The Three Crowns

THE VITAL QUESTION

Mary was twenty-four years old and would have been very beautiful indeed had she not grown so fat. The people of Holland delighted in her; for whenever she went among them her manner, while gracious and charming, was undoubtedly friendly. She was a contrast to her taciturn husband; she had a measure of that Stuart charm which Monmouth had possessed to a great degree and Charles overwhelmingly, and which usually meant that, whatever their faults, there would always be some to forgive them.

Mary, it seemed to those about her, had few faults. Perhaps she would have been understood better if she had had. She loved card playing, but that could not be called a fault; and although she was friendly in general, after the departure of Anne Trelawny she did not make a close friend of anyone.

They did not entirely understand her, so they remained aloof; her docility to her husband was interrupted now and then by those outbursts of firmness which showed themselves in the part she had played in the Zuylestein marriage and in sending Elizabeth Villiers to England. She was meant to be gay and vivacious as she had been in the days of childhood; but life with William had subdued that. She had become devoutly religious, devoted to the Church of England—and to her husband. Those about her believed that no one could love a man like William as she professed to do, and that her obvious devotion was like a religion to her. She had chosen it as the right way of life and determined to pursue it. Those who remembered how gay she had been during the visit of the Duke of Monmouth were certain of this. Mary, because of some strange bent in her nature, was determined to subdue her natural impulses and become the sort of person she felt it her duty to be.

She knew that Elizabeth Villiers continued to be William’s mistress. For some time she had visited William at the Palace and now was installed in her old position, yet Mary preferred to ignore it. Neither Elizabeth nor William ever mentioned to her that trip to England; it was as though it had never been.

Her women said that they could not understand a woman in her position accepting what Mary did; and Mary was an enigma.

She was to William also. If he could have been sure of how she would act in the event of ascending the throne of England, his entire attitude toward her would have changed. He could have talked to her more freely of his plans; but this stood between them; and he could not bring himself to talk openly of the position she would expect him to hold. Although to all outward appearances he had subdued her, yet he was afraid of her; and although she was the meek wife, seeming always to bend to his will, yet it was in her power to exclude him from the brilliant future which had been his goal ever since he had contemplated marrying her.

This was the state of affairs when Gilbert Burnet arrived at the Court of The Hague.

Gilbert Burnet was in his forties when he came to Holland. He had been a favored chaplain of Charles II but he had quickly fallen foul of James, for he deplored the threat of papacy. It became clear to Burnet that while his position was precarious under Charles, for his friends Essex and Russell had been involved in the Rye House Plot, it would be untenable under James. After that plot he had left England for France where he was warmly received.

One of the first things he did on returning was to preach a sermon against popery which was received with wild enthusiasm by an anti-Catholic congregation; and when Burnet thundered out: “Save me from the lion’s mouth; thou hast heard me from the horn of the unicorn …” the applause rang out in the church, for the lion and unicorn were the royal arms and this could only mean that Burnet when denouncing popery was denouncing James.

After that there was only one thing for Burnet to do—leave the country. He had been writing busily for the last few years and had produced his History of the Rights of Princes in the Disposing of Ecclesiastical Benefices and Church Lands among other works. He was a man whom James could not afford to keep in England.

Burnet went to Paris where he remained until the repercussions of the Monmouth rebellion had subsided; then on to Italy and Geneva and eventually, receiving an invitation from the Prince and Princess of Orange, he arrived at The Hague.

William received him coolly. He was not sure that he trusted him completely for in his opinion the man was apt to talk too much. Burnet was without fear, there was no doubt of that, but the fearlessness made him indiscreet; and William always mistrusted indiscretion. With Mary, Burnet was on happier terms. She was interested in what he had to tell her of England and his travels, and would ask him to sit with her and while he sat she knotted fringe, for she had had to give up doing the fine needlework on which she had enjoyed working, since her eyes had given her so much trouble.

This was a pleasant domestic scene and sometimes William would join them and listen to the conversation.

Burnet believed that James could bring no good to England and for this reason William became gradually drawn toward him; and, since the coming of Burnet, was more frequently in his wife’s company than he had been before.

Mary began to look forward to those hours as the most rewarding of her days. There she would sit working at the fringe close to the candles, to get the utmost light; Burnet would answer the questions she put to him and gradually a picture of the English Court would evolve. William would sit a little apart listening, now and then firing a question of his own, his head, looking enormous in its periwig drooping over his narrow shoulders and slightly hunched back, throwing a grotesque shadow on the wall.

It was the nearest to domesticity that Mary had ever reached; and she wanted to go on like this, for she believed that William was changing toward her since Burnet had come. While he was in her company he was neglecting Elizabeth. Perhaps he was finding that his wife could be of greater help to him in his political schemes than his mistress ever could be. So as she talked to Burnet she was deeply conscious of William; and she asked those questions which she thought would best please her husband.

As she talked William began to understand Mary more than ever before. She was not the foolish girl he had sometimes believed her to be, but a woman of intelligence and above all tolerance. William himself wanted tolerance … up to a point; and he appreciated this quality in his wife.

He listened to them discussing the preacher Jurieu who had written scurrilously of Mary Queen of Scots.

Mary offered the comment: “If what he had said was true, then he was not to blame. If Princes do ill things, they must expect that the world will take revenge on their memory since they cannot reach their persons.”

An unusual sentiment for a Princess to express, thought William. Yes, she was an unusual woman, this wife of his.

He watched her, stately, plump, her dark head bent slightly forward over the fringe. She was beautiful; and she was not without wisdom. He began to think that he had been rather fortunate in his marriage.

Never would he be able to explain to her his need of Elizabeth. Mary lacked that sexual appeal which he found in his mistress. He knew of that passionate friendship with Frances Apsley—not a physical passion that, yet it was an indication of Mary’s character. She could be firm and so very meek. She could love devotedly and at the same time had not that to offer which could make a perfect union between a man and woman.

Yet William himself was no virile man. He did not ask for great sexual passion. Mary’s docility, her willingness to find in him an ideal husband could have made him very contented with his marriage. There were only two things which stood between them: his absolute need of Elizabeth Villiers and his ignorance of what attitude she would take toward him if the throne of England were hers.

Burnet, watching them, decided that his future lay with them, guessed what plans were forming in the mind of the Prince of Orange, was aware of this gulf between them, and sought to discover what it was and if it could be bridged.

The friendship between these three grew.

For Mary it was delightful to see her husband sitting by the fire listening gravely to her and Gilbert as they talked and occasionally throwing in a remark. Not since Monmouth had gone had she felt so contented. The skirt of her dark velvet gown caressed the black and white tiles and the candlelight touched the red velvet of hangings, high windows, and painted ceiling with a light which made them more beautiful than by day. Every now and then she would close her eyes to rest them a little, or glance up from her fringe to one or other of the two men—to William so fragile under his enormous periwig, his hands as delicate as a girl’s; and Gilbert Burnet in great contrast in the black and white robes of the Church—a heavy man with coarse features illuminated by the light of a shrewd and clever mind.

The two men were bound by a common desire. They wanted James deposed and William and Mary reigning in his place, and were asking themselves, How can this be brought about without delay?

Mary talked of England too and of the days when there would be a new ruler; but the man these two wished so ruthlessly to depose was her father and it did not occur to her that when England was discussed, the future they talked of could be before her father’s death.

As the pleasant sessions continued, spies carried accounts of them to England.

James wrote to William: It was unseemly, he declared, that his enemy should be treated as a close friend of the Prince and Princess of Orange.

William sent for Mary when he received this letter.

“Your father believes he can dictate our conduct to us, it appears,” he said coldly.

Mary sighed. She hated trouble between her father and her husband, and always sought to put their differences right.

“I can understand his feelings. Dr. Burnet did preach against him.”

“For which one can only admire Dr. Burnet.”

“He is a brave man, certainly, and firm in his beliefs. I understand Dr. Burnet, William, but I also understand my father.”

“You understand his desire to bring Catholicism back to England? You understand the cruel treatment of Monmouth?”

Mary winced; she could never think of that tragedy without a deep and searing pain; and in spite of her sense of justice and her natural tolerance she felt a sudden hatred for a father who had destroyed one whom she had loved.

William went on. “And not only Monmouth which is perhaps understandable. Those others, those men who fought for him because of their convictions—what do you think of the justice they received at your father’s hands?”

“I think Judge Jeffries was to blame and that my father had no real knowledge of what was going on.”

William gave one of his rare laughs. It was not pleasant.

“I doubt whether you understand what it is like to be a slave on a Jamaican plantation. Transported from England to that hell. Yet that was the fate of many of your father’s subjects … for what reason? Simply because they hated popery.”

Mary said: “It was wrong to be so severe. But we must not forget, William, that Monmouth called himself the King.”

“It might have been that others called him that. But if you wish to excuse your father, do so. I have no wish to listen.”

“William, I do not excuse him. I …”

“Then,” said William curtly, “it may be that you begin to understand him?”

He left her and she thought of Jemmy, dancing with her, teaching her to skate, teaching her so much more than she could ever speak of; and she wept afresh for Jemmy.

Jemmy dead, bending to the block; and the cruel executioner lifting that once lovely head and crying: “Here is a traitor!”

“A traitor,” she said vehemently, “to a tyrant!”

And she knew then that she was beginning to feel toward her father as William wished her to. She was beginning to see him through William’s eyes—libertine, ineffectual ruler, the King who, while he did not declare himself openly a papist, was trying to thrust popery on a country, the majority of whose people rejected it—all that and the murderer of Jemmy!

Gilbert Burnet came to her in some haste.

“Your Highness,” he said, “something must be done. The Prince is in danger.”

Mary grew pale and cried: “Tell me more. What do you mean?”

“I have spoken to His Highness and he shrugs it aside. You know that the King of France regards your husband as an enemy.”

“I know all these things. Tell me quickly.”

“I have discovered a plot to kidnap the Prince when he drives unattended along the Scheveling sands. The idea is to get him out of Holland into France.”

“And you have told the Prince this?”

“I have warned him and he says he will know how to take good care of himself.”

“And he will take no guard with him?”

“I fear not. He said that what is to be will be and if it is destined that he shall meet such a fate then so be it.”

“I must go to him at once,” said Mary. “Pray come with me, good Dr. Burnet.”

Together they went to the Prince’s apartment. William raised his eyebrows when he saw them together; but Burnet detected the faint pleasure which showed in his face when he beheld Mary’s agitation.

“William, you must take a guard with you when you go on to the sands.”

“So, you have heard this warning?”

Dr. Burnet put in: “Your Highness, I am convinced there is a a plot and that you are ill-advised to ignore it.”

Mary clasped her hands together. “You must not ignore it, William. It would be disastrous if you were forced into France.”

William looked impatient, but Mary went closer to him and looked imploringly into his face.

“William, I beg of you, to please me …”

William shrugged his shoulders.

“Very well,” he said, “I shall take the guard.”

Mary paced her apartments in agitation. She would not rest until William returned.

She sent for Dr. Burnet and asked him to pray with her.

When they rose from their knees William had still not returned.

“Dr. Burnet, do you think the plot could have succeeded in spite of the precaution he took?”

“No, Your Highness. The Prince will soon be back in the Palace.”

“I shall know no peace until he is.”

Burnet looked at the Princess intently. He was a man who had little restraint and the intimate friendship he had enjoyed with these two had put him into a position he believed where he could speak his mind.

“Your Highness,” he said, “your devotion to the Prince is obvious. Yet I do not think there is always accord between you.”

Mary looked startled and was about to show her displeasure when Burnet said quickly: “If I speak rashly it is because I have your happiness and that of the Prince at heart.”

“I know this,” she said, and moved to the window. Burnet saw that the subject was closed.

But he did not intend to let it rest if he could help it.

Mary said she would pray once more, for the longer the Prince’s absence the greater became her anxiety.

They were on their knees when the sounds below them told them that the Prince was returning to the Palace.

Mary ran to the window. There he was riding at the head of the guards. On horseback it was scarcely visible that he stooped distressingly and that he was so slight.

Mary turned to Burnet. “How can I thank you?” she said.

“By letting me help Your Highness in every way possible,” was the answer.

Burnet was in higher favor than ever, particularly with the Princess, and, when they were alone together, with habitual temerity he broached the subject of her marriage once more.

This time Mary did not feel she could rebuff the man who had saved her husband from being kidnapped, possibly murdered, so she allowed him to speak.

“I believe the Prince has a great regard for you, but there is something which holds him back from expressing his affection.”

Mary said frankly: “The Prince has never expressed great affection. I do not believe it is in his nature to do so.”

To Elizabeth Villiers? Burnet asked himself, wondering whether to mention that lady and then deciding not to.

“I believe,” said Burnet, “that the Prince is always aware that the crown of Britain would come to you and that in the event you would be the Queen and he merely the Queen’s consort.”

Mary opened her eyes wide. “Surely the Prince knows that I would never put him into a humiliating position.”

Burnet was secretly delighted; he believed that he was going to bring about a deeper understanding between the Prince and Princess of Orange which would be a great advantage when, as he hoped, they came to England to depose James.

“Your Highness,” said Burnet to the Prince, “in the event of James dying or … some other contingency … and the Princess being acclaimed Queen, has Your Highness considered your own position?”

Even William was unable to hide the depth of his emotion.

This is the secret, thought Burnet; this is at the very heart of the matter.

“You can rest assured,” said William sharply, “that nothing would induce me to act as valet to my wife.”

“Nothing would induce me to believe that she would expect Your Highness to.”

“When greatness comes one cannot always assess the effect it will have.”

“But the Princess …”

William waved a hand. “The Princess has been a docile wife … almost always, and only rarely has she opposed my wishes.”

“Almost.” “Rarely.” Those were the significant words.

So William was unsure of his wife, and it was a barrier between them. He could not bring himself to ask her what position, if she were Queen of England, she would assign to him; and the ministers of England would accept her as their sovereign; they would obey her, and if she said William was to be her consort merely, that was all he could hope for. The decision lay with Mary; and he did not fully understand Mary.

It was clear to Burnet that this was a question which burned continually in his mind. He was working toward a goal; he had married Mary in order to reach this goal; and now he did not know whether this meek obliging wife would, in one of her sudden moods of firmness, withhold from him that which had come to be the very meaning of his existence.

“Your Highness, I could put the question to the Princess … with your permission. I could discover what is in her mind.”

William’s pale eyes seemed to take on new life. He gripped Burnet’s arm.

“Do that,” he said.

So once more Burnet sought Mary.

“Your Highness,” he said, “I have just left the Prince and there is a matter which perplexes him greatly and which I believe is constantly in his mind. Have I your permission to right this matter between Your Highnesses?”

Mary, looking puzzled, implored him to go on.

“It is simply this, Your Highness: should you succeed your father to the Crown, what position do you intend the Prince to hold?”

“I do not understand you. What comes to me, comes to my husband, does it not?”

“That is not so. You will remember that when Mary Tudor came to the throne her husband Philip of Spain was not King of England. Your Highness, I do assure you that a titular kingship is no acceptable thing to a man—particularly when that is his only as long as his wife shall live.”

“What remedy do you propose?” asked Mary.

“Ah, Your Highness, if you would be content to be a wife only and promise to give him the real authority as soon as it comes into your hands, I believe that the differences which are now between you and the Prince would be removed.”

The differences? He would no longer keep a mistress? He would be the perfect husband she had tried to deceive herself into thinking he was? This had been between them, then, this knowledge that she could one day be a Queen and he only assume the title of King if it were her wish? Mary was excited. She knew William and his pride. That was the answer then. He had avoided her because her position could be so much higher than his. He could not endure to be merely a consort to a Queen; his pride was too great; just as it was too great for him to ask her what she intended to do. It had been between them all those years. She, too blind to see it; he, too proud to ask.

And so he had turned to Elizabeth Villiers who to him was merely a woman whom he could love—not a Princess who could one day be a Queen and hold his future in her hands.

Mary, sentimental, idealistic, believed that wrongs could be righted in a moment of illumination.

She turned to Burnet, her expression radiant.

“I pray you bring the Prince to me. I will tell him myself.”

When Burnet brought him to her, assuring him that she wished to tell him herself the answer to the question, she went to William and taking his hands kissed them.

“I did not know,” she said, “that the laws of England were so contrary to the laws of God. I did not think that the husband was ever to be obedient to the wife.”

William’s heart leaped in exultation, but his expression remained cold. He wanted a definite statement before he committed himself.

“You shall always bear rule, William,” she told him.

Then he smiled slowly.

She added with a joyous laugh: “There is only one thing I would add. You will obey the command: ‘Husbands, love your wives’ as I shall do that of ‘Wives, be obedient to your husbands in all things’.”

“So,” answered William slowly, “if you should attain the crown, you will be Queen of England and I shall be the King?”

“I would never allow it to be otherwise,” she told him lovingly.

“If you once declare your mind,” Burnet reminded Mary, “you must never think of retreating again.”

“I never would.”

“Then,” said Burnet smiling from one to another like a fairy godmother, “this little matter is settled. When James goes, there will be a King and Queen of England.”

“And the Queen will be a woman whose one desire will be to obey her husband,” added Mary.

Those were happy days.

He shared confidences with her; theirs was a happy trinity—Burnet, Mary, and William; and they talked of England as though in a week or so they would all be there. The King and his Queen, who would always see through his eyes and obey him in every way; and Burnet, who would become a Bishop and remain their friend and adviser.

There was only one question that Mary could not bring herself to put to her husband: “Is it finished between you and Elizabeth Villiers?”

It would not have been difficult to find out. She could have had her spies who would soon discover the truth; she could have waited in the early hours of the morning to catch him as she had before. But she would do none of these things; she would only believe that she had attained the perfect marriage for which she had always longed.

William stood in his mistress’s bedchamber looking down at her lying on her bed.

She grew more attractive with the years, he thought; her wits sharpened and her beauty did not fade, for it was more than skin deep. It was in the strangeness of her eyes, in her sensuous movements, in her low laughter, so indulgent for him.

“She will obey me in all things,” he told her. “She has said I shall always bear the rule. It is what I have waited to ask her for years and now, thanks to Burnet, she has told me herself.”

“And she asks no conditions?”

“She mentions none.”

“I thought there might have been one.”

Elizabeth looked at him passionately for a moment; then she rose and gracefully put herself into his arms.

“To abandon me?” she whispered.

“It is one condition to which I should never agree,” he told her.