The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II

CORONATION

The wind was behind us as we left Brill and our journey was swift. I was feeling very emotional and my thoughts were of my father, but I warned myself that I must stand wholeheartedly behind my husband, and that, but for my father’s folly, he might not now be in exile with his sorrowing queen.

I must smile, be merry, pretend to rejoice. William was safe, his mission accomplished, his dream come true. The three crowns were his and I was to share them.

I watched the approach of my native island and thought of that terrified and tearful child who had left it in such misery. I was still young — not yet twenty-seven. I had survived those first years of marriage and had learned to accept what cannot be changed, which I suppose is one of the most important lessons of life.

I was Queen of England, but it was an honor which I wished had not come to me in this way.

Among the women surrounding me was Elizabeth Villiers. I had never felt at ease in her company and now she filled me with apprehension. I was jealous of her. She was an enigma to me, as William himself was. They were two strange people. Perhaps that was why they were attracted to each other. I could believe she had witch-like qualities. Unprepossessing as she was, wherein lay her power to enslave him as she did? He had been her lover for years. Wherein lay this strange fascination?

She was without doubt extremely clever. She understood state affairs; she spied for him, carried information to him ... and William was capable of devotion, as I had seen with Bentinck. These two were the ones he loved. Bentinck had saved his life and I could understand that. But there were many beautiful women at court. Why had he chosen Elizabeth?

My efforts to be rid of her had failed: she had outwitted me, as I fancied she always would. And here she was, on her way to England because William would never give her up.

There was a crowd of distinguished people waiting for us at Gravesend. I had dressed with care for the occasion because I knew all eyes would be on me, and I must stand up and face the scrutiny. I must show them that I stood beside my husband in all things, and I was happy because he was here to rule over them with wisdom and strength. I must not let them see how sad I was because, to do my duty toward them, my husband must destroy my father.

I was wearing an orange-colored velvet skirt and my page stood by holding my coat of the same colored velvet. My pearl decorated bodice was low cut and there were pearls and orange ribbons in my hair.

I walked to the richly caparisoned horse which was waiting for me and mounted the purple velvet saddle.

The people cheered me as I rode with my entourage to Greenwich Palace.

There I was greeted by my sister Anne, and I could not restrain my joy on seeing her. We discarded all ceremony and clung together in rapturous joy.

“I have missed you, sister,” I said.

“I am so happy that you have come home,” replied Anne.

She was eager to present her husband to me. I could see at once that she was happy in her marriage and that she and George of Denmark were suited to each other. He had an open face and the reports I had heard of him appeared to be true. He was good-looking, good-natured and easygoing. My father had said he was no conversationalist and was given to repeating certain phrases at intervals, which could be rather irritating. “Est-il possible?” was a favorite one. In fact, my father had named him “Est-il possible.”

It was clear that George of Denmark had made little impression on the court. I was prepared to like him, for he had obviously won Anne’s affection, and she his; and it was good to see how happy they were together.

I talked a great deal to Anne while she listened. I had forgotten how fat she was. I, myself, had put on a certain amount of flesh. We were like our mother in that respect. But beside Anne I looked almost slender. Moreover, she was pregnant.

We were all going to Whitehall together and the royal barge was waiting to take us.

As I stepped into it I experienced another pang of conscience. This was now my barge ... the royal barge, but a short time ago it had been my father’s. I braced myself. I must stop these foolish thoughts. The old refrain kept hammering in my mind. It need never have happened. It was his fault.

He could not really have wanted to rule. If he had, he would never have thrown his crown away. He would go to some quiet retreat where he could practice his religion in peace. That was what he wanted.

I must rejoice. William had succeeded and I had come home.

The people cheered as we sailed along the river to Whitehall.

I ascended Whitehall Stairs and walked into the palace. How familiar it was! How memories flooded back! I was smiling brightly. I must show no emotion but pleasure, for I was being closely watched. So I exclaimed with delight as I walked through those familiar rooms.

Anne was beside me, smiling.

“You are home now, sister,” she said.

“And happy to be here.”

I was aware then of Sarah Churchill. She had never been one to hide her feelings, and there was a look of cold criticism in her eyes.

How dare she! I thought. She was thinking how heartless I was. She knew how much my father had cared for me, and here I was, exulting in taking his possessions which were now mine because my husband, with me at his side, had turned my father from his throne.

It was she who had persuaded my sister to desert him! Her husband had led the army to revolt against him! And Sarah Churchill could stand by with that look of condemnation in her eyes!

I hated Sarah Churchill. She might have domination over my sister, but she would have to remember that I was Queen of England.

So I took possession of the royal apartments. I remembered going to see Mary Beatrice there. I recalled her kindness to the poor frightened child who was to be married and sent away from home. Poor Mary Beatrice, how was she faring now? I thought of her with her little baby — the Warming-pan Baby, as malicious people called him — and her futile husband. What was she thinking now? She had loved and trusted her “dear Lemon” who was now flaunting orange petticoats and had come in to take possession of her apartments.

Now that I was installed at Whitehall, William came to see me. It was the first time we had met since we had said good-bye in Holland. He looked tired and strained, and stooped more than I remembered. But it was always like that when I saw him after an absence. I think in my imagination I changed my image of him — making him taller, straighter, more amiable.

After our last parting I expected more tenderness from him, but he seemed to have reverted to the man he had been. I was hurt and disappointed.

It occurred to me, in one of those flashes of disloyalty which I had known in the past, that he wanted me to come to Whitehall before he did because, unsure of the people’s reaction, I should be the one to take possession of it.

Nonsense, I told myself. This was the natural way; and yet I had hoped that he would be at Gravesend to meet me.

I wanted to tell him how pleased I was to see him and for him to say the same to me. He did nothing of the sort. He merely kissed me coolly.

I said: “William, you are well? Your cough?”

It was tactless. He hated references to his weaknesses. He said: “I am well.”

“You do not ask how I am?” I said a trifle archly.

“I can see that you are in good health,” he replied.

“It has been such an anxious time.”

“It was what we expected.”

“And now you have succeeded all is well.”

“We cannot yet say that all is well.”

“But the people want us, William. They know that you will rule them well.”

“They were not so eager. They wanted to make you the Queen and me . . .” He shrugged his shoulders in disgust.

“I know. But I made my wishes clear, did I not?”

He nodded. “The sooner we have their Bill of Rights and are proclaimed King and Queen the better. I want to get out of this city. It oppresses me. I believe there is a fine palace at Hampton.”

“Hampton Court. Yes, I remember it well.”

“As soon as this matter is settled, I shall leave for Hampton, and if it is all I heard — and the situation, I know, is away from the city — we shall take up residence there.”

THE CEREMONY TOOK PLACE on the next day. It was Ash Wednesday — not perhaps the best day for such an occasion, but William was anxious that there should be no delay — and with him I went to the Banqueting Hall in the Palace of Whitehall where we were proclaimed King William and Queen Mary.

There was rejoicing in the streets. People put lighted candles in their windows and bonfires were lighted before the doors of the houses. Some of the bonfires were very big and I was told that that was a good sign, for the size of the fire was an indication of the owners’ loyalty to the crown.

I had a feeling that night that the people wanted us. William might be austere, as unlike King Charles as a man could be, but he had a reputation for wisdom: he was a Protestant — the most important reason of all — and I was his loyal wife, even if I had betrayed my father to support him.

The new reign had begun; the country was at peace, and we should go on from there.

WILLIAM WAS EAGER to get on with ruling the country and establishing the Protestant faith throughout the land. He was impatient of all the pomp and ceremonies that were thrust upon him. I was beginning to understand that this was because he had not the physical stamina to endure them. He grew very tired standing. I knew that his bones ached and his body was too frail to endure that which affected those around him not at all. William’s mind was active, shrewd, brilliant, but his body was frail.

I made excuses for his behavior. His terseness bordered on rudeness, but it was due to pain and discomfort. I wished that I could explain to these people but, of course, that would be the last thing he wished.

Now that I had grown buxom, and I was in fact slightly taller than he was, his meager statue was emphasized when he stood beside me; and my healthy looks accentuated his pallor and fragility.

He was often morose and rather graceless, which did not endear him to the people, and wherever we went together there were cries of “Long live Queen Mary” while King William scarcely received a mention. He was deeply aware of this. He complained bitterly of the London air. It had improved considerably since the Plague and Great Fire and the coming of the wide new streets and new buildings of Sir Christopher Wren, but William found it stifling, malodorous and not good for his health.

He had liked Hampton Court from the moment he saw it. The river and the open country reminded him of Holland and one of his great interests — as with my uncle Charles — was architecture.

Bentinck was anxious; he must have wondered what effect William’s demeanor would have on his new subjects. They had been accustomed to a colorful court. I remember how they used to see King Charles sauntering in the park with one of his mistresses on his arm, surrounded by witty courtiers, and how the King’s remarks were commented on and passed round for all to enjoy. And this new king, whom they had invited to their shores to restore the Protestant faith, was small, without charm, without grace. It was a great price to pay for ridding the country of the Catholics.

However, it was said that he was a clever man and it was early yet; and William did make Bentinck realize that his health would not permit him too public a life. For that reason, Hampton seemed just what was needed, for it was not too far from London and ministers could easily travel there. The air suited William, and he could make the place his headquarters, for a time at least.

He was very critical of the old Tudor palace and soon decided he was going to demolish the main apartments and rebuild them.

The gardens were unattractive and he made plans for these which he allowed me to share.

We spent some time — when he could spare it from state duties — looking at plans, and I was delighted to be able to join in this and even offer suggestions which, on some occasions, were considered. I found a great interest in the gardens, on which work was started immediately, and they were laid out in the Dutch style.

But of course our main occupation must be with the coming coronation, for William said that a king and queen were not accepted by the people as such until they had been crowned.

Therefore it was important that there should be no delay in performing that ceremony.

THE CORONATION WAS FIXED FOR EARLY APRIL — the eleventh in fact — but it was not going to run as smoothly as we had hoped. In the first place, Archbishop Sancroft, whom we should have expected to officiate, declined to do so.

He declared that he had taken an oath of allegiance to King James II and in no way could he break that oath. Four of those bishops who had been sent to the Tower by James took the same view as Sancroft, even though my father had been no friend to them, and their imprisonment, as much as the birth of the young Prince, had been the final blow which had unseated the King.

William was more silent than ever. He did not like the English and their ways. He had longed for the crown; he had been invited to take it; and now they were making him as uncomfortable as they could.

In due course Compton, Bishop of London, agreed to perform the ceremony in place of the Archbishop of Canterbury; but I think incidents such as this made us feel very uneasy from the beginning.

We were dressed and ready to set out for Westminster Hall when the messenger arrived.

William came unceremoniously into my chamber. He looked paler than usual and very agitated. He was waving a paper in his hand.

“What has happened?” I cried in alarm.

William looked at me blankly for a moment. Then he said: “James has landed in Ireland.”

My first words were: “Is he safe?”

William looked impatient. He went on: “He has taken possession of the island and has been welcomed by the Irish. Only Londonderry and one or two other smaller towns are holding out against him.”

I stared aghast. “What does this mean?” I asked.

“That he will rally forces against us. This is not the end.”

I felt sick. Such news, to come at such a time! It seemed significant that this should happen now, when I stood there in my coronation robes, preparing to receive the crown which was his.

“What must we do?” I murmured.

William said tersely: “We must get those crowns on our heads without delay and then we will consider.”

He left me and no sooner had he gone than a messenger arrived with a letter for me. I felt faint as I saw that the writing was my father’s.

I took the letter, sat down and began to read. The words danced before my eyes. I wanted to tear off those robes, throw myself on my bed and weep.

He wrote that hitherto he had made all fatherly excuses for what I had done, and had wholly attributed my part in the revolution to obedience to my husband, but the act of being crowned was in my power, and if I were crowned while he and the Prince of Wales were living, the curse of an outraged father would light upon me as well as that of God, who had commanded duty to parents.

I reread the words and then put my hands over my eyes to shut them out.

I could not move. I could only picture my father’s face when he wrote those words.

How could I do this? He was right. It was betrayal. If I were crowned Queen I should be thinking all the time of my father who had loved me so dearly and whom I was betraying by this ceremony.

I sat there with the paper in my hand. William must have heard something had happened, for he came to my chamber. He saw me sitting there and took the letter from my hand. His face grew pale when he read it.

“To send this at such a time!” he murmured. Then, briskly: “Come. The time is passing.”

“You have read what he says?”

William lifted his shoulders wearily. “Of a certainty he does not want the coronation to proceed.”

“It is right ... what he says to me.”

“The people do not want him,” said William firmly. “He does not please them. They have chosen us.”

“I cannot . . .”

“You will,” he said, looking at me coolly.

“I shall never forgive myself ... never forget.”

I put my hands over my face. He must have thought I was about to weep, for he said sharply: “Control yourself. They are waiting for us. You cannot refuse now. You have given me your word. The people are expecting you.”

“My father . . .”

“Your father is a defeated old man. He has gone to Ireland and at this time that is ... inconvenient. But this day you are going to be crowned.”

“You, William, but . . .”

I saw the contemptuous smile curve his lips.

“What folly,” he said, and there were angry lights in his eyes. I understood my presence was necessary. The people would not accept him without me.

I was bitterly hurt, deeply wounded and I felt angry with myself ... with my father and with William.

I lost my fear of my husband at that moment.

I cried: “You should not have let him go as you did. The fault is yours. If he regains his authority, you will be to blame.”

I was aghast that I could have spoken so to William, but surprisingly he was not angry. He looked rather pleased.

He nodded, as though agreeing with me.

“Yes,” he said, “he should never have been allowed to get away.” He put an arm round me. “Never fear. We shall know how to act. It is very important that we should be accepted as King and Queen without delay. Come, we are late already.”

DRESSED IN MY ROBES LINED WITH ERMINE, I was carried in my chair across Palace Yard to Westminster Hall, and there the people assembled were asked whether they would accept William and me as their King and Queen. I fancied there was a pause, but that may have been due to my state of uncertainty.

The acclamation came as was expected and there was none to say the crown should not be ours.

The ceremony proceeded and I noticed that there were fewer people there than had been expected. It would probably be due to the news from Ireland, and there might be some who did not want to show themselves joining in our coronation in case our reign should be a short one, and in that event it would be wise not to be associated with it.

The news of my father’s arrival in Ireland would have spread and people would be saying there was something significant about its arriving on the day of the coronation. I sensed the uneasiness in the air.

We were nervous throughout the proceedings, and when the moment came at the altar to make our offering of gold pieces, neither William nor I had the money with us to do so. There was a long pause when the gold basin into which the coins should be put was handed to us. I was aware of the dismay in those about us. We had known what would be expected but I suppose we had been so unnerved by the news as to forget such a detail.

Lord Danby, who was close by, hastily produced twenty gold guineas and the little matter was over, but on such occasions people look for omens.

Gilbert Burnet, now made Bishop of Salisbury as a reward for his services, proceeded with the sermon. His voice rang out through the hall. William was gratified. He could trust Gilbert Burnet to stress the faults of my father while he extolled the virtues of the new monarchs who, with God’s approbation, had been set up in his place.

He took his text from the passage in Samuel: “He that rulest over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God.”

It was a day of mishaps and I think it all stemmed from the news we had had that morning. It had affected us all deeply. There had been delay in starting the proceedings, the absence of the fainthearted who feared there might soon be a change of monarchs and did not want to show allegiance to the wrong ones, and we were late in arriving at the banquet.

Then came the traditional challenge when Sir Charles Dymoke rode into the hall and flung down his glove to challenge any who would deny the right of William and Mary to the crown. This was all part of the coronation ritual, and I believed there had never been a time when the challenge had been taken up.

Dusk had fallen by this time and from where I was sitting I could not see the actual fall of the gauntlet. To the amazement of everyone, no sooner had the glove been thrown down than an old woman hobbled over to it, picked it up and was gone. It seemed incredible that she could have been crippled because her movements after picking up the glove had been quick, and she was gone before anyone could stop her; and in place of Charles Dymoke’s gauntlet was a lady’s glove.

The challenge had been accepted.

This could only be a supporter of my father.

It was a most extraordinary and upsetting affair. But nothing came of it. Dymoke did not consider it was a true challenge and ignored it. But there were some to say that the next morning a man was seen in that spot in Hyde Park where duels were fought, a man equipped with a sword, waiting for the arrival of Sir Charles Dymoke.

Whether this was true or not, I cannot say. There were so many rumors. I was exhausted when the day was over. I think it was the most unhappy day of my life.

A GIFT FOR ELIZABETH

The ceremonies which followed the coronation were a great trial to William. He was very impatient with the ancient customs which had to be observed; what he wanted was to get on with the business of ruling. Trivialities bored him and he was not the man to disguise his boredom.

It was easier for me. My nature was different. I liked to have smiling people about me and I could not bear long silences. I liked to hear opinions and, yes, I will confess it, gossip.

The day after the coronation we had to receive all the members of the House of Commons who came in a body to congratulate us. I knew William would think it a waste of time. The crown was firmly on his head. That was the important matter. He could dispense with the rest.

More attention was given to me on these occasions. It may have been because I was considered the rightful heir to the throne, or simply that they found me easier to talk to. William was aware of this and it made him feel angry toward them, and I feared, with me. I wondered why, as he was so clever, he could not hide his irritation and cultivate a more genial manner which would be more pleasing to the people.

He was glad when he could escape to Hampton Court. Rebuilding there was soon going on apace and a new elegance was replacing the old palace. I was glad that some of the old Tudor part was left so that we could see the contrast.

I think Hampton Court would always be one of William’s favorite places. It was one of mine too.

I was often in Anne’s company. The delight which I had enjoyed on my arrival had faded a little. I was conscious of a certain irritation in her company. She was lethargic. That was understandable as she was in an advanced stage of pregnancy, and indeed was about to give birth at any day.

She would sit in silence, smiling that rather vacuous smile of hers, saying very little. I would do all the talking, telling her about the people I was meeting, whether I liked them or not, about my life in Holland and the differences between the Dutch and the English. She would sit, nodding affably; and I wondered if she really heard what I was saying.

I thought: she will be different when the child is born.

There were times when I was quite alarmed. She was so enormous. She had always been inclined to be fat, of course. I remembered how she used to sit with our mother, nibbling at the sweetmeats which always seemed to be at her side. She was still the same.

When I remonstrated with her, she shrugged her shoulders.

“It is the baby,” she said. “This one is going to be a giant.”

Anne was very affectionate toward her husband, and he to her. How different from William and me! Of course, George was ineffectual, but how kind and pleasant to everyone. He lacked William’s wisdom; he could never have been a great ruler, but what a charming man he was! And how contented Anne was with her marriage and her babies, who appeared regularly, even though none of them survived.

Yet, at times I believed that Sarah Churchill was more important to her than George. She always liked to have her close. Perhaps she felt with Sarah around she need not bestir herself to talk, for Sarah talked incessantly. She was giving herself special airs, too.

The custom was to distribute honors at a coronation, and this had been done. For instance, Gilbert Burnet had become Bishop of Salisbury and William Bentinck was now the Duke of Portland and John Churchill was the Earl of Marlborough. Sarah was very pleased to be Lady Marlborough and Anne was, of course, delighted by Sarah’s triumph.

It was indeed a close relationship — dominating on Sarah’s side, submissive on Anne’s. I think Sarah ruled Marlborough himself in the same way as she did Anne.

When Anne had chosen the names of Mrs. Morley and Mrs. Freeman for herself and Sarah, she had asked Sarah to choose which she would have and, with a touch of humor I always thought, Sarah chose Mrs. Freeman. Nothing could have been more apt.

Between myself and Sarah there was a certain animosity. There was something in our natures which grated on each other. Sarah, of course, must show a certain respect for the Queen, and naturally she could not offend me openly; but I did wonder whether, in private, she tried to turn Anne’s mind against me.

I traced her dislike back to that incident of the two pages, which had happened while I was in Holland. It was when Anne had taken up her residence in the Cockpit, those apartments which were more or less attached to the Palace of Whitehall and where Lady Castlemaine had once had her lodgings.

There had been a rearrangement of staff and Anne had needed two more pages in her household.

People in special places, as Sarah was, had the privilege of selling positions in those households where it could be advantageous to be installed, and Sarah had succeeded in selling these places for the sum of £1,200, which was very profitable for her; but since these were posts in the household of the Princess Anne, who could inherit the throne one day, the price seemed reasonable enough to the families concerned.

She must have been congratulating herself on the sale, when it was discovered that the two pages were Roman Catholics. This was something which we could not accept, for it was at the time when there was a great deal of feeling working up against King James; and Anne, of course, was said to be a staunch Protestant.

I wrote to Anne and told her that the two pages must be dismissed without delay. This created a difficult situation, for Anne would know of Sarah’s profitable deal and the Churchills were always in need of money and sought to find it wherever they could. But, in view of the gathering storm, there was nothing to be done but dismiss the pages.

Sarah was very reluctant to give up the money, which by right she should refund to the families who had paid it for the posts which were not now theirs. There was a certain amount of bargaining and in the end it was agreed that Sarah should keep £400 and refund the rest.

This had been done and Sarah was very disgruntled. She blamed William and me — first for discovering the religion of the pages, and then for insisting on their removal.

I knew the money was of great importance to Sarah and the loss of £800 would never be forgiven.

I was always conscious of her enmity and I did not trust her.

ANNE’S CHILD WAS NEARLY DUE. The hot weather had come and she was more lethargic than ever. I began to worry about her. She had taken childbearing as she did everything else, and it did not greatly disturb her; and now, in the heat of summer, she just lay about, placidly waiting. I was far more anxious than she was.

She had taken up residence at Hampton Court. She was as fond of the place as I was and I was glad that she appreciated the improvements which William had brought about.

William was often at the palace. He was keeping a watchful eye on events in Ireland and was not very pleased about the support my father was getting there. He talked of it to me a little and said that we must be ready to face James if the need arose.

We often walked in the gardens together. I was very proud of them, having helped to create them. He used to take my arm, instead of my taking his, and I knew it was because he sometimes needed support. He tired easily but would not admit that this was the reason.

I saw looks of amusement on the faces of some of the English, who had not taken to William any more than he had to them. I was taller than William and getting plump. I might seem almost sylphlike when compared with Anne; but it was different when I walked side by side with William.

Sarah said with a smirk: “I saw you and the King walking together ... he taking your arm. Such a good example to married people!”

She knew why he took my arm and she wanted to remind me of his relationship with Elizabeth Viliers. Sarah was no friend of mine.

One hot July day, Anne’s baby was born. I had insisted on being with her and I was so relieved when I heard the cry of a child. It was a boy. How pleased everyone would be!

Anne herself was in a state of ecstasy, and I was overjoyed to see her raised out of her indifference. I had not seen Anne, the mother, before, and the state certainly became her.

She looked almost beautiful, peering at the child with her myopic eyes, demanding: “Is he well ... every limb of him?”

She was assured that the child was in perfect health and the strength of his voice was like sweet music to us all. A boy! An heir to the throne!

People crowded into the chamber. William was there. George, the father, was highly emotional, proud, delighted, gazing down on his wife and son with adoration in his eyes.

It was a touching and moving scene.

Anne said: “We shall call him William, after the King.”

William looked gratified. I knew he was thinking that the boy had come at the right moment. The people would be pleased. The child would be brought up as a Protestant and he would be heir to the throne. At last there was a Protestant male heir and the menace of King James, now trying to raise an army in Ireland, had receded a little.

This was a very important little boy.

I TOOK IT UPON MYSELF to share in the nursing of my little nephew. Anne was rather weak after her ordeal, and was quite happy to sink back into a state of lethargy. It was a great delight to hold the baby in my arms. He seemed a bright little fellow. William had already created him Duke of Gloucester, and I am sure no child ever had a warmer reception into the world.

However, it was not long before there began to be fears for his health. He grew thin and fretful. Was it going to happen all over again? The familiar pattern, the birth, the hopes that this one would survive, and then the weaknesses which began to show?

It was unbearable to watch little William grow weaker every day. He put on no weight whatsoever and we could not understand what ailed him. Poor Anne was despondent. The others had been stillborn or lived their brief spells. Not little William, too.

We were filled with gloom. The child could not live much longer. Each morning, when I rose, I would say to my women: “How fares the Duke of Gloucester?” and they would have the answer ready, knowing that the question would be asked.

“He is poorly, Your Majesty, but he lives.”

Then one day, when the baby was a month old and not expected to live through until September, I was told that a woman was there, who wished to see me most urgently.

“A woman,” I said. “What woman?”

“She is carrying a young child, Your Majesty. A rather big, strong woman.”

“I will see her,” I said.

She was brought to me. She was plainly dressed in a garb I discovered to be that of a Quaker; she had fresh skin, clear eyes and was obviously healthy. She was carrying a plump baby of about the same age as William, but how different this child was from the little Duke. He had smooth round cheeks, and what struck me most was his look of sleek contentment.

She did not bow to me, nor show me the respect due to me, nor did she express any surprise that I had deigned to see her.

In fact, she treated me as a woman like herself.

I said: “Who are you?”

“I am Mrs. Pack,” she told me. “I have come here on an errand of mercy because I believe the young Duke is dying.”

She spoke bluntly and to the point, in a straightforward, honest way which immediately won my respect. She was very different from the sycophantic people who surrounded me and she went on without preamble: “I believe I can save the boy’s life.”

“How?” I demanded. “He is already surrounded by those who seek to do that.”

“It may be that they do not know what is wrong.”

“And you, who have not seen him, do?”

“I would take him to my breast. I would give him of that milk which the good Lord has given me in good plenty that I may save the Duke. A voice came to me in the night telling me what I must do.”

I wondered if she were a little mad, but she did have an air of simple piety about her which impressed me. Moreover, my anxiety about the baby was so great that I could not turn away from the flimsiest hope of saving him.

I said to Mrs. Pack: “Come with me.”

I took her into the room where the baby lay whimpering in his cradle, and to the astonishment of the nurses, I said: “Take up the child, Mrs. Pack, and show me what you can do.”

Mrs. Pack, with simple dignity, laid her own child in the cradle beside little William. She then took him in her arms and, seating herself, undid the buttons of her bodice and gave her breast to him.

There was quietness in the room. I saw the child, his lips at her breast, and I heard him; he was sucking eagerly.

Mrs. Pack sat there, smiling benignly. There was a look of saintliness about her in her simple gray gown and the manner in which she held herself, as though there was nothing unusual about her being in the royal apartments suckling the Duke of Gloucester.

What delighted me was to see the child satisfied, and after he had had his fill, he fell into a deep sleep.

I went along to Anne and told her what had happened. She wanted to see Mrs. Pack without delay, and I took her with me to the nursery where little William was. He looked frail but it was wonderful to see him sleeping quietly.

Anne questioned Mrs. Pack, who responded with that dignity which had already surprised me, and she talked with a lack of self-consciousness, showing that she was not in the least overawed.

Mrs. Pack said that the baby was not getting the milk he needed and that was the reason for his weakness. Her milk was good and wholesome and she had enough for two. She had come on the Lord’s business and she believed she could transform the Duke into a healthy child.

Anne immediately asked Mrs. Pack if she could stay and feed the Duke with her own baby, a proposition which was accepted.

It was extraordinary, but from that day William began to grow stronger. It was a fact that the lower classes seemed to rear their children more easily than royalty. It must be something in the milk. Mrs. Pack’s child was as healthy as any child could be and the Lord or nature had endowed her with enough milk to feed two. It seemed a miracle.

So Mrs. Pack became a member of the household — not always an easy one. I heard she was no respecter of persons. I am sure she had many a tussle with Sarah Churchill, but even that lady’s imperious ways could have little effect on the Quaker, who saw all men and women as equal, and was allowed to act as she pleased since she had saved little William’s life and continued to keep him healthy.

I was as grateful to her as Anne was, and we would allow no one to upset her. I loved my little nephew and greatly regretted that he was not my son. He was growing into a very bright child. Anne adored him and she and George gloated over him together. I was continually sending toys. I was glad he was at Hampton Court because that gave me many opportunities of seeing him. Mrs. Pack continued her reign in the nursery with her child and under her care young William grew stronger every day.

Unfortunately, my relationship with my sister was deteriorating. Anne irritated me more and more. I liked lively conversation and I wanted to be with people who could share in it. In Holland, I had lived in such seclusion that I had been starved of it, but I was not going to allow that to happen here. I was the Queen and I would not be shut away as I had been when I was Princess of Orange. Occasionally I reminded myself that it was I who had allowed William to become the King and not merely my consort as many people thought he should be. I wanted Anne to remember who I was — not too formally, of course, but on occasions, and I thought she should make some effort when I was present.

It was not only her slothfulness. I fancied she sometimes annoyed me deliberately. I suspected that Sarah Churchill encouraged her in this. Sarah was my enemy but I was not going to allow her to poison my sister’s mind against me. I tried to find out what Sarah said to her in secrecy about people, including myself. But Anne, careless as she was about most things, could be sly and secretive if anything was said about Sarah.

I was sure the matter of Richmond Palace had been suggested by Sarah.

Richmond Palace was enshrined in our memories as the home of our childhood — a time when we were ignorant of the misfortunes of life and had believed we were to go on living blissfully forever.

Anne needed a place to live, for she could not stay indefinitely at Hampton. As a princess in line to the throne, and moreover mother of an heir, she needed a home of her own, and Sarah had persuaded her to set her heart on Richmond.

It would be wonderful to go back there, she insisted.

“So healthy for dear little William,” and she was sure her dear sister would put no obstacles in the way of her having it.

As soon as I looked into the matter I knew why Sarah had chosen Richmond.

Sarah had always disliked William. It was she who had given him the name of Caliban all those years ago, and her feelings toward him had not softened. William had commented on Marlborough with typical candor. “A good soldier — one of the best — which is why he holds his position in the army; but a vile man, not to be trusted, not entirely honest. But, for his military skill, he shall retain his position.” And, presumably, be given an earldom, I thought.

I could imagine Sarah’s comments to Anne. William might not have a good opinion of John Churchill, and what sort of opinion did Sarah have of William? Morose, graceless, without courtesy, an oaf ... Caliban. True, Churchill had deserted James to support William. That would have been because he saw James’s cause as hopeless. John Churchill was no fool — nor was Sarah. They knew whose side they had to be on — and that was the winning one. But that did not prevent them from criticizing those who did not appreciate the Churchills as they should be.

I soon realized that Sarah had persuaded Anne that Richmond would be an ideal home, because she knew that by asking for it she would be creating an awkward situation.

Madame Puisars, Elizabeth Villiers’s sister, already owned a lease on the palace which had belonged to her mother, Lady Frances Villiers, who had been our governess. When Lady Frances died, she left the lease to her family. Therefore, to allow Anne to take possession would mean evicting Madame Puisars.

I could see that Sarah wanted to call attention to the favors shown to the Villiers family, and so discountenance William, and, though his liaison with Elizabeth was not exactly a secret, to bring it into prominence.

I was sure William had other matters with which to concern himself at this time. The news from Ireland was becoming more dis-quietening. My father was rallying men to his side and there were skirmishes between his supporters and those soldiers whom William had stationed there. And now Anne must come along with this trivial matter of Richmond Palace when there were plenty of other places which she could have taken.

“No,” said William, irritated that he should have to give a moment’s thought to such a matter. “The Princess Anne cannot have Richmond Palace. Madame Puisars already has the lease and there is nothing to be done about it.”

Anne was sulky. Nobody cared for her, she said. She was thrust aside ... of no importance. Other people ... the Villiers family ... came before her.

“I wonder you allow this,” she said to me.

There was a faint smile about her lips. What did Sarah Churchill say to her during their cozy chats? They would talk of the meek Queen who submitted to her husband’s tyranny and even accepted his infidelity without complaint. They knew full well how many other queens had done this. Anne had the example of our own father and uncle. I could imagine Sarah saying, that was different. Their husbands had at least treated them with courtesy. They did not behave like Dutch boors; and those queens were not queens regnant married to a king who was so only because of his wife’s good graces toward him.

And so the rift between myself and my sister widened, and there was a new cause for it. This time it was money.

When we had arrived in England, Anne had been receiving an annuity of £30,000 a year as a marriage settlement; and when the Duke of Gloucester had been born Anne had asked for this sum to be raised to £70,000. Nothing had come of that.

Now, to our amazement, the question had been raised in Parliament. This could only have happened if Anne and her friends — whom I suspected were the Marlboroughs — had instigated this.

When I saw Anne, I could not help showing my disapproval.

“How could you do such a thing?” I demanded. “To go behind our backs and have this matter raised in Parliament. Do you know what demands are made on state funds? Do you know that there is a war threatening in Ireland? And you can behave in this underhand way ... bringing the matter to Parliament!”

Anne blinked at me, looking helpless and maltreated.

“I am in debt,” she said. “I must be able to live. If I cannot have some money I shall have to retire into private life. I cannot go on.”

“Anne,” I cried. “You are being foolish. You have been persuaded to this and I know by whom. It is Sarah Churchill, is it not? Trust that woman to make mischief!”

“It is my own need which forces me. I am treated with unkindness, as though I am of no importance.”

“Tell me when the King or I have ever been unkind to you.”

She muttered that she could think of one occasion. It was just before the birth of little William and she had had a great fancy for green peas. It was early in the season and there was only a small dish on the table. Oh, how she had wanted those green peas! It was due to her pregnancy, of course. Women had such fancies at these times. And what had William done? He had taken the dish of peas to himself and eaten them all under her eyes!

I could have shaken her. She was so foolish at times. All the same, there was a certain cupidity in her eyes and when she remembered that she was the Princess and in line to the throne, she could play the autocrat.

Now she repeated that she could not afford to live in her present state if she did not have more money.

I looked at her steadily. I had more than once been reminded of that obstinate streak in her nature. I shall never forget an incident in our youth when we were walking together in Richmond Park and she saw an object in the distance and said: “There is a man over there.”

She was shortsighted, as we all knew, and sometimes mistook one object for another. I said to her: “No, sister, that is not a man. It is a tree.”

In her stubborn way she insisted that it was a man and when we were so close that even she could see clearly that it was a tree, she insisted, “It is a man. I still say it is a man.”

I thought of that now as I saw the same obstinacy in her face.

She said: “My friends are determined to make me a settlement.”

Anger rose in me. “Pray tell me, what friends you have but the King and me.”

I was so annoyed with her that I walked out of the room and left her.

It was the biggest rift that there had been between us and I knew we should never be the same to each other again.

The outcome was a compromise about the money. She was to have £50,000 a year, and William would pay her debts.

I was very unhappy at this time. My father was constantly in my thoughts. I was upset by the rift with Anne; William was very occupied and I saw little of him. Nothing seemed as we had hoped.

We had come to England at the invitation of the people — or some of them who wanted to be rid of my father — and although they welcomed me with affection, they did not like William. It was impossible to stop certain Dutch customs creeping in and the English did not like them. There was also resentment against Dutch in high places. William was never affable in company, although it was said that he could be talkative with his Dutch friends, with whom he sat sometimes in the evenings drinking their native schnapps.

On one occasion William said to me: “I do not understand these people. I would as leif be back in Holland. Perhaps I should return and leave you to govern.”

I was horrified at the thought and would have been more so had I believed that he meant it. He would never leave. Now he was disillusioned and weary. Possession of the three crowns was not what he had thought it would be. But what in life ever is?

I was very unsettled during that time. Constant anxiety about my father, eagerness to please William, being aware of his restlessness and dissatisfaction, made me reckless for a while.

The years of seclusion in Holland had had a deep effect on me. I wanted to be with people all the time. I needed lively conversation; I wanted to share in everything that was going on. I was like a person who had been abstemious too long and suddenly becomes intoxicated.

I needed gaiety as I never had before; I had publicly turned from my father while, inwardly, I yearned to be as we had been before; I wanted to be back in those days when the court had been merry and the King sauntered in the park with his friends about him and people watched him and laughed and felt that life was good.

They watched us now. They saw ladies in the Dutch costume, prim enough to make the onlookers smirk. They called the avenue at Hampton Court the Frow Walk. How the passing of a king could change the ways of a nation!

Perhaps I acted foolishly. I wanted life around me. I went to the theater. The King and Queen cannot go to the theater and no one know. I chose to see Dryden’s Spanish Friar. It had been a favorite of my uncle Charles, but too late I remembered that my father had banned it because it was not complimentary to the Church of Rome. It was a most unfortunate choice, for it was easy to compare what was happening in the play with our own story.

Everyone knew I was anxious about events in Ireland, that some of our soldiers were there and being harried by my father’s supporters. There was a tense silence when the Queen of Aragon, who had usurped the throne, was on her way to church to ask God’s blessing for the army which was marching against the King.

All eyes were turned on me and I was very uncomfortable, being watched throughout the performance.

Before I went to the theater again, I would read the play which was to be performed.

It hurt me that some people thought I rejoiced in my father’s downfall. How I wished I could explain how I really felt!

In my search for excitement, I visited the Indian Houses which were fashionable shops and which had recently come into being. They were full of unusual and amusing merchandise and the ladies of the court often visited them. I did not know at this time that they were also used for arranging assignations — a practice which had grown up during my uncle’s reign.

The women who managed them were worldly wise and the best known among them was a Mrs. Graden, who, in addition to her other business, sold some fine ribands and all sorts of fascinating items for a lady’s wardrobe.

I went with some of my ladies and had a most amusing time. Mrs. Graden was so overcome by the honor of a visit from the Queen that she insisted on giving us refreshment.

Others in the same profession were a little piqued by the attention given to Mrs. Graden and perforce I must visit the other shops and buy goods from them. I remembered how Mary Beatrice had been attracted by the Indian shops and had visited them several times.

When the news of these visits reached William’s ears, he was horrified and wanted me to know it. We were at dinner together, and, in his usual way, he did not wait to speak to me privately, but asked me there if I thought such behavior wise. This was in the company of several people and was said in a voice which indicated severe criticism.

“I hear that you make a custom of visiting bawdy houses,” were his words.

I was astounded, and then suddenly I realized what he meant.

I said: “Do you mean the Indian Houses?”

“I mean what I say. Perhaps next time you decide to go I should come with you.”

I was amazed. “Many people visit these shops,” I said. “My father’s wife often did.”

“Do you intend to make her an example you should follow?”

I did not want to enter into a discussion with him in public, so I murmured something about making some interesting purchases at the shops.

He said no more about it and I thought perhaps I had been rather indiscreet to visit the places, and when I discovered what went on there, I did see what William meant.

I should not visit them again, but I could not resist calling Mrs. Wise.

Mrs. Wise was well known throughout the court for living up to her name. She had special “powers” and had been known more than once to see into the future.

I had heard about her predictions from the Countess of Derby who, since I had been in England, had been my Mistress of Robes. I had brought one or two Dutch ladies with me, and the only other English women I had were Mrs. Forster and Mrs. Maudaunt.

They had all been whispering together and when I asked what had excited them, the Countess was loath to tell me.

At length I insisted, and she said: “It is nothing but tattle, Your Majesty. These things will be.”

Still she was reluctant, but finally I prevailed on her to tell me.

“Mrs. Wise says that King James will come back to England and that heads will fall.”

“I see,” I replied. “Do people believe her?”

“There is always talk when such things are said, Your Majesty.”

“And this Mrs. Wise, has she a good reputation for foreseeing the future accurately?”

“Like most of these people, she has had her successes,” said the Countess. “They say something, which by good luck comes true. But they are often wrong.”

“I should like to see this Mrs. Wise,” I said.

“Oh, madam,” gasped the Countess. “Do you think ... ?”

“I should like to see her for myself,” I said firmly.

“If people knew ... they would speak of it. They would feel you must think highly of her to visit her.”

“I want to see her. I want to ask her questions.”

“Your Majesty ... should you go ... openly ... as you did to the Indian Houses?”

I could see William’s cold eyes reprimanding me, and the wondering looks from those about me. Why does the Queen allow this man to talk to her so? they were asking themselves. He is the King by her courtesy. But she is his wife, I thought, and to him she owed obedience. I had learned this from Gilbert Burnet.

William would not, of course, approve of my visiting Mrs. Wise, but I was going to do it all the same.

My women enjoyed the secrecy we must employ. It gave a spice to the adventure, and I went to Mrs. Wise.

She was a woman who did not win my confidence from the first. I could see she was a little shaken by my visit. She had made a pronouncement which she knew would not have pleased me and she was a little uneasy about my visit. I soon discovered that she was an ardent Catholic and I guessed that was why she had made the prophecy.

She was sycophantic, overwhelmed by the honor, she said, and she feared her humble talents were not worthy to serve me.

This, she insisted, prevented her from looking into my future, and she had nothing to tell me. All she could see was that I had been in Holland and had gone there at an early age. She could see nothing beyond that.

She tried to give the impression that the powers were so overwhelmed by my majesty that they felt it would be improper to prophesy my future.

I could not help laughing to myself at this foolish woman, and I came away with the certainty that she made her prophecies to fit the occasion.

I was relieved that William did not discover that I had visited Mrs. Wise.

THAT YEAR WAS COMING TO AN END. It had begun in triumph and was ending in melancholy. I was glad when it was over. But the new year seemed almost more alarming, for it was becoming clear that the situation in Ireland could not be allowed to continue as it was.

William must send an army to face that which was gathering about my father. This would be a battle between Catholics and Protestants. Ever since the conflict had started, I had dreaded the thought of my husband and father coming face to face in battle.

It seemed now that it was inevitable, and during the first month of that new year of 1690 I began to wish that I was no longer on earth, so that I need not know the outcome.

It was no use trying to tell myself that my father was in the wrong. He was — but he was my father and I could not forget my happy childhood and the love there had been between us. How cruel life had been to give me William as a husband, the one man who must be my father’s enemy. And here was I ... caught between them.

Yes, it was true, at times I did wish that I could die before that battle took place. I was so torn between them. My duty was to both of them, but what could I do? I was married to William and the scriptures say that a woman must cleave to her husband, forsaking all others.

Dr. Burnet had assured me my duty was to my husband. I must remember that. But I was dreading that confrontation, with such intensity that I would rather die than face the result.

And through those unhappy months preparations for war continued.

I REALLY BELIEVED THAT William sometimes wished he had never come to England. The people continued to show their dislike of him. It had been different in Holland. The Dutch did not expect the same of their rulers as the English did. Moreover, the glorious euphoria of the Restoration was close enough for people to remember. They wanted to laugh and be merry; they wanted excuses for celebrations; dancing in the streets, being delightedly shocked by the King’s amorous adventurings. And what had they in his place? War threatening and a monarch who never smiled and who hardly ever appeared in public.

But they did like me. William said: “I am beginning to think it would be better if I went back and you reigned in my place.” He gave one of his mirthless smiles. “They would not have that. They would rather have me than a woman ruling over them.”

One of those rare streaks of rebellion rose in me and I said: “One of the most successful monarchs this country has ever had was a woman. I refer to Queen Elizabeth.”

“Hm. She was surrounded by good ministers.”

“Whom she had chosen,” I reminded him.

He did not answer, but he gave me a strange look; and in that moment a determination was born to me. If I had to rule — which I might well do if he went to Ireland — I would do everything within my power to succeed.

The thought was gone almost as soon as it came. I dreaded the idea, not only because of his going into combat against my father but also because I should be alone.

Dr. Burnet came to see us one day. We were together when we received him. We looked upon him as one of our closest friends, for he had supported us from the beginning.

He had had a plan put to him and he thought we should consider it.

“I know Your Majesties’ feelings in this matter,” he said. “The Queen is uneasy to be in conflict with her father and it would seem Your Majesties might see a hope of avoiding confrontation.”

I was all eagerness to hear.

“The plan is that a ship manned by trusty men should call at Dublin, letting it be known that they had come with the intention of joining King James, who should be invited to come aboard. When he does so, the ship should immediately sail for some port — say in Italy or Spain. When the port is reached, the King should be given a sum of money and left there. Without the King, the forces in Ireland will soon be disbanded and conflict averted.”

William considered. I imagined it was something which might have appealed to him if it had been practical. But would my father be so careless as to go aboard? And alone? It did not seem likely. But recklessness had been the theme of his life. It had brought him to the position he was in at this moment.

There was another thought which occurred to me. Suppose they took him to Holland? How would the Dutch feel toward an admiral who had beaten them so often in battles?

“I will have no part of it,” I said, though I knew that the alternative was conflict with William and his army.

William, I was relieved to see, was in agreement with me. I liked to think that the same possibility had occurred to him, but I suspected he saw the scheme as impractical and, even if it succeeded, likely to prove only a postponement of the battle. My father would still be there to fight another day.

So we declined to consider it, though I fancy Gilbert Burnet was disappointed.

WE WERE NOW MOVING TOWARD the time for departure and William must very soon be on his way to Ireland, and I was to rule in his absence.

I felt a certain strength which I had not known I possessed, and the task did not seem so formidable as it had when William was there. It may be that, in order to turn my mind from fears for William’s safety and anxiety about my father, I endeavored to give my entire attention to the immense task before me.

I was surrounded by ministers to help me, the chief of which was Lord Caermarthen, who had been Lord Danby, Lord Devonshire, Lord Nottingham, Admiral Russell and Lord Monmouth. Lord Monmouth was not related to Jemmy. The title came through his mother, who was descended from the Earl of Monmouth, and William had given the title to him, in order to impress on Jemmy’s son that it should never be his.

I did not greatly care for any of these men. Most of them were ambitious, self-seeking; as for Lord Monmouth, I had always thought he was a trifle mad, though good-natured enough, and perhaps more honest than some, though not, alas, reliable.

I could see I should have a hard task before me, and yet I welcomed it.

I was discovering that I was not the feeble woman William seemed to think I was, and which he had made me feel was true. Neither my sister Anne nor I had been well educated, but whereas Anne had taken advantage of the lack of supervision and hardly ever exerted herself, I had always wanted to learn. I saw now how good for me that period of seclusion in Holland had been, for I had spent a great deal of time in reading, when I was not having discourse with people like Gilbert Burnet and Dr. Hooper; and, although our discussions had been mainly of theology, politics had often been one of our subjects. So it was with a thrill of excitement that I had discovered that I was not as ill-equipped for the task as I had feared I might be.

I went to the Palace of Whitehall when William left. George, Anne and little William came there, too. I think we might have forgotten our grievances and been as we used to be, but for Sarah Churchill.

Little William was a great joy to me. Mrs. Pack still dominated the nursery. She had installed herself as the boy’s chief nurse and he was devoted to her and would have no other. Sarah could not endure anyone to dominate a part of Anne’s household except herself and would have liked to be rid of Mrs. Pack; but Anne’s stubbornness came out when any matter concerning her son was in question; and clever Sarah decided that it would be unwise to attempt to change her mind on this.

I was amused to see Mrs. Pack and Sarah together, for Mrs. Pack could be as forceful in her way as Sarah was in hers.

The constant waiting for news was having its effect on me. My face became swollen. I wanted to shut myself away to hide it. I had to send for the doctors who applied leeches to my ears.

In the circumstances, of course, it was impossible for me to live in seclusion and often I had to receive people while I was in my bed.

Then came startling news.

The French fleet had appeared just off Plymouth.

This could only mean an attack was imminent. There were more than seventy French men-of-war coming to attack and rumor said that there were more on the way.

I rose from my bed, my swollen face forgotten. A number of our ships were still in Ireland, others were in the Mediterranean. There were Dutch squadrons in the Channel, but with them, and those of ours which were available, there would only amount to some fifty men-of-war.

The Earl of Torrington, as Admiral of the Fleet, had been a supporter of William and me from the beginning. That was why he held the post. He was an adequate sailor but not such a good one as my father had been, and he was at this time a little disgruntled because he had not been included among those selected for the governing body when William left for Ireland.

He had acquired the nickname of Tarry-in-Town which, although it was on account of his name, did suggest that he might not be the most energetic of men.

These were dreadful days. The French, of course, were seizing the advantage of our weak position. There was murmuring against William. Why should he be in Ireland when England was in need of protection? The French were and always had been our greatest enemy and we should always be on guard against them. I thought there might have been an insurrection. William should never have gone, I thought. This would not have happened if he had been here.

But the fact that the French were close to our shores had its effect on the nation. At such moments the English could be relied on to stand together.

There was consternation among the governing body. Was Torrington the man to lead the fleet in this time of danger? Hotheaded Monmouth offered to go out and take over from Torrington if the need arose. I refused to allow that, for I was sure interference from Monmouth would be disastrous. Caermarthen thought that we should send Admiral Russell to take Torrington’s place.

I pondered this for a while but I came to the conclusion that, as Torrington was Admiral of the Fleet, it would be unwise at such a time to make a change.

“Torrington holds the post,” I said. “I am sure he will do his duty. He is an honest man.”

Meanwhile Torrington reminded us that he had frequently warned us of the growing strength of the French Navy. He was unhappy about the situation for which he was unprepared.

I cannot bear to think even now of the disgrace of that battle. It was a disaster from the beginning. Torrington abandoned the Isle of Wight to the French and retreated up the Channel. When he saw the French hoving into sight, he gave the order to attack. The Dutch fleet were in the van. There were less than sixty ships against eighty French. Only a Francis Drake could have succeeded in such circumstances and Torrington did not have that kind of genius. The Dutch fleet fought bravely, without much assistance from Torrington and his ships. Torrington took refuge up the Thames and the Dutch fleet was shattered.

The only relief which came out of that action was that the French did not take advantage of their victory and contented themselves with merely burning the town of Teignmouth.

But what a disgrace it was! People were saying that there had been no luck in England since the new King came. They blamed William more than they did me. He had left the country in a time of peril; ships which should have been defending England were in Ireland. People were saying that if King James returned he would find it as easy to defeat the Orangeman as the French had.

I knew it was no use to mourn over defeat. I must take action. The ships which had been damaged must be immediately repaired. Who knew when we might need them again? I ordered twelve new ships to be built without delay.

I was ashamed that Torrington had allowed the Dutch to bear the full brunt of the battle, and I sent an envoy to The Hague with my regrets and I gave orders that the wounded Dutch were to be given the best attention and compensated for their losses.

Any dissatisfaction which might have followed was forgotten in the fear that the French would show their strength at sea by attempting an invasion.

Then suddenly our fortunes changed.

There was news from Ireland. William was victorious. He had defeated my father at the Battle of the Boyne.

MY RELIEF WAS TEMPERED WITH ANXIETY. William had been wounded. There were reports in France that he had been killed. The French went wild with joy at the news. I heard that there were celebrations in the streets of Paris with caricatures of my husband, irreverent and cruel. It was an indication of how important they held him to be. By that time I had heard that William’s wound was slight. He had grazed his shoulder blade. My father had escaped to Dublin, which was another great relief to me.

Considering the importance of that battle, the losses were not great. Five hundred of our men lost their lives and one thousand five hundred of our opponents died. But how significant was that battle! My father was in flight. What would he do? Return to France? Wait for another chance? He was getting old and would be losing hope, so perhaps this would be the end of the conflict.

How I hoped so, and how I rejoiced that he had escaped. What I had dreaded most had been avoided. It was good to hear the rejoicing in the streets. William was almost a hero. They would never forgive his solemn ways but at least he had won a great victory and was given credit for that.

The Catholics were lying low; there were expressions of loyalty from several sources. The defeat of Beachy Head was forgotten in the all-important Battle of the Boyne.

My face had ceased to swell; William was coming home; and my father was safe. I was happier than I had thought possible only a short time before.

I was sorry though that Torrington was court-martialled, but that was later — not until the end of the year. I always thought it was unfair to blame him. William did; but he had never liked him, and that was mutual. Torrington defended himself with dignity and said that he had not had the strength to engage the French. The English fleet was not in home waters. If he had imitated the recklessness of the Dutch, the result would have been not only a lost battle at sea but a disaster for England.

I was relieved when he was acquitted. He did not, however, take another command, but went to live in the country.

Meanwhile William was home. Ready to welcome him as the victor of the Boyne, the people expected a triumphant procession through the streets of London. They assembled to cheer and there he was, riding in his carriage instead of on horseback. I dare say he was fatigued. He was indeed recovering from his wound. He wanted only the peace of Hampton Court. He did not raise his arm or give an acknowledgment of the cheers. How I wished he would understand the needs and wishes of the people!

There was another matter which spoilt his homecoming.

I heard about it from Caermarthen just before William’s arrival. I fancied Caermarthen’s smile was a little sly as he told me.

“Your Majesty must know,” he said, “that considerable Irish lands have fallen to the King. There are some 90,000 acres of King James’s estates which are now in King William’s hands.”

“That should represent a great deal of money.”

“It does indeed, but King James had given many of the rents away to various ladies.” Caermarthen coughed. “There is but £5,000 in rents left out of some £26,000.”

“Still considerable,” I said.

“Indeed, Your Majesty. The King has already disposed of the 90,000 acres.”

“To whom, may I ask.”

Again that little cough. “To ... er ... the Lady Elizabeth Villiers.”

I felt the blood rush to my face as I turned my head away and said: “I see. It would be well for us to turn some of the acquired estates to the good of the Irish poor.”

“Doubtless there will be other means of doing this, Your Majesty. It is a great victory.”

“A very great victory,” I said.

When he left me I sat down and stared ahead of me.

How could he do this! He must realize that I should discover it. Yet he did it, blatantly uncaring. Ninety thousand acres for Elizabeth Villiers!

I knew I should not be able to speak to him of it, so I took up my pen and wrote.

I have been desired to beg you not to be too quick in parting with confiscated estates, but consider whether you will not keep some for schools to instruct the poor Irish. For my part, I must needs say that I think you should do very well if you would consider what care can be taken of the poor souls there. The wonderful success you have had should oblige you to think of doing what you can for the advancement of true religion and promoting the gospel.

Would he understand the reproof? I was sure he would. I had rarely come so near to criticizing his actions.

I was so angry that he should do this. After all this time he still cared for her. I was his wife, his Queen. I had given him my obedience and what he had wanted most — a crown. All this I had given him — and he had bestowed the Irish estates on Elizabeth Villiers!

TRAITORS

In spite of my diplomatic reproach, William did not mention the matter of the Irish estates and they went to Elizabeth Villiers as arranged. This was tantamount to a public declaration of their relationship and it was hard for me to bear.

I tried not to allow myself to feel humiliated. I had to remember that I was the Queen and for a time had taken over the reins of government — not unsuccessfully, I flattered myself, for I could not be blamed for the defeat at Beachy Head.

I avoided being in the company of Elizabeth Villiers. She was very confident. She was a clever woman, making up for what she lacked in physical beauty in mental ability. She was on good terms with Bentinck. Moreover, she could keep a sharp eye on what was going on at court; she would be able to sort out the important from the trivial and discuss it with William. I was sure he regarded her as an acute statesman and, because her interests were his, he trusted her absolutely — as much as he could trust anyone except Bentinck.

Soon after he returned home, William acquired a mansion in Kensington which he bought from the Earl of Nottingham. It was a fine house in about six acres of park.

William became a different man when he could plan the restoration of a house; and I could share in this enthusiasm. Thus we set about recreating Kensington Palace.

Hampton Court had been completed and was much admired. Now we could turn our attention entirely to Kensington Palace.

We discussed plans; we engaged architects and the work was soon in progress. Grinling Gibbons was called in and did some beautiful wood carvings. I was going to work on William’s closet and, with my ladies, began on the tapestry which would line the walls and cover the seats of chairs.

Anne, cheated of Richmond Palace, as she said, had moved to the Cockpit. I was still very sad about the decline in our friendship and I often thought of the old days when she had always wanted to do what I did, when I was the elder sister, to be admired and imitated.

Little William was growing up into a bright, amusing and intelligent child, though his health still gave concern; but Mrs. Pack remained with him and his devotion to her increased. Anne resisted Sarah’s urgings that the woman should be sent away. Anne was devoted to her son and his welfare, his happiness, could bring out all the stubborness in her nature and she would fight even Sarah for his sake.

Mrs. Pack and Sarah had naturally become the most bitter of enemies. I was amused to see them together and delighted that Sarah could not get her way this time.

I often took presents to the child. He was very interested in me. I realized it was because he had heard I was the Queen.

He would call me imperiously to his side if he wanted to show me some picture or a castle of bricks.

“Queen,” he would cry, “Here, Queen. Look.”

Anne talked of his cleverness — quite volubly for her. Sarah might grow impatient but it was no use. Anne would go on talking.

The boy had a small carriage made for him. There were miniature horses — the smallest that could be found — and they were attached to his little carriage and led by George’s coachman.

People used to come to the park to watch the little boy in his carriage. They would cheer him as he passed along. He would regard them solemnly and then raise his hand and wave. When he did this they laughed and cheered the more, which clearly excited him for he bounced up and down in his seat with glee.

The little Duke was always popular, and so was Anne. She had somehow conveyed her devotion to him and that touched the hearts of the people. Whenever she appeared, the people made it obvious that she was a favorite. They were kind to me, too. It was only William who was received in silence.

Marlborough had gone to Ireland where there was trouble in the south. He did very well there and when he came home, I heard that Sarah thought he should receive an honor.

Anne spoke to me about it. “Sarah thinks that Marlborough’s services should be recognized. He should have the Garter or a dukedom.”

“He has already been made an earl.”

“Think what he has done since that.”

“He has done his duty as a soldier, yes.”

“Sarah thinks good service should be rewarded.”

I said tersely: “Sarah does not make the laws in this country, though doubtless she would like to.”

Anne dropped into one of her silent sullen moods, so I began to speak of young William — a subject she could never resist.

I mentioned to William what she had said. “Marlborough thinks he should be rewarded,” I said. “He thinks, as the Garter will soon be available, he should have it.”

“The Garter! Marlborough!” cried William. “That is quite out of the question.”

“I thought you would say that. It is his wife’s idea, I daresay.”

“That woman interferes too much.”

That was something with which I could wholeheartedly agree.

He told me then that he would soon be leaving for Holland and it would be for me to take over the government again.

This did not alarm me as it had in the past. I was realizing that I could be stimulated by the prospect of stepping into first place and taking decisions. I was learning that, in spite of the accompanying anxieties, it is exciting to be in command.

“I must attend the Congress of the Powers,” he said. “The French are more to be feared than James, and now he is in France we can be watchful of him. He is weak, but the French are strong, and those nations who are against the French must stand together. We shall make plans to do this during the Congress.”

It was only a few days before he was due to leave when the plot was discovered. It was reckless in the extreme. The plotters were making a proposition to my father. If he would make a solemn promise to rule England as a Protestant country, they would bring him back. He was to gather together a French force which would bring him to England where a secret landing place would be arranged. The French force would then be dismissed and sent back to France. His friends would then rally round him and set him on the throne.

They were rather naive if they thought my father would keep such a promise, even if he made it in the first place.

Three of the conspirators, Lord Preston, Major Elliot and a Mr. Ashton, were selected to take the proposals to France. Suspicions had already been aroused and before their small boat was able to leave the Thames, it was boarded and the papers which were intended for my father were seized.

As a result the three men were now in the Tower.

William said he was pleased that this matter had been settled before he left England.

Now there was another problem. Prince George wanted to go to sea.

“Could he not do so?” I asked William.

My husband looked at me scornfully. “We cannot afford to encumber the service with those who will be no good in it.”

“Surely some position could be found for him?”

“It would have to be a position of some importance because of his rank. That is the trouble. Think of Torrington.”

“Torrington was a good man. He was just short of ships.”

“A good man accepts difficulties and overcomes them.”

“He has to have good luck to do that. Torrington did not.”

William clearly did not want to discuss Torrington. He was concerned with George. He despised George, who was all that he was not; and he was determined that George should not go to sea. How could he prevent him? It must be done.

“For,” he added, “he shall not join the fleet. On that I am determined. But it would be better if he were persuaded not to, instead of forbidden.”

“Forbidden?” I cried.

William’s face hardened. “If necessary, yes. He shall not join the fleet which must be manned by only the best. We cannot afford more incompetence.”

“Who will persuade him?”

“Anne, I suppose.”

“She never would.”

“Well, you must persuade her to it. Get the Churchill woman on your side. I am told that you know how to deal with people.”

“This would not be easy.”

“Dealing with foolish people never is.”

He dismissed the matter and the next day he left for Holland.

I was anxious about him for the weather was not good, but he would not delay his departure. It was necessary for him to be in a country where people behaved reasonably, where they understood him and he them.

Poor William! I wondered, as I had before, whether he would have been happier if he had never realized his dream and inherited the crown.

It was a relief to hear that he had arrived safely and emerged with nothing more than a cold. The Dutch had welcomed him warmly — in that undemonstrative way, I supposed, which was so much to his taste.

Before me lay the difficult task of “persuading” George that the sea was not for him.

I made several attempts with Anne but that stubborn look came into her face when I mentioned what George proposed to do and questioned the wisdom of it.

“So,” she cried, “he is to be given no post! He is expected to spend his days sleeping, drinking and sitting around. The King treats him like an usher ... of no importance at all.”

I could make no headway with Anne. The only way would be, as William had suggested, to get Sarah to try to persuade Anne.

With some misgivings I sought out Sarah.

I said: “Lady Marlborough, I know you have great influence with my sister, and it is for this reason that I wish to talk to you.”

“The Princess honors me with a rather special friendship, I believe, Your Majesty,” she replied complacently.

“Well, I know that she always listens with attention to what you have to say. This is rather a delicate matter. Prince George has conceived an idea that he should take command of the fleet.”

“I believe that to be in his mind, Your Majesty.”

“It is really not possible, and I want you to persuade the Princess that it would not be good for him.”

“Oh?” said Sarah, her eyes widening in innocence.

I tried flattery, to which I suspected Sarah was not entirely immune.

“If anyone can make the Princess see the wisdom of this, it is you. And when the Princess realizes it, she can persuade the Prince. That is all I ask of you, Lady Marlborough.”

She hesitated for a moment and I saw speculation come into her eyes.

“Madame, Your Majesty, I ask your forgiveness for my forwardness, but I am in the employ of the Princess Anne and therefore owe my allegiance to her, and I hold it as a matter of honor. I will tell her that it is your opinion that it would be unwise of the Prince to join the fleet and you have asked me to persuade her to this. I would tell her that this is your command, for I should be obliged to tell her whence it came. I trust Your Majesty understands my meaning.”

“I understand you well, Lady Marlborough,” I said rising. She immediately stood, as she could not remain seated when I was not. “I pray you, say nothing of this matter to the Princess, for I see little good could come of it.”

With that I left the insolent woman. I could see that more harm than good had been done. Now it would be necessary to give an outright refusal to Prince George. It would have been better to have refused him in the first place.

ONE OF MY MOST UNPLEASANT DUTIES at that time was signing the death warrant. I hated the thought that someone had died because I had penned my name to a paper and ordered it to be done.

I must obey the law, of course, and there were the three prisoners who had been caught in an act of treason. It was harder because that act of treason was one of loyalty toward my father. Aston, with Lord Preston and Major Elliot, had been caught with treasonable documents in their possession. So there was no help for it. They would have to die.

This weighed heavily on my mind. I wished that William had been there. He would have signed those documents without a qualm. He would be contemptuous of me for my soft feelings.

I had read a great deal about my predecessor, Queen Elizabeth, for whom I had a great admiration. She had been a strong woman and had ruled despotically in her own right. She had talked of her proud stomach, and she would never have allowed a man to usurp the smallest part of her power.

And there was I — Queen of this Realm — beside a husband to whom I gave the right to come before me. Elizabeth would have despised me, and perhaps she would have been right.

I did remember that she had suffered pangs of conscience when she had signed the death warrant of Mary, Queen of Scots. These men were not close to me. I did not know them, but I deplored what I had to do, and would have given a great deal to have had that burden taken from me.

The people understood my feelings, I believed. They may have thought me weak, but they liked me as they never could like William.

While I was suffering from these pangs of conscience, I had an experience which made me even more sad. It happened in Kensington Palace, which was now beginning to look very fine. In the great hall, when William and I had bought the place, there hung a big picture of my father looking splendid in all his regalia. It was still there.

One day when I came down the stairs I saw a young girl sitting on the lower step, staring fixedly at my father’s portrait.

I said: “What are you doing here, child? And why do you look so intently at that picture?”

She stood up and curtsied.

“Your Majesty,” she said. “That is your father.” She fixed melancholy eyes on me and went on: “My father is in the Tower. He is Lord Preston. They are going to kill him. It is sad that my father is going to be put to death for loving your father too much.”

I was stunned. The child curtsied again and ran off. I wanted to call after her, to bring her back, to say her father should not be killed. Instead, I went to my apartments and prayed, as I always did in moments of intense unhappiness; but I found little comfort.

I wished, as I had so many times, that I was that child’s age and happy in the love of my father.

When I thought about the matter afterward, I guessed that someone had primed that child to be at that spot where I would pass and told her to say what she did. They knew I was not hard like William. How I wished I could give those men their freedom, but I could not remake the laws.

I was relieved when Lord Preston revealed the names of his fellow conspirators — which was not a noble thing to do, but it saved his life and eased my conscience to a certain extent.

THERE WAS BAD NEWS FROM HOLLAND. The French seemed to be triumphant everywhere. At home the people were growing more and more dissatisfied. They wanted to hear of victory, not defeat; and when the news was not good they immediately asked themselves why they had exchanged one unsatisfactory ruler for another who was equally so.

The good old days under Charles were remembered. How had he managed it? I often wondered. I thought of the manner in which he had averted trouble. He was not always sincere, but he always pleased the people, and the art of governing was to do that.

I was rather proud of the manner in which I handled the sailors’ wives of Wapping.

Funds had been low for some time. The wars were responsible for that. Payments which should have been made had been temporarily suspended, and because of this the sailors’ wives had decided to bring a petition to Parliament to air their grievances.

This state of affairs must not be allowed to go on, I decided. These debts must be settled even if it were from the Privy Purse. The poor must not be made to suffer. It was important that those who had only a little money should be the first to receive it.

There was consternation when, in the midst of a Cabinet meeting, the angry wives of Wapping arrived.

This was the kind of situation which could quickly result in a riot; and when one started others could spring up. The matter had to be settled at once.

I said: “I shall speak to them.”

“Your Majesty . . .” several of the ministers cried in horror.

But I was determined.

“Down there is a mob of angry women,” I said. “Go down and tell them to select four who will speak for them and bring them to me.”

They tried to dissuade me. There was I, wearing the state robes which I wore for Cabinet meetings, and I was preparing to see those women, dressed so!

I waved aside their protests and insisted that the women be sent to me.

They came in a truculent mood, angrily determined to demand their rights. I must say they looked taken aback at the sight of me in my splendid robes, and, being somewhat rotund, I must have made quite a regal sight. I could not believe that they would be pacified by the contrast they made in their poor patched garments.

But I have a very soft and gentle voice, I am told, and when I spoke and told them how sorry I was that their husbands had not been paid and they had been right to come to me, I saw the expression on their faces change.

“Tell me all about it,” I went on.

They were taken aback. They had not expected soft words.

One of the women, bolder than the rest, stepped forward. She told me of the poverty they had endured, how hard it was to make ends meet, and when there was no pay coming for good service, they could endure no more. So they had come to demand it.

I agreed that what had happened must immediately be put right. Everything due to them must be paid. I would see that this was done.

They hesitated. They had been promised payment for work done in the first place. They wanted action, not promises that might not be kept.

“I want you to believe me,” I said. “I shall make sure that the money is paid to you without delay.”

I realized suddenly that I had won the confidence of these women. They did believe me. I was moved and gratified when the leader went down on her knees and said: “I believe you. You are a good woman.”

Then the others knelt with her.

“God bless Your Majesty,” they said.

I went back to the Cabinet meeting. They all looked shocked. They had been ready to hurry to my aid should I have been attacked and were astonished when I said calmly: “The amount owing to the sailors’ wives must be paid immediately. I have promised this and my promise must be honored.”

My orders were promptly carried out and I believe the action I had taken averted danger.

My popularity increased after that. Alas, it did not help William.

The people of London liked to express themselves in verse; and when someone wrote a couplet — usually anonymous and unflattering — it was often set to a tune and sung in the streets.

The people saw William as the ruler and I, though the true heiress, was the retiring woman who had hitherto been kept in the background, occupied with her needle. This was not so now. I had been brought forward in William’s absence and I had won the hearts of the sailors’ wives.

The couplet they were singing now was:

Alas, we erred in choice of our commanders

He should have knotted, she gone to Flanders.

I was glad William was not in England to hear that and hoped that they would be singing a different verse when he returned.

SINCE WILLIAM’S REFUSAL to allow Prince George to go to sea had not been arranged discreetly, he had to be told officially by Lord Nottingham that the King would not sanction it.

I could imagine Anne’s fury, and George ... well, he would have been mildly disappointed. I could imagine his raising his eyes and murmuring, “Est-il possible?” William was the one they blamed, and Sarah, of course, would do all in her power to add to the resentment.

Anne and Sarah would discuss the matter. Caliban was the loathe-some creature who had refused to recognize the good services of Marlborough, and now behaved as though George was a nobody — and he was the father of the male heir to the throne.

William returned to England. The continental war had been his chief concern now that James had been driven back to France. The people of England had been taxed to pay for the war and there were no successes to report.

It was clear that they were not pleased with their King. I guessed there was a certain amount of gratification in the Cockpit because of this.

My sadness at the discord between my sister and myself was compensated a little by my young nephew. I liked to visit him and have him brought to Kensington. He enjoyed those visits. He liked to watch the soldiers in the park.

He would point to them in glee and shout, “Soldiers, Queen, look!”

I gave him toy soldiers, which pleased him, but of course they were not real soldiers who marched and saluted.

There would never be harmony between Anne and me while Sarah dominated that household. She had two enemies, however, and because of circumstances it was not easy for her to dislodge them.

The first was, of course, Mrs. Pack. There was that special bond which is often there between a nurse and the child she has suckled, and this was certainly the case with William and Mrs. Pack; and because of his devotion to her, Mrs. Pack must remain.

The other, and perhaps more to be feared, was Lady Fitzharding, who was one of the Villiers sisters. The closeness of that family was legendary; the advantages acquired by one were shared by all. They stood together, as they always had.

I had no doubt that Lady Fitzharding kept her sister well informed of what occurred at the Cockpit, and of course Elizabeth would pass this information on to William.

Lady Fitzharding’s position as governess to little William could not be more convenient for Elizabeth and my husband.

She would have to tread very warily, no doubt, for Sarah was too shrewd not to realize the inevitability of the outcome. It occurred to me that Sarah would be desperately seeking an excuse to be rid of her, but she could not expect an easy victory against the Villiers family, as she — and Anne — had discovered over the controversy of Richmond Palace.

William did not pass on to me the information he received from Elizabeth by way of Lady Fitzharding, but I had my own source which gave me a good idea of what went on there.

It was obvious that Sarah remained incensed by what she called the lack of appreciation of her husband’s genius, and through Mrs. Pack I heard of the constant railing against “Caliban’s ingratitude” and the treatment of Prince George. According to Mrs. Pack, it was Sarah’s view that Caliban was jealous of Anne and of Marlborough.

This was no news to me. I could have told Mrs. Pack that was exactly what they would say. I had heard something like it from Anne herself.

Mrs. Pack was grateful to me. In my turn I was grateful to her, for I was convinced that she had saved little William’s life. I agreed with her methods. Although William was a delicate child, she never coddled him. She would insist on his going out in all weathers, although she always made sure that he was well wrapped up.

I had arranged for her husband to have a job with the Customs Office; and although she was actually in Anne’s service, she believed that her loyalty should be to me. A sensible, down-to-earth woman, she would have little patience with Anne. She found the relationship between Anne and Sarah Churchill quite incomprehensible and, of course, there was the antipathy between herself and Sarah. She knew that Sarah would have done everything in her power to have her removed, and that Anne would have been easily persuaded but for little William.

She came to see me at Kensington Palace because she had news which she thought was important and I should know.

When I was alone with her, she said: “The Princess Anne and the Churchills are writing to King James.”

“The Churchills! That can’t be true!!”

“I have heard them talking. The Earl of Marlborough is concerned in this. I heard Lady Marlborough telling the Princess what she should say to him. The Princess is writing to tell him that she is filled with remorse. She made a bitter mistake and craves his forgiveness. They want him to come back.”

“My sister ... I understand her remorse. I know how she feels. But Marlborough . . .”

“They have been angry, Your Majesty. They say Lord Marlborough is not appreciated, that the Dutch get all the best posts. They do not want to be ruled by Dutchmen. They say they want to bring King James back.”

I was astounded. I could not believe this. She had not heard correctly. How could she know this merely by listening at doors? If it were so, Lady Fitzharding would have discovered it. Then William would know.

“It seems,” said Mrs. Pack, “that their, plan is to bring back King James, although they would not let him reign. They would set the Princess Anne on the throne — and then, as you can guess, the Marlboroughs would rule through her.”

This amazed me, but I could see the reasoning behind it. It would be typical of the Marlboroughs.

But when Mrs. Pack had gone, I wondered again if it were plausible. Had she heard aright? I could not be sure.

But the Marlboroughs were disgruntled, and Anne was in leading strings. Marlborough might have decided that there was no hope for him under William. Here was one of the most ambitious men alive. He was not one to be set aside by anyone, even a monarch he had helped to the throne. My father had trusted him and it was in a large measure due to Marlborough that he had fallen, for when Marlborough had defected, he had taken a large part of the army with him. Surely he would never trust Marlborough again?

No, they would not want my father back. But Anne, that was a different matter. Sarah had Anne in thrall. Yes, it was reasonable. They would rule England through Anne because there was no hope of doing so through James.

Before I could speak to William of Mrs. Pack’s discovery, he came to me. He looked very grave.

He said: “I want that Churchill woman out of the Cockpit.”

“You have heard?” I asked.

He nodded. “And I want her out of the Princess Anne’s service without delay.”

“You have heard then of Marlborough’s plans?”

He looked startled, and I could not help saying that I was sure Lady Fitzharding would have passed on the news to her sister.

William looked faintly embarrassed. It was rarely that I spoke up so frankly. The approval of the people and their expression of it had made me bold.

I went on quickly: “The nurse, Mrs. Pack, does not like Lady Marlborough. She has told me what she believes to have overheard.”

He nodded again, not wishing, I was sure, to reveal the source of his information.

“You must talk with your sister,” he said. “Tell her that Lady Marlborough must leave her service.”

“And Marlborough?”

“I will deal with Marlborough.”

“Do you believe it is true that they are in communication with my father?”

“Yes.”

“He surely would not trust Marlborough.”

“He would be a fool if he did, but then he has done some foolish things. I think, though, he would see through this. The plan is to set Anne on the throne.”

I said: “The people like her and they love young William.”

“I believe they do not dislike you.”

I wished that I could say the same of him, but I could not. I was silent for a while, and then I said: “I cannot believe she will listen to me.”

“You are the Queen,” he said.

She will never give up Sarah Churchill.”

“Then she will be forced to. But explain to her. Talk to her. You are her sister.”

“It will be useless.”

“Try,” he said.

It was like a command.

IT WAS SOME TIME since I had been to the Cockpit. When I did go, it was usually to see little William.

Anne received me with some surprise.

“This is an honor, Your Majesty,” she said with mock respect. “I wonder to what I owe it?”

“I trust you are well,” I said.

“As I see you are, sister,” replied Anne.

She was lying back in her chair, and every time I saw her I thought she had added to her weight. I suppose I had done so too, but always beside Anne I felt almost slender.

“I have come to see you on a very important matter,” I went on.

“I guessed that was so. You rarely see me now.”

“And dear little William?”

Anne’s face softened. “He is adorable. He was in the park this morning, watching the soldiers. He saluted when they passed and they saluted him in return. He crowed with joy and you should have heard the people cheering.”

“He is very bright,” I said, and wished I could have gone on talking about the charm of our darling.

I said: “I have come to talk to you about Lady Marlborough.”

Anne looked a little startled — not exactly alert, but wary and less placid.

“I think it would be an advantage if she left your service.”

“Left my service! Sarah! Sarah has always been with me, right from the beginning. You remember those days when we were in Richmond ... when we were little.”

“Yes, I remember, but it seems that it would be better now if you dispensed with her services.”

“Why?”

I could not tell her what had been discovered. I must wait until William had dealt with Marlborough. Then Anne would understand. Perhaps I should have waited for that.

“I am of the opinion,” Anne was saying coolly, “that I am the best person to judge who shall and who shall not be in my household.”

“You allow her to guide you. She is the mistress here ... not you.”

“She never forgets that I am the Princess.”

“Mrs. Morley, Mrs. Freeman,” I reminded her.

“We always liked names. What about you and Frances Apsley?”

“We were young. This is different. Think of your position.”

“My position tells me that I should choose my own household.”

“It is obvious that that woman rules you. She gives herself airs such as I never saw before. She behaves as though she is the mistress.”

“Oh dear,” said Anne. “You are upsetting me. In my condition . . .”

She trailed off and watched me warily. Of course, she was enceinte. When was she not?

“The doctors said I should not excite myself,” she said plaintively. “They say I should rest more.”

“Rest more? How could you possibly do that? You are always resting. There would have to be more hours in the day for you to rest more.”

She took up her fan and feebly fanned herself.

“Oh dear,” she murmured.

I believed she was playacting, but I could not be sure, and as she had often attempted childbirth and the only result was little William, I dared not provoke her in any way.

I said to her: “Think about it.”

“I do not have to think about it,” she said. “Sarah is my greatest friend. I could not lose my greatest friend.”

“You have good friends. William and I have always been good friends to you.”

“Sarah has always been my greatest friend.”

“You are ungrateful.”

She looked at me coldly. “We could both be accused of that, could we not ... by some?”

She had put on a pious look, and I was sure now that she had written to our father. I wondered if she knew of the grand plan to put her on the throne.

If so, it did not disturb her; she would remain in her chair resting, while she nibbled her sweetmeats and handed over the power to the Marlboroughs.

She must have seen the hopelessness in my face, for she said: “I will never give up Sarah.”

There was nothing more I could do.

I took my leave and went back to Kensington.

The next morning, when Marlborough presented himself at the palace to perform his duties as one of the Lords of the Bedchamber, Lord Nottingham drew him aside and informed him that his services at court would no longer be required.

THERE WAS CONSTERNATION throughout the capital. The great Marlborough, dismissed from court, stripped of his appointments!

What could this mean?

The main theory was that he had been guilty of fraud. There had been occasional rumors that he had not been entirely scrupulous, and his love of money — as well as power — were well known.

I wondered what the reaction would have been if they had known he was suspected of conspiring against us and was in touch with my father.

It was all so distressing. I was filled with anxiety, and had been so ever since I became Queen.

I was anxious about William. If only he could win the people’s affections. My uncle had had that quality in abundance; my father had had it to some degree. If only he had not become a Catholic ... I was back to the old theme.

They were still talking about Glencoe and blaming William for it. William had doubtless acted carelessly, being at the time concerned with weightier matters. The fact was that he had signed that order hastily, without realizing what effect it would have. And the people were only too ready to lay the blame on him.

The Civil War in Scotland had continued even after the death of John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, known to his admirers as Bonnie Dundee. Some few months ago a proclamation had been issued to pardon all those who, by the end of the year, signed an oath to live peacefully under the government. MacIan of Glencoe, head of the MacDonald clan, went to Fort William to give the pledge, but finding there was no magistrate there, went on to give it at Inverary. It was a long journey; the roads were snowbound, and he did not get there until the sixth of January; and before he could sign the oath, the Campbells, the sworn enemies of the MacDonalds, taking advantage of the fact that the oath had not been signed, sent word to William that it would be right and proper, in the vindication of public justice, to extirpate that “set of thieves” who refused to obey the law. Knowing nothing of the reason for the delay in signing, William agreed and so gave his permission for the massacre of Glencoe, which was carried out in the most barbarous manner.

When this came to light through those who had escaped to tell the tale, William received as much of the blame as the bloodthirsty Campbells who had been responsible for the outrage. But, of course, the people seized on anything they could bring against a king they so much disliked.

The Marlborough scandal though was the topic which held everyone’s attention, and there were unscrupulous people who sought to turn it to advantage. I remembered how Queen Catherine had suffered through Titus Oates and his popish plot, and Titus Oates had made a fortune out of it. He had lost it in the end, it was true, but people who make such plans believe that they will be wiser and will profit from the experience of those who have gone before.

People were now talking about a man named Robert Young. He had uncovered a conspiracy. He said there was a plot to kill the King and Queen and bring James back and leading men in the country were involved in this. He had news of a certain document which they had all signed and which was hidden in the house of one of the conspirators — Thomas Sprat, Bishop of Rochester.

If they would search his house, they would find the incriminating paper hidden in a flowerpot — the Bishop’s hobby being gardening, this might not be as strange as it sounded.

It all seemed wildly incredible, but such accusations must be investigated and a search was made.

To the astonishment of all, the document Young described was found rolled up and hidden in a flowerpot. As Young said, it set out an intention to murder William and me and bring back my father. It was signed by a number of well-known men — among them Sprat himself, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Salisbsury, Lord Cornbury — and Marlborough.

I do not believe much credence would have been given to the authenticity of the plot, had William not been waiting for an opportunity to put Marlborough under arrest, and he seized on this.

Marlborough was in the Tower.

I could imagine the fury at the Cockpit. Sarah would be frantic and Anne would share her grief and anguish.

William declared that Anne could no longer shelter Lady Marlborough and she must leave the Cockpit at once.

I wrote to Anne. I told her she must let Sarah go. It was not fitting that the wife of a man who was now a prisoner in the Tower should be in her service.”

Anne replied: “Your Majesty must be sensible enough of the kindness I have for Lady Marlborough to know that a command from you to part with her is the greatest mortification in the world to me, and indeed of such nature as I might well have hoped your kindness to me would have always prevented. There is no misery which would be greater than that of parting with Lady Marlborough.”

I was exasperated when I read this letter, and, as William had said that if Lady Marlborough did not leave the Cockpit then Anne herself could not stay there, the task fell to me to tell her to depart.

Anne prepared then to leave and fortunately the Duchess of Somerset offered to lend her Sion House.

Little William was staying at Kensington at the time, which gave me great pleasure, but Anne ordered that her son leave Kensington at once and accompany her to Sion House. I was desolate and William was really angry. He sent a command to Sion House demanding that Lady Marlborough leave without delay.

Anne’s obstinacy came into play. She would not give up Sarah. William was in a quandry. What could he do? Send guards to Sion House? Remove Sarah by force? How would Anne react to that? We all knew her stubborn nature, and with Sarah beside her, what mad act would she be capable of?

The people liked Anne. They loved the little Duke of Gloucester. Poor Anne, they would say. She cannot have whom she likes to attend her. The Dutchman must even decide on her servants. It could be a dangerous situation.

So it was allowed to pass, and Sarah stayed with Anne at Sion House.

THE PROPHECY

The mystery of what was called the flowerpot plot was solved without much difficulty. It proved to be preposterous and even more farcical than Titus Oates’s popish plot.

The perpetrator, Robert Young, had modeled himself on the famous Oates. He was, when it started, in Newgate Jail on a charge of bigamy. He called himself a priest and had documents to prove it, but Robert Young had no difficulty in providing documents to prove anything, because he was an expert forger.

Therefore, to produce the incriminating evidence against some of the most important people in the country, all of whom could be suspected of antagonism toward William, presented no difficulty to him at all. It was fairly easy for him to see signatures of these men, and all he had to do was study them for a while and produce replicas.

He wrote the document, but it had to be found before it could be of any use.

Stephen Blackhead was a fellow prisoner with a grievance against the State. He had been set in the pillory and badly treated, for he had lost one of his ears. He wanted revenge — no matter on whom — on someone rich and famous, someone who had everything while he, poor Blackhead, had nothing.

He was a simpleton, Young knew, but he was all he could get. Blackhead had served his time and was at liberty. Therefore he could work for Robert Young, who could promise him rewards for his labor such as the poor man had never had before.

It was quite simple. All Blackhead had to do was to take a letter to the house of the Bishop of Rochester in Bromley. He had had instructions, he would say, to deliver it into the hands of the Bishop and no other. Young would also give him another paper which he must hide on his person and show to no one. If he did, there would be no money for him — only trouble. Everything depended on his doing exactly what Robert Young told him.

He would be put into a waiting room when he arrived and would certainly not be taken to the Bishop immediately. He must look around. The Bishop was noted for his interest in plants and there would be a great many of them in pots around his house.

While he was in the Bishop’s residence, Blackhead must find some means of slipping the document into a flowerpot, making sure that it was well hidden. Then he would hand the letter to the Bishop and depart.

Blackhead was not very bright, but he did need the money badly, and Robert Young had hinted that this action of theirs would bring disgrace to some very highly placed people — and that appealed to him.

Strangely enough, up to a point the plot succeeded. The letter to the Bishop — written of course in Young’s expert hand — was reputed to be from some nonexistent deacon of a faraway parish, and served its purpose, for the Bishop must have received many such letters — most of them left unanswered; and being left in a room which contained numerous flowerpots, Blackhead had no difficulty in disposing of the document.

When Young received word that it was safely in the Bishop’s house, it was time to act.

He disclosed the fact that he had heard that there was a plot to assassinate the King and Queen and set James on the throne. He announced that the Bishop of Rochester was involved and that in his house they would find the incriminating document, signed by all the conspirators.

The search was made and nothing found, but Robert Young said he was certain the paper was there and he was given permission to join the searchers. He knew exactly of course into which flowerpot Blackhead had placed it.

He had to act with care, but he prided himself on being a very subtle man. He called attention to the displacement of the earth on one of the pots. He did not wish to discover the paper himself — only to lead someone else to do so.

And indeed there it was.

Thus, as a result, those who signed the document — including Marlborough — were taken to the Tower.

IT DID NOT SEEM POSSIBLE that Anne could keep Sarah with her now. If Marlborough were found guilty of treason, it would be impossible for her to remain.

I received a letter from Anne.

I had heard the sad news of her confinement and had contemplated going to see her. She had given birth to a little daughter who, like so many of her predecessors, had died a few hours after she was born.

I was sorry for Anne and felt very miserable. How sad it all was! I had been happier in Holland.

William said we should have no communication with Anne until she dismissed Lady Marlborough, but I had to see her at such a time.

She lay in her bed and was clearly pleased that I had come.

“I am sorry,” I said.

She smiled wanly. “I feared it would be so,” she answered. “It seems ever so.”

“You have dear little William.”

“My treasure! But I fear for him. I watch him constantly.”

“He will stay well. There are many to care for him. There is good Mrs. Peck.”

Anne looked a little sullen and I guessed Sarah was bothering her about dismissing the woman.

“I have made the first step in coming to see you,” I reminded her. “I like not this trouble between us. It should not be. Nor would it but for Lady Marlborough. She must go now.”

“The charges against Lord Marlborough are false.”

“Who told you so? Lady Marlborough?”

She did not answer.

“You must take the next step,” I insisted. “You must send Lady Marlborough away.”

“I have never in my life disobeyed you except in one particular, and I believe in time that will seem as reasonable to Your Majesty as it does to me.”

“You mean to say that, in spite of everything, you will not let Lady Marlborough go?”

“I mean that,” said Anne, her lips set in the well-known stubborn line.

I went away very sorrowfully.

William was angry because I had been to see her and more so because I had been unable to persuade her.

Shortly afterward Anne’s guards were sent away and she moved from Sion House to Berkeley House; and Sarah continued to stay with her.

Then, when Robert Young’s documents were examined by experts, the signatures were proved to be forgeries; and Marlborough and his fellow prisoners were released from the Tower.

But William still suspected him of treachery.

MRS. PACK HAD LEFT ANNE’S SERVICE by her own desire. Lady Derby, one of my trusted ladies, told me what had happened.

“It seems, Your Majesty,” she said, “that Lady Marlborough caught her actually reading the Princess’s letters. She did not deny it. She said it was her duty to make sure there was no treachery against the Queen.”

“She had always been a faithful servant to me,” I said with gratification. “What happened then?”

“Lady Marlborough went straight to the Princess.”

“In triumph, of course.”

Lady Derby smiled in agreement.

“The Princess was very upset. She was thinking of the little Duke, of course. He dotes on Mrs. Pack and all know that it is for his sake that Lady Marlborough has had to endure her all this time. The Princess was most unhappy, for the woman’s reading her correspondence was a very grave matter indeed. Mrs. Pack herself then asked for an audience and, before the Princess could speak — Your Majesty knows Mrs. Pack’s way — she said she could no longer remain in the Princess’s service.”

“The Princess must have been very relieved,” I said. “I suppose Mrs. Pack realized she could not stay after what she did had been discovered.”

“It may have been that she thought her usefulness was at an end. But, of course, there was the little Duke to be considered. Mrs. Pack said her health was not good. I think this may be the truth, because she would never tell a lie. However, she insisted on going. Lady Marlborough is delighted and the Princess, of course, is happy to please her friend.”

“And what of little William?”

“He has been strangely quiet about the matter and did not protest as he was expected to.”

“He is a strange child — so unusual. I have never known another child like him. There are times when I think he is wise beyond his years.”

There was something strange about the child. There were occasions when he spoke like a young man and then a few seconds later would become a child again.

The unusual qualities of the boy were brought home to me afresh by an astonishing story.

He was grave after the departure of Mrs. Pack, but he had not cried, and seemed to accept the story that she had to go away to Deptford for her health.

“She is not well,” he was reputed to have said. “I would not have her ill.”

In his grown-up way, he sent over to Deptford every day to inquire about her health.

He went about his daily life, giving a great deal of attention to his favorite game of soldiers. He had now several boys a year or so older than himself whom he called his “men.” His mother was so anxious to please him in every way and the boys were fitted out as soldiers in miniature uniforms and William took them to the park and exercised them. People used to come and watch. It was one of the most popular sights.

There he would command them — this little boy of four years or so — just like a general shouting orders as they marched to his direction.

I always felt there was something strange about him.

His head was long and there was a mature look in his eyes. Anne told me proudly that his hat was the same size as a man’s. His face was oval, his hair, doubtless inherited from his father, very fair; and his complexion was a glowing pink and white. His body was well-made and seemed to be strong, but he had difficulty with some movements; he always needed a rail when he went up stairs, and help to get up if he had been sitting on a low stool. In addition to this, he had an air of extreme gravity which accompanied certain remarks so that they seemed more like those of an adult than a child.

So when I heard the story I was a little shaken, yet not altogether surprised.

Lady Derby said the whole court was talking about it.

“It is very strange, Your Majesty. But ... how could he have known?”

I waited for an explanation and Lady Scarborough, who was also in attendance, said: “Your Majesty knows how fond he always was of Mrs. Pack.”

“Indeed I know.”

“They were all amazed at how calmly he took her departure. The Princess had expected him to refuse to allow her to go, and in that case, she would have had to remain.”

Lady Derby put in: “But he always sent every day to see how she was.”

“Yes, I heard that.”

“This is the strange part of it, Your Majesty. Two days ago, when the messenger, in accordance with the practice, was about to take the message to her, the Duke said he would not send that morning. Mrs. Wanner — Your Majesty may remember her, she was in his household — asked him why he did not send. He just looked past her, as though he were staring at nothing, and said, “There is no need. She will be dead before the messenger arrives there.”

“What a strange thing for a child to say!”

“Stranger still, Your Majesty, he was right. It transpired that Mrs. Pack had died.”

“He must have heard it.”

“No, Your Majesty. It seemed she died just at the moment he was speaking.”

“How could he have known?”

There was silence.

I was thinking of the little boy and Mrs. Pack. There had been a very special bond between them. I believed that without her he would never have survived.

He was indeed a very strange little boy.

I WAS UNWELL and had been for some months. I think it was due to the strain of perpetual war, William’s comings and goings, the burden of greater responsibilities taken up and then taken away. This was all having an effect on me. Sometimes I felt old and tired. I was only thirty years old and never free of remorse on account of my father.

I was beset by continual anxiety. Every time a messenger came I would tremble and wonder what ill news he brought. If only there had not been this coldness between my sister and myself. My great consolation was little William. He seemed to be the only one who could lift my spirits. He did visit me often, and I could always be brought out of my melancholy to smile at his droleries.

I looked back over the last months and thought of the torments I had suffered over the Grandval plot.

Grandval was a French officer who had been hired to assassinate William. Fortunately, his design had been discovered in time and he was arrested by the English.

At his trial it was revealed that, before he left Paris, he had had a meeting with my father and stepmother and that my father had told him that if he carried out his plan successfully, he, personally, would see that Grandval never wanted for anything as long as he lived.

So ... while I could rejoice in William’s escape, I was overcome with sadness because my father had given his blessing to this murderous plot.

It made me very weary of life.

I suffered from the ague, from heavy colds, from a weakness of the eyes and a swelling in the face. I longed for the war in Europe to be over; I wanted William to come home. Sometimes I felt myself drifting into fancy and believing that our troubles were over. William would come back a hero, the people would be cheering in the streets, my father would come home and announce that he realized he could never reign as a Catholic and it was right for William to take his place, William loved me, Elizabeth Villiers had married and gone far away and we all lived happily together. What a fantasy! What a dream! But dreams were useful at times when reality was hard to bear.

There was no end to disaster.

It was June when one of the greatest of them occurred. This was the expedition to Brest. It had been essential that this should be a surprise attack, but the plan had been foiled and the French had had warning and strengthened their defenses so that when the English landed they found the enemy waiting for them. General Tollemache was mortally wounded and four hundred soldiers were lost.

It was a major disaster. But the most shocking feature of the affair was that the French had been warned, and there was a strong suspicion by whom. Lady Tryconnel, Sarah Churchill’s sister, was with my father and stepmother in France, and Sarah, it appeared, had written to her telling her of the activity in London concerning the coming attack in Brest.

It was an act of treachery and left no doubt in my mind as to what the defeat was due to.

When William questioned Marlborough on the matter, he swore that he had had no part in the betrayal. His wife? Well, women will gossip. She may have mentioned, casually, to her sister, that there was much activity in progress. These things happened.

I knew William would like to have sent Marlborough back to the Tower for trial. But Marlborough had many friends and there was a lack of evidence against him.

What a melancholy state of affairs! So many deaths, so many disasters, suspected treachery all round us, and worst of all, my family in conflict. I was tired. I suppose it was because my health was deteriorating, and there was no end to the aggravation.

When I think of my idyllic youth, I see that already in the household were those who were to plague me. Strange that they were already there, a part of my childhood. Elizabeth Villiers, who had caused me great grief, and Sarah Churchill, who had done her share.

They were clever, those Marlboroughs. How could they be so blatantly treacherous and escape? They were devious, and Marlborough was undoubtedly powerful, so William must be careful when dealing with him, otherwise he would have been safe in the Tower and found guilty — as he undoubtedly was, and his wife with him.

She was a malicious woman, and I was sure she was responsible for the scandal which arose about Shrewsbury and myself.

It was quite unfounded.

Charles Talbot, Duke of Shrewsbury, was about two years older than I. He was very charming, tall, well-made and reckoned to be one of the most attractive men at court. He was very handsome, in spite of the fact that there was an imperfection in one of his eyes. This did not however detract from his charm — but rather added to it, and made him more distinguished.

His early life had been overshadowed by the conduct of his parents. His mother, Countess of Shrewsbury at the time, was the mistress of the notorious Duke of Buckingham, who had created such a scandal during the reign of my uncle Charles. The Countess had lived openly with Buckingham after he had killed her husband in a duel.

It had been one of the great scandals of a scandalous age.

I liked Shrewsbury because he was a good, honest man, not afraid to state his opinions. After the disastrous defeat of Beachy Head, when he was out of office, he came to me and offered his services; and in March of that year, he had accepted the post of Secretary of State, which meant that I saw him frequently in the course of the country’s business.

We had a great deal to discuss together; and in addition to state affairs, he liked to talk about his health and he was very interested in mine, and at that time, when I was suffering from a great many ailments, I found that comforting.

And so Sarah Churchill circulated rumors that I was in love with Shrewsbury. She said that when he came into my presence it had been noted that I turned pale and trembled. If I did, it must be because I feared what news he might bring.

It was a trivial matter and I suppose there will always be unfounded rumors about people in high places; such will always have their enemies and Sarah Churchill was, without doubt, one of mine.

Of course, it was not all gloom. There were times when I could feel almost happy. At last I had begun to realize that I could be successful in my role. The people were growing more and more fond of me. Indeed, I think they no longer cared that the King was so often away fighting battles on the Continent. They had Queen Mary. She was a good Protestant; she was English and their rightful Queen; they had never wanted a Dutchman to rule over them. If only he had been different, they might have been reconciled. I knew he suffered pains in his back and arms, but he looked quite magnificent on horseback when his low stature was not evident. If he would have taken a little more care to make a more acceptable image of himself, it could have been so different; but he would consider such things frivolous and unimportant. I knew he was wrong.

It began to dawn on me that I could have been a good queen. I understood the people. I had had my successes when I had been in charge. That was why the people chanted: “God bless Queen Mary. Long life to her.” Silence was usually what greeted William. Perhaps if I had gone my way, doing what I thought was best, with my ministers to help me, of course, the monarchy might not merely have been tolerated, but loved.

After the action at La Hogue, which must have been a crippling blow to my father, I had made sure that the people realized what a great victory it was.

We had had so many defeats, so much depression, that when there was something in which we could rejoice, I was determined this should be done wholeheartedly.

I made it a great day when the ships, bringing the victorious men, arrived at Spithead. I sent £30,000 to be distributed among the common soldiers, and the officers received gold medals. I wanted them to know that their loyalty and bravery were rewarded. I would persuade William that it was money well spent, though I was sure he would not agree with me.

I arranged rejoicing in the streets of London and I myself, attired in all my regalia, rode among the people.

They cheered me delightedly. There were no complaints at that time.

It was during William’s absence that the question of new coins arose. These were to have our heads — mine and William’s — engraved on them.

There was a very fine artist named Rotier, who had made the engravings when they had last been done during my father’s reign, but, when approached, he said that he worked for the King, and as the King was across the water, he could not work for him. He had a son, Norbert, who offered to do the work in his father’s place, and as I was aware what trouble might grow out of disloyalty to William and me, I decided to forget the father and employ the son. I was rather horrified when I saw the result, for William’s likeness had certainly not been flattering. He was made to look satanic. I was disturbed, not only by the coins, but by the hostility of the people toward William.

I did hear a little later that the Rotiers had fled to France, fearing some kind of retaliation.

William returned from the Continent and I handed over the reins to him. Although I had felt some confidence in my own government, I was not sorry to do this, for I was beginning to feel quite ill and tired.

I had hoped that William might compliment me on my rule, for I knew there were many who were pleased with it, but he did not. He just nodded without comment when I explained certain of my actions to him, and I was expected to slip back into my old place of consort.

THERE WAS ONE HAPPY OCCASION which gave me great pleasure. Little William had, for some time, had his band of soldiers — youngsters of his own age with whom he played his game of soldiers. Every day he would drill them in the park.

He had persuaded his mother to procure a uniform for him — and of course this request was granted. Mr. Hughes, his tailor, arrived and William was fitted out in a white camlet suit with with silver buttons and loops of silver thread.

Young William himself told me about the incident of the stays. Mr. Hughes had said that if he would look like a general he would have to have stiff stays. The uniform demanded it. William was not very happy at the idea, but he was willing to try anything that was necessary for a soldier.

He wore the stays, which not surprisingly he found to be uncomfortable. The tailor was summoned by William. The boys surrounded him and threatened him with dire punishment for having made their commander uncomfortable and insisted that he go down on his knees and promise to make the stays less stiff.

The exploits of the young Duke never failed to amuse everyone and when I heard that he was to have a field day and had said he would be honored if the King attended in person, I rather timidly put the question to William, hoping that he might comply with the Duke’s wishes.

To my delight, and amusement, he agreed. He had quite an attachment to his little namesake and I knew he often wished that this was our son.

And so the day came. I shall always remember those little boys looking so quaint in their uniform, doing their drill, marching before the King. William did his part well, walking along the line to review them, young William proudly beside him.

The toy cannon was fired and everything went off with military precision. William declared himself content to be assured of the loyalty of the Duke’s men. He gave the little drummer two guineas because he played so loudly.

The parade over, young William stood before the King and said: “My dear King, you shall have both my companies to serve with you in Flanders.”

The King thanked him and gravely accepted the offer.

I had rarely seen William relaxed and pleasant. Little William had the power to charm us all.

That was a gloomy November. I could not rid myself of a feeling of foreboding. I was feeling listless and more unwell than ever before.

I was in Whitehall Chapel when John Tillotson, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was preaching a sermon. I had always liked Tillotson. He was a courteous and tolerant man. It was not very long ago that he had been appointed Archbishop — some three years, I believe — and during that time he and I had become good friends.

It was a shock, therefore, when, in the middle of his sermon, he suddenly stopped speaking, though it was clear that he was trying to, for his face twisted and his lips were alarmingly distorted. There was a tense silence throughout the chapel, and then suddenly the Archbishop slid to the floor.

He had had an apoplectic seizure and, within four days he was dead.

It was necessary to appoint another Archbishop of Canterbury and the choice should have been mine. I immediately thought of Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester, one of the most active men of the Church, handsome and vigorous, although not in such good health as he might have been.

Wiliam objected to Stillingfleet. He maintained he was not well enough for such responsibility and the arduous duties which would be expected of him. He would prefer Thomas Tenison and, of course, he had his way.

I was disappointed, but felt too tired to protest, but I suppose William would have had the man he wanted in any case.

However, Tenison was a good man; he had always taken a great interest in promoting the gospel. My father had said that he was dull and a man who had a horror of levity in any form. But perhaps that was not a fault in a priest.

Tenison was a popular choice, but I believed Stillingfleet would have been more so. There were many to remember that at the time of Nell Gwynne’s death, Tenison had preached a sermon in praise of her which, in view of the life she had lived, seemed not exactly fitting. Then it had transpired that she had left £50 in her will to the priest who would make her the subject of such a sermon when she died.

I dare say the £50 had played its part in Tenison’s willingness to preach that sermon, but I said that, in my opinion, he must have known of her repentance or he would not have been persuaded.

IT WAS CHRISTMAS of the year 1694 and William was in England. We were to spend the season at Kensington Palace, which I think had become William’s favorite of all our residences.

There would be as little ceremony as possible and I was glad of this, for I was feeling quite ill. I had a fit of the ague which I could not throw off. I knew in my heart that it was more than that. I was overcome with such listlessness that I had to force myself to keep aware of what was going on around me.

I was very anxious that none should know how I was feeling, but it was growing more and more difficult to disguise.

I was not old. I had been thirty-two last birthday. I could not forget Tilotson’s sudden death. I would dream of him as he had stood in the pulpit and that sudden horror when his mouth twisted and he became incoherent. I remembered the bewilderment which followed.

It was terrible that death could come so suddenly without warning.

It was growing increasingly difficult for me to hide the state of my health. I was confined to my apartments for a few days, and of course rumors immediately began to be circulated.

I was so relieved when I felt well enough to venture out and I was amazed at the tumultuous welcome I received in the streets.

Young William came to see me. I was always delighted to be visited by him. His coming lightened my spirits.

He talked for a little about his soldiers, and then suddenly he said: “The people love you dearly, Queen. My servant Lewis Jenkins has been most unhappy because of your illness.”

“The people have always been good to me,” I said.

“He saw you riding in the park. He came back and looked so pleased that I asked him what good fortune he had had. He laughed and said, ‘Your Grace, I have seen the Queen. She is well again.’ I said, ‘I am glad of that with all my heart.’ Then Lewis took his hat from his head and cried: ‘The Queen is well again. Oh, be joyful!’ ”

He looked at me very strangely then and seemed suddenly unlike a child — more like a wise old seer. His eyes looked beyond me, as though he did not see me. It was a strange moment.

He went on: “I said to Lewis Jenkins, ‘Today you say “Oh, be joyful!” Soon you may be saying, “Oh, be doleful.” ’ ”

There was a deep silence in the room, and I thought I heard a strange rushing of wings. It was as though the Angel of Death was passing overhead.

William had become himself — precocious, it was true, but a child again.

He did not attempt to explain his strange words. Indeed, it was as though he were unaware of having said them.

He went on to talk about his “men” and a new parade he was planning. He hoped the King would come to receive the honors he was intending to pay him.

I sat still.

I knew that death was close.

THE LAST REQUEST

My return to health was short-lived. Within a few days I was confined to my apartment. There was concern and people were praying for me in the churches.

Archbishop Tenison was often with me. He was a good man and a great comfort to me in those days.

I had known from the moment young William had said those strange words to me that I had not long to live. There was a feeling of unreality all about me.

My father was constantly in my thoughts. I kept going back over those happy days. There were times when I blamed myself. I had had to choose between them. Dr. Ken, Dr. Hooper, all those who had guided me, who had inspired me with the desire to lead a Protestant life, who had instilled in me the virtues of being a good submissive wife, had led the way. But it is also written “Honor thy father.” I had wanted to be a good wife, but a good daughter too ... a good daughter to the best of fathers.

But life had ordained that my duty toward one was my betrayal of the other.

Was anyone ever put in such a position?

I wished I could go to my father. I wished I could explain how it had happened. I think he understood a little but his letters had shown me the depth of his wounds. And William? What had I been to him? An easy way to a crown. And what had the realization been? He was not a happy man. Poor William, I could feel sorry for him.

And then sudden fierce anger came to me. I had brought him the crown. I, the Queen, beloved of the people, had been submissive to a man who had never been faithful to me through all the years of our marriage.

How soon had his passion for Elizabeth Villiers begun? Before we left for Holland? Almost certainly immediately afterward.

I had been the one with whom he must do his duty. I was the one to whom he must cling for all those years.

And for this, I had betrayed my father, for the sake of a man who had never loved me, never wanted me except for what I could bring him, a man who had been unfaithful to me throughout our married life.

If he had been such as my uncle Charles or my father it would have been different. Women had been a way of life to them, and they had always been good and kind to their wives, asking only this one concession. But Elizabeth Villiers had been his only mistress. There had been whispers that he had dallied with Anne Bentinck, but I did not believe that. The four of them, Elizabeth, William and the Bentincks had been close friends because Anne was Bentinck’s wife and Bentinck was the closest of William’s associates.

It hurt more perhaps because he could be faithful, but not to me. I had been the foolish child whom he must take because of a treaty, the tearful bride who had in the beginning been unable to hide her disgust for him and her dislike of the match. So he turned to Elizabeth Villiers.

They had sold me into marriage. My father had hated it and he had tried to save me, but it had been beyond his power to do so.

Could I blame William altogether? Yes, I did. He had never been kind, never understanding; he had always been brusque, insisting on domination. And I was the Queen, the one the people wanted, the one they loved. “Oh, be joyful.” “Oh, be doleful.”

I sat down to write to him.

I said I was going to die. I told him that I had suffered a great deal through his liaison with one of my women. There was nothing he could do now to atone for his neglect of me, but for the sake of his mortal soul, I wanted him to repent of his adultery and give up Elizabeth Villiers. I should not be here to know whether he respected my last wish, but for the sake of his own salvation, I hoped he would.

I sealed the letter.

Then I sat there, thinking of Elizabeth Villiers — her air of superiority, her contempt for me, her sly squinting eyes, and all I had suffered through her.

I wished I did not hate her as I did. I should be thinking of my own sins rather than those of others.

If I could go back, how should I act? I could not be sure. But one cannot go back in life and say, “There was the turning point.” There is no quick turn in the path along which Fate has chosen one shall go.

Archbishop Tenison came to see me. I could see that he was aware of the deterioration in my health.

“I have been writing a letter to the King,” I said.

He looked surprised, no doubt wondering why I should write when he was here and I could speak to him.

“I am entrusting it to you,” I went on. “I want you to give it to him when I am dead.”

“Your Majesty,” he protested with that false note of disbelief which people used to deny they are aware of something which must be obvious.

I lifted my hand. “You will do this for me, Archbishop?”

“I am at Your Majesty’s command. Will you join me in prayer?” We prayed and I asked forgiveness for my sins.

EARLY THIS MORNING I saw the spots which were beginning to appear on my body. The dreaded smallpox has come to Kensington. I am certain now that death is close.

I lay down my pen. There are certain matters I must put in order, for there is little time left to me now.