have been led to believe.”

Nell heard the news; it sped throughout the theater.

The King had sent for Moll Davies. She had pleased him, and he had given her a ring estimated to be worth every bit of £700.

He was often at the Duke’s Theater. He liked to see her dance. He led the applause, and everyone in London was talking about the King’s latest mistress, Moll Davies.

Lady Castlemaine was sullen; she stayed away from the theaters. There were wild rumors about the number of lovers who visited her daily.

Then one afternoon, instead of going to the Duke’s, the King came to his own theater.

In the green room there was a great deal of excitement.

“What means this?” cried Beck Marshall. “Can it be that His Majesty is tired of Moll Davies?”

“Would that surprise you?” asked her sister Ann.

“Indeed it would not surprise me,” put in Mary Knepp. “A more stupid simpering ninny I never set eyes on.”

“How can the King … after my lady Castlemaine?” demanded Peg Hughes.

“Mayhap,” said Nell, “because Moll Davies is unlike my lady Castlemaine. After the sun the rain is sweet.”

“But he sends for her often, and he has given her a ring worth £700.”

“And this night,” said Beck, “he is here. Why so? Can it be that he has a taste for actresses? Has Moll given him this taste?”

“We waste time,” said Nell. “If he has come here for a purpose other than watching the show, that is a matter which we soon shall know.”

“Nell’s turning to wisdom. Alas, Nell, this is a sign of old age. And, Nelly, you are growing old, you know. You’re turned eighteen, I’ll swear.”

“Almost as old as you are, Beck,” said Nell. “Of a certainty I must soon begin to consider myself decrepit.”

“I’m a good year younger than you,” cried Beck.

“You have a remarkable gift,” retorted Nell. “You can make time turn back. This year you are a year younger than last. I have remarked it.”

Ann interrupted: “Calm yourselves. You’ll not be ready in time; and will you keep the King waiting?”

While Nell played her part she was conscious of him. All were conscious of him, of course, but Nell was playing her part for him alone.

What did she want? Another affair such as that in which she had indulged with my lord Buckhurst, only on a more exalted plane? No. She did not want that. But Charles Stuart was no Charles Sackville. She was sure of that. The King was libertine-in-chief in a town of libertines, yet he was apart from all others. She sensed it. He had a quality which was possessed by none other. Was it kingship? How could Nelly, bred in Cole-yard, know what it was? She was aware of one thing only; she wanted that night, above all things, to hear those words: The King sends for Nelly.

She was a sprite that night, richly comic, swaggering about the stage in her page’s garb. The pit was wildly applauding; the whole theater was with her; but she was playing only for the dark-eyed man in the box, who leaned forward to watch her.

She made her bow at the end. There she stood, at the edge of the apron stage so close to the royal box. He was watching her—her only; she was aware of that. His dark eyes glistened; his full lips smiled.

She was in the green room when the message came.

Mohun brought it. “Nelly, you are to go to Whitehall at once. The King wishes you to entertain him in his palace.”

So it was happening to her as it had happened to Elizabeth Weaver. She did not see the glances of the others; she was aware of a great exaltation.

Mohun put a rich cloak about her shoulders.

“May good fortune attend you, Nelly,” he said.

In the great apartment were assembled the ladies and gentlemen of the King’s more intimate circle. Many of these were personally known to Nell. Rochester and his wife were there. She was glad, for, notwithstanding his often spiteful quips, she knew Rochester to be her friend. There was one thing he admired above all others—wit—and Nell, possessing this in full measure, had his regard. Buckingham and his Duchess were also present. The Duke’s eyes were shining with approval. He had worked to bring this about, and he was enjoying the rivalry with the Howards who were putting forward Moll Davies. At last he had succeeded in getting Nell to the Palace, and he had no doubt that pretty, witty Nelly would soon triumph over pretty, rather spiritless Moll Davies.

Bulkeley, Etherege, Mulgrave, Savile and Scrope were also there. So were the Dukes of York and Monmouth, with several ladies.

Nell went to the King and knelt before him.

“Arise, sweet lady,” said the King. “We wish for no ceremony.”

She rose, lifting her eyes to his, and for once Nell felt her bravado desert her. It was not that he was the King. She had suspected it was something else, and now she knew it was.

More than anything she wanted to please him; and this desire was greater even than that which she had once felt when her ambition was to become an orange-girl, and later to act on the stage.

Nell, shorn of her high spirits, was like a stranger to herself.

But Buckingham was beside her.

“I trust Your Majesty will prevail on Mrs. Nelly to give us a song and dance.”

“If it should be her wish to do so,” said the King. “Mrs. Nelly, I would have you know that you come here as a guest, not as an entertainer.”

“I am right grateful to Your Majesty,” said Nell. “And if it be your wish, I will sing and dance.”

So she sang and she danced; and her spirits returned. This was the Nell they had met so many times before—Nell of the quick wits; the Nell who could answer the remarks which were flung at her from my lords Rochester and Buckingham, neither of whom, she was sure, had any wish other than to make her shine in the eyes of the King.

There was supper at a small table during which the King kept her at his side. His glances showed his admiration, and he talked to her of the plays in which she had acted. She was astonished that he should know so much about them and be able to quote so much of their contents, and she noticed that it was the poetic parts which appealed to him.

“You are a poet yourself, Sire?” she asked.

He disclaimed it.

But Rochester insisted on quoting the King:

“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.”

“Those are beautiful words,” said Nell.

The King smiled wryly. “Flattery abounds at Court, Nelly,” he said. “I had hoped you would bring a breath of change.”

“But ’tis so, Your Majesty,” said Nell.

Rochester had leaned towards her. “His Most Gracious Majesty wrote the words when he was deep in love.”

“With Phyllis?” said Nell. “His Majesty most clearly says so.”

“Some beautiful lady cowers behind the name of Phyllis,” said Rochester. “I begin to tire of the custom. What say you, Sir? Why should we call our Besses, our Molls, and our little Nells by these fanciful names? Phyllis, Chloris, Daphne, Lucinda! As our friend Shakespeare says: ‘That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

“Some ladies wish to love in secret,” said the King. “If you poets must write songs to your mistresses, then respect their desire for secrecy, I beg of you.”

“His Royal Highness is the most discreet of men,” said Rochester with a bow. “He’s too good-natured. No matter whether it be politics, love, or religion.”

Rochester began to quote:

“Never was such a Faith’s Defender,

He like a politic prince and pious,

Gives liberty to conscience tender

And does to no religion tie us.

Jews, Turks, Christians, Papists, he’ll please us

With Moses, Mahomet, or Jesus.”

“You’re an irreverent devil, Rochester,” said Charles.

“I see the royal lip curve in a smile, which I trust was inspired by my irreverence.”

“Nevertheless there are times when you try me sorely. I see, my lady Rochester, that you are a little tired. I think you are asking for leave to retire.”

“If it should please Your Most Gracious Majesty …” began Lady Rochester.

“Anything that pleases you, my dear lady, pleases me. You are tired, you wish to retire. So I will command your husband to take you to your apartments.”

This was the signal. They were all to go. The King wished to be alone with Nell.

Nell watched them all make their exit. This was performed with the utmost ceremony, and as she watched them she felt her heart beat fast.

When they had gone, the King turned to her, smiling.

He took her hands and kissed them.

“They amuse me … but such amusements are for those times when there are less exciting adventures afoot.”

Nell said tremulously: “I trust I may please Your Majesty.”

He replied: “My friends have put me in the mood to rhyme,” and he began to quote Flecknoe’s verse:

“But who have her in their arms,

Say she has a hundred charms,

And as many more attractions

In her words and in her actions.”

He paused, smiling at her, before he went on: “It continues, I believe:

“But for that, suffice to tell ye,

’Tis the pretty little Nelly.”

“And ’tis written of you, I’ll swear, by one who knew you well.”

“By one, Sire, who but saw me on the stage.”

Charles drew her to him and kissed her lips. “’Twas enough to see you, to know it were true. Why, Nell, you are afraid of me. You say, This is the King. But I would not be a King tonight.”

Nell said softly: “I am but a girl from the Cole-yard, one of Your Majesty’s most humble servants.”

“A King should love all his subjects, Nell, however humble. I never thought to see you humble. I have noted your subduing of the pit.”

“Sire, I do not now face the pit.”

“Come with me and, for the sake of your beauty, this night let us forget that I am Charles Stuart, and you Nell of old Drury. Tonight I am a man; you a woman.”

Then he put his arm about her and led her into a small adjoining chamber.

And here it was that Nell Gwyn became the mistress of the King.

Nell left the Palace in the early hours of the morning. She was bemused. Never had her emotions been so roused; never had she known such a lover.

She was carried to her lodgings in a Sedan chair; it would not have been meet for her to have walked through the streets in the fine gown she had been wearing. She was no longer merely Mrs. Nelly, the play-actress. Her life had changed last night. People would look at her slyly; they would marvel at her; they would whisper about her; many would envy her; many would censure her.

And I care not! she thought.

When she reached her lodgings she kicked off her shoes and danced a jig. She was happier than she had ever been in her life. Not because the King had sent for her; not because she had joined the King’s seraglio; but because she was in love.

There was never one like him. It was not that he was the King. Or was it? Nay! All kings were not kind, gentle, passionate, charming, all that one looked for in a lover. He was no longer Your Majesty to her; he was Charles. She had called him Charles last night.

“Charles!” She said it now aloud. And: “Charles, Charles, Charles. Charles is my lover,” she sang. “The handsomest, kindest lover in the world. He happens to be the King of England, but what matters that? To me he is Charles … my Charles. He is the whole country’s Charles … but mine also … especially mine.”

Then she laughed and hugged herself and recalled every detail of the night. She wished passionately then that she had never known any other Charles, never known Charles Hart; never known Charles Sackville.

There have been too many Charleses in my life, she mused. I would there had been only one. Then she wept a little, because happy as she was there was so much to regret.

The King forgot Nell for some time after that night. She was very pretty, but he had known many pretty women. Perhaps he had been disappointed; he had heard her wit commended by such as Buckingham; that did not count of course, as Buckingham had his own reasons for promoting Nell, which was the discomfiture of his cousin Barbara and doubtless the Howards. Yet Rochester seemed to have had some praise for her. Could it to be that Rochester had been or still was her lover?

The King shrugged his shoulders. Nell was just a pretty actress. She had been a very willing partner in an enjoyable interlude, as had so many. He fancied she was very experienced; he had heard of an escapade with Buckhurst. Doubtless the pretty creature was not averse to changing from Duke to King.

Moll Davies suited his present mood more frequently. Moll was so gentle; there had been no pretence of quick wits there; she was just a lovely young woman who could learn a part and speak it prettily; and she could dance as well as anyone on the stage.

He found he was sending more frequently for Moll than for any.

He had grown a little weary since the disasters. Was he ageing somewhat? Beneath the periwig he had plenty of silver showing among his dark hairs.

Now that Clarendon was gone he was missing him. He would have to form a new Council. Buckingham was pressing for a place and, of course, would have it.

State affairs claimed his attention; when he turned from them, little Moll Davies, who smiled so sweetly while speaking little, provided that which he needed. She was the completest contrast to Barbara. Then of course Will Chaffinch and his wife—who held the post of seamstress to the Queen—would often usher ladies up the back stairs to his apartments during the night, and lead them down to the river in the early hours of morning when their barges would be waiting for them. Chaffinch was a discreet and wily fellow, and his apartments were situated near those of the King. He had for long looked after his master’s more intimate and personal business.

But now and then Charles remembered the sprightly little actress from his theater, and sent for her.

He enjoyed her company. She was mightily pretty; she was now becoming amusing, and often he would catch glimpses of that wit which had amused Buckingham.

Then he forgot her again; and it seemed that Moll Davies was going to replace Lady Castlemaine as the woman, among all his women, who could best please him.

Nell was sad and her chief task during those days was to hide her sadness. She was nothing to him but just another harlot. She realized that now. She had been mistaken. The courtly manners, the charm, the grace—they were generously offered to any light-o’-love who could amuse him for a night.

She was nothing more than one of dozens. Tonight it might be her turn—perhaps not.

For her there was no £700 ring. Moll Davies had won. The Howards were triumphant.

As for Buckingham, he had forgotten his intention to promote Nell. His object had been achieved by the Howards and Moll Davies, for his cousin Barbara flew into a flaring rage every time the girl was mentioned. Barbara’s pride had been lowered; Barbara knew that she must take care when she thought she might insult the great Duke of Buckingham—her cousin and one-time lover though he was. What part had Nell in Buckingham’s schemes? None at all. He had forgotten he had ever exerted himself to bring her to the King’s notice. Thus it was with all his schemes. He dallied with them for a while and then forgot. So Moll Davies was provided with beautiful clothes and jewels by the Howards, who brought her before the King whenever he seemed inclined to forget her, while Nell’s benefactor ignored her.

So Nell was desolate.

In the green room the women laughed together, their eyes on Nell, Nell who had enjoyed the privilege of being sent for by the King.

“Cole-yard,” whispered Beck Marshall, “could not go to Whitehall. ’Twas a mistake. His Majesty would be the first to realize it. Poor Nelly soon got her marching orders.”

“She has been called back once or twice,” said her sister Ann.

Peg Hughes, who was being courted by Prince Rupert, was inclined to be kind. “And doubtless will be called again. The King was never a man to fix his love on one. Nell will remain one of his merry band, I doubt not.”

“She’ll be in the twice-yearly class,” said Beck.

“Well, ’tis better to play twice yearly than not at all,” said Peg quietly.

When Nell came among them, Beck said: “Have you heard the latest news, Nell? Moll Davies is to have a fine house and, some say, leave the stage.”

Nell for once was silent. She felt that she could not speak to them about the King and Moll Davies.

She had changed. She wondered: Shall I one day be like Elizabeth Weaver, waiting in vain for the King to send for me?

Early that year the Earl of Shrewsbury had challenged Buckingham to a duel on account of the Duke’s liaison with Lady Shrewsbury; the result of this was that Shrewsbury was killed. The King was furious. He had forbidden dueling, and Buckingham awaited the outcome in trepidation. He had now completely forgotten that he had decided to launch Nell at Whitehall.

In the summer she had the part of Jacintha in Dryden’s An Evening’s Love; or the Mock Astrologer. Charles Hart played opposite her.

Dryden, such an admirer of Nell’s, invariably had her in his mind when he wrote his plays, and Jacintha was Nell, so said all, “Nelly to the last y.”

The King was in his usual box and, as she played her part, Nell could not help gazing his way. Perhaps there was a mute appeal in her eyes, in her voice, in her very actions.

To love a King—that was indeed a tragedy, she had come to understand. She had no means of being with him unless sent for, no way of learning where she had failed to please.

Charles Hart as Wildblood wooed her on the stage before the King’s eyes.

“‘What has a gentleman to hope from you?’” he asked.

And Nell, as Jacintha, must answer: “‘To be admitted to pass my time with while a better comes; to be the lowest step in my staircase, for a knight to mount upon him, and a lord upon him, and a marquis upon him, and a duke upon him, till I get as high as I can climb.’”

The audience laughed loud and long.

Many covert glances were thrown at the King in his royal box and pert Nell on the stage. She had had her lord; she had reached her King; but she had not kept her King.

There was no sign on the King’s face to show how he received this piece of impudence. But Nell, intensely aware of him, believed he was displeased.

She went straight to her lodgings that night and wept a little, but not much. She had to show the world a bold front, and the next day she was a merry madcap once more.

“Nelly … the old Nelly … is back,” it was said.

And after a while it was forgotten that she had ever changed. There she was, the maddest and most indiscreet creature who had ever played in the King’s Theater, and the people crowded into the playhouse to see her.

Now and then the King came. Occasionally he sent for Nell. But Moll Davies had her fine house near Whitehall, and had left the stage.

All the actresses talked of Moll’s good fortune, and many wondered why it was that pretty, witty Nell had pleased the King so mildly and Moll had pleased him so much.

The company performed Ben Jonson’s Cataline. Lady Castlemaine sent for Mrs. Corey who was playing Sempronia—a most unattractive character—and gave her a sum of money on condition that she would, when playing the part, mimic Lady Castlemaine’s great enemy of the moment, Lady Elizabeth Harvey, whose husband had recently left London for Constantinople as the King’s ambassador.

During the very first performance, when the question was asked, “But what will you do with Sempronia?” Lady Castlemaine leaped to her feet and shouted at the top of her voice, “Send her to Constantinople.”

Lady Harvey was so incensed that she arranged that Mrs. Corey should be sent to prison for the insult. Lady Castlemaine then used all her influence, which was still great, to have her released. And when Mrs. Corey next played the part she was pelted with all manner of obnoxious objects, and men, hired by Lady Elizabeth, snatched oranges from the orange-girl’s baskets to throw at the actors on the stage.

Each night the play was performed there was an uproar between men hired by Lady Elizabeth Harvey and those hired by Lady Castlemaine. It was bad for the play and the actors, but good for business; for the theater was filled each time that play was performed.

Later, Dryden’s Tyrannic Love; or the Royal Martyr was produced; and in this Nell played Valeria, daughter of the Emperor Maximin who persecuted St. Catherine. It was a small part in which Nell stabbed herself at the end; then came the epilogue, which was to be her great triumph.

She felt exalted that day. She had escaped from the dismal creature she had become. She had been a fool to harbor such romantic thoughts about a King.

“Nelly, grow up,” she said to herself. “Have done with dreaming. What are you to him—what could you ever be—but a passing fancy?”

She lay dead on the apron stage and when the stretcher-bearers approached with her bier, she leaped suddenly to her feet, crying:

“Hold! Are you mad? You damned confounded dog!

I am to rise and speak the epilogue.”

Then she came to the very front of the apron stage—mad Nelly, the most indiscreet of all the actresses, pretty, witty Nell who had won their hearts.

The King, sitting in his box, leaned forward. She felt his approving eyes upon her. She knew that, try as he might, he could not withdraw them, and she believed then that neither Lady Castlemaine nor Moll Davies could have made him turn his eyes from her.

She cried in her high-pitched, mocking tones:

“I come, kind gentlemen, strange news to tell ye:

I am the ghost of poor departed Nelly.

Sweet ladies, be not frightened, I’ll be civil;

I’m what I was, a little harmless devil …”

The audience was craning forward to listen as she went on with the lines which were setting some rocking with laughter, while others, fearful of missing Nelly’s words, cried: “Hush!”

“O poet, damned dull poet, who could prove

So senseless to make Nelly die for love!

Nay, what’s yet worse, to kill me in the prime

Of Easter term, in tart and cheesecake time!”

She had thrown back her head; her lovely face was animated. Many caught their breath at the exquisite beauty of the dainty little creature as she continued:

“As for my epitaph when I am gone,

I’ll trust no poet, but will write my own:

‘Here Nelly lies who, though she lived a slattern,

Yet died a princess, acting in Saint Cattern.’”

The pit roared its approval. Nell permitted herself one look at the royal box. The King was leaning forward; he was clapping heartily; and he was smiling so intimately that Nell knew he would send for her that night.

She felt light-headed with gaiety. She had tried to act a part because she had loved a King. In future she would be herself. Who knew, had he known the real Nelly, Charles might have loved her too.

Charles did send for Nell that night, but secretly. Will Chaffinch came to her lodgings to tell her that His Majesty wished her to visit him by way of the back stairs.

In high good spirits Nell prepared herself for the journey and, very soon after Chaffinch had called at her lodgings, she was mounting the privy stairs to the King’s chamber.

Charles was delighted to see her.

“It is long since we have met, Nell,” said he, “in these intimate surroundings, but I have thought of you often—and with the utmost tenderness.”

Nell’s face softened at the words, even while she thought: Does he mean it? Is this another of those occasions when his desire to be kind triumphs over truth?

But perhaps his greatest charm was that he could make people believe, while they were in his presence, all the kind things he said to them. It was only after they had left him that the doubts crept in.

“Matters of state,” he murmured lightly.

And indeed, he mused, that which had kept him from Nell was indeed a matter of greatest importance to the state. Of late he had been spending his nights with Catherine, his wife.

He had done his duty, he decided with a grimace. He fervently hoped that the exercise would bear fruit.

I must get a legitimate son, he told himself a hundred times a day. Every time he saw his brother James, every time he saw that handsome sprig, young Monmouth, swaggering about the Court eager that none should forget for a moment that he was the King’s son, Charles said to himself: I must get me a son.

Here was a perverse state of affairs. He had many healthy children, sons among them, growing up in beauty to manhood, many of them bearing the stamp of his features—and all bastards. There was scarcely one of his mistresses who had not borne a child which she swore was his. Od’s fish, I am a worthy stallion, he thought. Yet, in my legitimate bed I am sterile—or Catherine is. Poor Catherine! She yearns for a child equally with me. Why in the name of all that’s holy should our efforts meet with no success?

And it was a great burden to follow the call of duty, to spend long hours of the night with Catherine—cloying, clinging Catherine—when superb creatures such as Barbara, charmingly pretty dolls such as Moll Davies, and exquisitely lovely sprites, such as this little Nelly, had but to be brought at his command.

When he had seen Nell on the stage this day, rising from her bier, looking the very embodiment of charm and wit and all that was fascinating and amusing, he had determined to evade his duty that night.

“My dear wife,” he had said to Catherine, “I shall retire early this evening. I feel unwell.”

She was startled, that good wife of his. He was never ill. There was not another at Court who enjoyed his rude health. In the game of tennis he excelled all others; and if he spent his afternoons in the theater and his evenings in amusing the ladies, his mornings were often devoted to swimming, fishing, or sailing. His laziness was of the mind—never of the body. He slept little, declaring that the hours a man spent in unconsciousness were lost hours; he had not yet had such a feast of the good things life had to offer that he could afford to waste long periods of his life in sleep. He merely disliked what he called “that foolish, idle, impertinent thing called business,” and much preferred to take “his usual physic at tennis” or on horseback.

Mayhap he had been unwise to make the excuse of ill health. Catherine was all solicitude. She was a simple soul, who yet had much to learn of him; and he was his most foolish self in that he could not bring himself to say—as my lord Buckingham would have told his wife, or my lord Rochester his—that he needed an occasional escape from her company; he must tell his lies for, if he did not, he would hurt her, and to see her hurt would spoil his pleasure; and that was one thing he could not endure—the spoiling of his pleasure.

When they next met she would smother him with her concern and he would have to feign a headache or pain somewhere, and remember the exact position of the pain. He might even have to endure a posset of her making since the dear simple creature was ever eager to display her wifely devotion.

But enough of that—here was Nell, risen from her bier, prettier than ever, her eyes sparkling with wit and good humor.

This little Nelly grows on me, pondered the King; and lifting from the bed one of the many spaniels which were always in his bedchamber, he embraced her warmly; and Nell with delight gave herself up to that embrace.

They made love. They dozed, and they awakened to find Will Chaffinch’s wife at their bedside.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty! I pray you awake. The Queen comes this way. She brings a posset for you.”

“Out of sight, Nelly!” said the King.

Nell whisked out of bed and, naked as she was, hid herself behind the hangings.

Catherine entered the room just as Nell was hidden; she approached the bed, her long and beautiful hair hanging about her shoulders, her plain face anxious.

“I could not sleep,” she said. “I could do naught but think of you in pain.”

The King took her hand as she sat on the bed and looked at him anxiously.

“Oh,” he said, “the pain is to be deplored, only because it disturbed your slumbers. It has gone. In fact I have forgotten where it was.”

“I very much rejoice. I have brought this dose. I am sure it will bring immediate relief should you need it.”

Nell, listening, thought: here are the King and Queen of England, and he treats her in the same charmingly courteous way in which he treats his harlots.

“And you,” he was saying, “should be resting in your bed at this hour. I shall be the one who has to bring you doses if you wander thus in your night attire.”

“And you would,” she said. “I know it. You have the kindest heart in the world.”

“I pray you do not have such high opinions of me. I deserve them not.”

“Charles … I will stay beside you this night …”

There was a sudden silence and, unable to stop herself, Nell moved the hangings and looked through the opening she had made.

She saw that one of the King’s spaniels had leaped onto the bed and was bringing Nell’s tiny slipper in his mouth and laying it there as though offering it to Queen Catherine.

Nell, in that quick glance, took in the scene—the King’s discomfiture, the Queen’s face scarlet with humiliation.

The Queen quickly recovered her dignity. She was no longer the same inexperienced woman who had swooned when she had come face-to-face with Barbara Castlemaine, and the odious woman had kissed her hand.

She said abruptly: “I will not stay. The pretty fool who owns that little slipper might take cold.”

The King said nothing. Nell heard the door close.

Nell came slowly back to the bed. The King was gently stroking the ears of the little spaniel who had betrayed them. He stared moodily before him as Nell got in beside him.

He turned to her ruefully. “There are many strange things happening in the world,” he said. “Many women are kind to me; but I am a King, and it pays to be kind to kings, so that presents little mystery. But there is one mystery I have been unable to solve: Why does that good and virtuous woman who is my Queen love me?”

Nell said: “I could tell you, Sire.”

And she told him; her explanation was lucid and witty. She restored him to his good humor, and shortly after that occasion Nell discovered that she was to bear the King’s child.

Now that Nell was with child by the King, it was no longer possible for her to play all her old parts. She was helped by Will Chaffinch, who had charge of such items of the royal expenditure, and she moved into Newman’s Row, which was next to Whetstone Park.

Nell was elated by the thought of bearing the King’s child. Charles was only mildly interested. He had so many illegitimate children; it was a legitimate one which he so desperately needed. Even before he had been restored to his throne he had a large and growing family, of which the Duke of Mon-mouth was the eldest son. Some he kept about him; others passed out of his life. One of the latter was James de la Cloche who had been born to Margaret de Carteret while Charles was exiled in Jersey. He believed that James was now a Jesuit. Lady Shannon had given him a daughter; Catherine Pegge a son and a daughter. There were many others who claimed to be his. He accepted them all in his merry good humor. He was proud of his ability to create sons and daughters; and when some of his subjects called him “Old Rowley,” after the stallion in the royal stables who had sired more fine and healthy colts than any other, he did not object. Barbara Castlemaine had already borne him five children. He loved them all tenderly. He adored his children; there was nothing he liked better than to talk with them, and listen to their amusing comments. He enjoyed his visits to Barbara’s nursery more than to their mother’s chamber. They were growing more amusing—young Anne, Charles, Henry, Charlotte, and George—than their virago of a mother.

He had an acknowledged family of nine or ten; he did what he could for them, raising them to the peerage, settling money on them, keeping his eyes open for profitable marriages. Oh, yes, he was indeed fond of his children.

And now little Nell was to provide him with another.

It was interesting; he would be eager to see the child when it put in an appearance; but meanwhile there was much elsewhere with which to occupy himself.

He was faintly worried once more by the shadows cast over his throne by his son Monmouth, and his own brother, the Duke of York.

Monmouth was turning out to be a rake. In the sexual field, it was said, he would one day rival his father. Charles could only shrug his shoulders tolerantly at this. He would not have had young Jemmy otherwise—nor could he have expected it with such a father and such a mother.

He wished though that his son did not indulge in so much street-fighting. Charles had given him a troop of horse, and when he had inspected fortifications at Harwich recently it was reported that he and his friends had had a right merry time debauching the women of the countryside.

It would be churlish of me to deny him the pleasure in which I myself have taken such delight, the King told himself. Yet he would have preferred young Jemmy to have had a more serious side to his character. It was true that the King’s friends indulged in like pleasures; but these were men of wit; they were rogues and libertines, but they were interested in the things of the mind as well as those of the body—even as Charles was himself. So far it seemed to him that his son Jemmy had taken on himself all the vices of the Restoration and none of its virtues.

Jemmy was growing more arrogant, more speculative every day. He was providing the biggest shadow over the crown. Brother James also caused anxieties. He was very different from young Jemmy. James had his mistresses—many of them—and he visited them and got them with child whenever he could escape from Anne Hyde. James was not a bad sort; James was merely a fool. James had a perfect genius for doing that which would bring trouble—mainly on himself. “Ah,” Charles would murmur often, “protect me from la sottise de mon frère. But most of all, protect my brother from it.”

Now James was having trouble with Buckingham. There was another who was doomed to make trouble for others and chiefly for himself. Two troublemakers; if they could but put their heads together and make one brewing of trouble ‘twould be easier, mused Charles. But they must busy themselves with their separate brews and give me double trouble.

Buckingham—by far the cleverer of the two—had decided that James should be his friend. He made advances to the Duke, suggesting that they sink their differences and work together. Buckingham wished to rid himself of his greatest rival in the Cabal, my lord Arlington, and had solicited James’ help to this end.

James, with sturdy self-righteousness, had set himself apart from their schemes. He intimated that he considered it beneath him to enter into such Cabals; he was resolved to serve the King in his own way.

More tact should have been used when dealing with the wild and reckless Buckingham.

Buckingham now saw James as an enemy; and how could such an ambitious man tolerate an enemy who was also heir presumptive to the crown?

Buckingham raged, and mad schemes filled his imaginative brain. The King must get legitimate children; the Duke of York must never be allowed to mount the throne.

So now it was that Buckingham brought out his wild plans for a divorce between the King—that mighty stallion, who had proved many times that he was capable of getting children with a variety of women—and sterile Catherine, whose inability to perform her duties as Queen could plunge the country into a desperate situation.

Charles had declined Buckingham’s efforts on his behalf, which had ranged from the divorcing of Catherine to the kidnapping of her and carrying her off to some plantation where she would never be heard of again.

Moreover Charles had sought out James.

“My lord Buckingham’s wild mind teems with wild plans,” he said. “And the very essence of these plans is that you shall never follow me. Do not laugh at them, James. Buckingham is a dangerous fellow.”

Buckingham was looking to Monmouth. What wild seeds could he sow in that wild mind?

So the shadows deepened about the throne, and the King had little time to think of the child which Nell would soon be bringing into the world.

There was not a breath of air in the room. Hangings had been drawn across the windows to shut out the light; candles burned in the chamber. Nell lay on her bed and thought her last hour had come. So many women died in childbirth.

Rose was with her, and she was glad of Rose’s company.

“Nelly,” whispered Rose, “should you not be walking up and down the chamber? ’Twill make an easier birth, they say.”

“No more, Rosy. No more,” moaned Nell. “I have walked enough, and these pains seem fit to kill me.”

Her mother sat by the bed; Nell saw through half-closed eyes that she had brought her gin bottle with her.

She was crying already. Nell heard her talking of her beautiful daughter who had captivated the King. Her mother’s voice, high-pitched and shrill, seemed to fill the bedchamber.

“That little bastard my girl Nell is bearing the King’s son. Who’d have thought it … of my little Nell!”

It is a long way, thought Nell, from a bawdy-house in Cole-yard to childbed of the King’s bastard.

And where was the King this day? He was not in London. He was riding to Dover to greet visitors from overseas. “Matters of state,” he would murmur. “Matters of state. That is why I cannot be at hand at the birth of our child, sweet Nell.”

He would say such things to have her believe that the child she was bearing was as important to him as those borne by his lady mistresses. Actress or Duchess … it was the same to him. That’s what he would imply. If he had been beside her and said it, she would have believed him.

“I always said,” Mrs. Gwyn was croaking to Mary Knepp and Peg Hughes, who had come into the chamber to swell the crowds and see Mrs. Nelly brought to bed of the King’s bastard, “I always said that my Nell was too little a one to bear children.”

Then Nell suddenly sat up in bed and cried aloud: “Have done with your caterwauling, Ma. I’m not a corpse yet. Nor do I intend to be. I’ll live, and so will the King’s bastard.”

That was so typical of Nell that everyone fell to laughing; and Nell herself kept them in fits of laughter until the pain grew worse and she called to Rose and the midwife.

Not long after that Nell lay back exhausted, with the King’s son in her arms.

There was a fluffy dark down on his head.

The women bending over him cried: “He’s a Stuart! Yes, you can see the royal stallion in Nelly’s brat.”

And Nell, holding him close, believed she was discovering a new adventure in happiness. She had never felt so tired nor so contented with her lot.

This tiny creature in her arms should never sprawl on the cobbles of Cole-yard; he should never hold horses for fine gentlemen; indeed he should be a fine gentleman himself—a duke no less!

And why not? Were not Barbara’s brats dukes? Why should not Nell’s most beautiful babe become one also?

“What’ll you call him, Nelly?” asked Rose.

“I shall call him Charles,” said Nell, and she spoke very firmly. “Charles, of course, after his father.”

And as she lay there, for the first time in her life Nell knew the real meaning of ambition. It was born in her, strong and fierce; and all her hopes and desires for greatness were for this child who lay in her arms.

Charles, travelling to Dover, did not give Nell and their child a thought. He knew that he was approaching one of the most important moments of his reign.

This meeting at Dover would not only bring him a sight of his beloved sister, but it would mean establishing that alliance which was to be forged between himself and France, himself and France rather than England and France, for the treaty which he would sign would be a secret treaty, the contents of which would be known only to himself and four of his most able statesmen—Arlington, Arundel, Clifford, and Bellings.

Secrecy was necessary. If his people knew what he planned to sign, they would rise against him. They hated the French; and how was it possible to explain to them that their country tottered on the edge of bankruptcy? How was it possible to explain that the effects of plague, fire, and a Dutch war lingered on? England needed France’s money and, if France demanded concessions, these concessions must be made. Whether they would be kept or not was a matter with which Charles must concern himself when the time came for keeping them. Meantime it was a matter of signing the secret treaty or facing bankruptcy, poverty, famine, and that sorry state which invariably followed on the heels of these disasters and was the greatest of them all—revolution.

Charles had seen one revolution in England; he had no intention of seeing another. Ten years ago he had come home; and he was determined—if it were in his power to prevent it—never to go wandering again.

So he rode to Dover.

There were so many compensations in life. Here he was to meet his sweet Minette, that favorite of all his brothers and sisters, the youngest of them all, whom he had always loved so dearly and who, in the letters she wrote so frequently to him, seemed like a constant companion. She was married—poor sweet Minette—to the most loathsome Monsieur of France, who treated her shamefully; and she was in love—she betrayed this in her letters, and he had his spies in the French Court who had confirmed this—with Louis XIV, the brilliant and handsome monarch of France. It was Minette’s tragedy that the restoration of her brother had come too late for her to marry the King of France, and that she had been forced to take Monsieur his brother.

But it would be wonderful to see his sister, to talk with her, to listen to her news and tell his, and to assure each other how much those frequent letters meant in their lives; to tell each other that brother and sister never loved as they did.

It was small wonder that Charles forgot that one of his minor mistresses was being delivered of a son. He fêted his sister and he signed the treaty which, if it had become universal knowledge, would have put his crown in as much danger as that which had surrounded his father more than twenty years before.

But he would not let the facts depress him. His dearest sister was his guest for two short weeks—that odious husband of hers would allow her to stay no longer—and Louis was to pay him two million livres within six months that he might, when the opportune moment arose, declare himself an adherent of the Catholic Faith. Charles shrugged his shoulders. There was no stipulation as to when Charles should make that declaration; had there been, he could never, however tempting the reward, have signed that treaty. He could declare himself a Catholic, at his own pleasure. That would be years ahead—mayhap never. And very badly England needed those French livres.

He was to declare war on Holland when Louis asked him to, and for his services in this respect he would receive three million livres a year as long as the war continued.

That gave him few qualms. The Dutch were England’s enemies and, with the aid of pamphleteers, it was not difficult to rouse the country’s hatred against an enemy who had recently sailed up one of England’s rivers and burned the nation’s ships under their very noses.

Nay, thought Charles, they’ll go to war readily enough. ’Tis my turning papist they’d not stomach.

But he remembered the words of his maternal grandfather, the great Henri Quatre—when he had entered Paris and ended the wars of religion.

We are of a kind, thought Charles. A good bargain this. My country almost bankrupt, and myself to be paid two million livres to declare myself a Catholic at the right moment. Who knows, the right moment may never come, but my two million livres will, and prove most useful.

So he signed the treaty and delighted his dear sister, for Louis, whom she loved, would be pleased with her when she came back to France to make a present to him of her brother’s signature on that treaty.

Sweet Minette. Back to France she must go. Back to her odious husband.

She held out her jewel case to him and said, “Choose what you will, dearest brother. Anything you may wish for I would have you take in memory of me.”

Then he lifted his eyes and saw the charming girl who stood beside his sister, and who had brought the jewel case when Henriette had bidden her do so.

“There is only one jewel I covet,” he said. “This fair one who outshines all in your box, sweet sister.”

The girl dropped her eyes and blushed warmly.

Minette said to her: “Louise, my dear, I pray you leave me with my brother.”

The child curtsied and was gone, but not before she had thrown a quick look over her shoulder at the King of England.

“Nay, Charles,” scolded Minette, “she is too young.”

“It is a fault easily remedied,” said Charles. “Time passes, and those who are young are … not so young.”

“I could not leave her behind.”

Charles was somewhat regretful. He had rarely pursued women; it had never been necessary. Louise was a charming child, but he doubted not that here in Dover there were other charming children, his own subjects. The only time he had ever pursued a woman was during his infatuation for Frances Stuart.

“I shall regret her going,” said Charles. “Had she stayed she could have provided some small consolation for your loss.”

“Mayhap, dear brother, one day soon I shall come again to England, and I pray that next time I come it will not be necessary for me to depart so soon.”

“My poor Minette, is life so difficult?”

She turned to him, smiling. “Life is full of happiness for me now,” she said.

Then she embraced him and wept a little.

“When I return to France,” she said, “write to me regularly, Charles.”

“Indeed I will. It is the only solace that is left to us.”

“Tell me all that happens at your Court, and I will tell you all that happens at Versailles. Louis is jealous of my love for you.”

“And I of yours for him.”

“It is different, Charles.”

“I am but the brother and he …”

She smiled sadly. “Often there have been only your letters reminding me that I am entirely yours to make me feel my life is worthwhile.”

He smiled at her tenderly; he understood so well. She loved him—but second to the King of France—and she had had to choose between them when she came on this mission as the agent of the King of France. Yet he loved her no less because of that.

He saw his sister’s young maid of honor before they left for France.

He came upon her suddenly in an antechamber as he was about to go to his sister’s apartments. He wondered whether she had arranged that it should be so.

She curtsied prettily, and then as though wondering whether she complied with the English custom, fell on her knees.

“Nay,” he said, “such obeisance is not necessary. Let not beauty kneel to any—not even royalty.”

She rose and stood blushing before him.

“You are a charming child,” he said. “I asked my sister to leave you behind that we might become good friends, but she will not do so.”

“Sire,” said the girl. “My English is not of the best, you see.”

“You should be taught it, my child; and the best way to learn a country’s language is to take up residence in that land. When I was your age and after, I spent many years in your country, and thus I spoke your country’s language.” He began to speak in French, and the young girl listened eagerly.

“Would you like to come and stay awhile in England?”

“But yes, Your Majesty.”

“Stay at Court, shall we say, where I might show you how we live in England?”

She laughed childishly. “It would give me the greatest pleasure.”

“Alas, my sister says she owes an obligation to your parents and must take you back with her.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her towards him. “And that,” he said, “makes me desolate.”

“I thank Your Majesty.”

“Thank me not. Thank the Fates which gave you this beautiful curling hair.” He fondled it tenderly. “This soft skin …” He touched her cheeks and throat.

She waited breathlessly. Then he bent gracefully and kissed her on the lips. There was a movement in the room beyond them.

He said: “Mayhap we shall meet again.”

“I do not know, Your Majesty.”

“Tell me your name before we part.”

“It is Louise.”

“Louise. It is a charming name. What other names have you?”

“I am Louise Renée de Penancoët de Kéroualle.”

“Then adieu, sweet Mademoiselle de Kéroualle; I shall pray that ere long we meet again.”