Royal Harlot (47 page)

But worse was to come, and that—
that
!—I could not bear.

 
“Have you seen this?” I slapped the new pamphlet on the king’s desk. “I know you preach Christian tolerance and a blind eye, but this, sir, I cannot stomach.”

“More of the same?” Cautiously Charles opened the pamphlet and began to read aloud. “ ‘The gracious answer of the most Illustrious Lady of Pleasure Countess of Castlemaine’—oh, hell.”

“That’s as good a description as any,” I said, seething with rage. “It’s supposed to be my answer to that last pamphlet. Read on, sir, read on! Clearly it’s written by someone who knows me, for there’s perfect descriptions of my gowns and my jewels, and my lodgings, too. Mark what they say of me, and the children—
our
children—too.”

I came to stand behind him, pointing out the most offensive lines over his shoulder as I read more aloud. “ ‘We have
cum privilegio
always (without our husband) satisfied ourselves with the delights of Venus; and in our husband’s absence have had numerous offspring (who are bountifully and nobly provided for).’ Oh, sir, this cannot be tolerated It cannot be
borne
!!”

“But it’s even worse here, Barbara,” he said, and now I heard the anger in his voice, too. “It’s a mockery of my Bill of Indulgences. It says you’ll suppress the Protestant nonconformists, but harbor all Catholics because they believe that ‘venereal pleasure, accompanied with looseness, debauchery, and prophaneness are not such heinous crimes and crying sins.’ ”

I jabbed my finger at the page. “It blames Catholics again for setting the fire, and it says that those same apprentices who tore down the brothels are really the first Catholic Frenchmen come to lead an invasion.”

Abruptly he shoved the pamphlet away and rose from the desk, too agitated to remain still.

“This goes too far,” he said, striding back and forth across the room with long, furious steps. “This shames not only you, Barbara, but the crown, and the government, and all churches, of every faith. And I refuse to be libeled and bullied by faceless cowards who hide behind a printing press to spew their venomous discontent upon this country!”

I watched him pace, feeling as if the worst heat of my anger had somehow transferred to him. Reading the pamphlet again in his presence, speaking the hateful words aloud, had troubled me in a new way.

“How many will believe that I am in fact the author?” I asked unhappily. “What if those same apprentices who destroyed the Moorfields brothels seek me as their next victim?”

“So long as you and the children stay here in the palace,” he said, “you will be safe. I guarantee it.”

“But what of my house in King Street?” I was not a cowardly woman, or one who frightened easily, yet I’d not forgotten the time in the park when I’d been accosted by the disguised gentlemen. As terrifying as that had been, it would be as nothing compared to a vengeful mob determined to treat me ill. “My palace lodgings aren’t my home. What if the same—”

“You
will
be safe, Barbara,” he said, coming to take me in his arms. “You shall never be made to suffer on account of me. You have my word.”

In the next weeks, as many copies of the pamphlet that could be found were taken in and destroyed. The press that had printed it was closed and shuttered. The identity of the true author remained a mystery, but since he’d been frightened into not writing more in a similar vein, I suppose that the goal of his silence, too, had been accomplished.

And in a most public display of his regard for me, and to prove how little he cared for my Catholic beliefs, the king then settled a pension of nearly five thousand pounds on me, and purchased Berkshire House in my name: a handsome, spacious property of great size and elegance that backed on the park and overlooked St. James’s Fields and Pall Mall. Its cost was more than four thousand pounds and according to Bab May the grant for its purchase had been squeezed from customs duties.

I didn’t particularly care how Charles had arranged the finances. In a house so large, and directly across from St. James’s Palace, I
would
be safe, as he had promised, and in May I moved into my new home with my three youngest children. I’d already sent the older two, Anne, seven, and Charles, five, to be schooled in Paris, where the quality of genteel education was thought to be better, and where they’d be removed from the distraction of having their schoolmates link them to me.

There were many at court who believed such a generous gift from the king was intended as a sure farewell, a sign that he was ending our connection and putting me aside. I knew otherwise; he continued to come to me each day, and lingered as long as he could, and I often still did frequent my lodgings in Whitehall. Though our passion did not burn with the same bright fire that it had in the past, our friendship had been tempered by the flames and made stronger over time, and I never doubted I’d a place in his heart.

But the most advantageous feature of Berkshire House lay in its proximity to St. James’s Palace, the home of the Yorks. As the two brothers had grown closer, both in their family and their sympathy with the Roman faith, this would become the location where decisions were made and policies determined, much as my old house had been earlier.

I already knew from de Ruvigny that Charles was considering another, secret alliance with France, one that would, if revealed, undermine the Protestant Triple Alliance made earlier this year. And I also knew that in return for the funds and military support that Charles so desperately needed to keep England afloat, Louis would insist on a condition requiring Charles to convert to Catholicism himself and deliver England back to the Holy Mother Church.

In the plainest of language, Charles had decided to sell his soul, and if such a treaty ever became known to Anglican England, he would lose his throne faster than his father had.

Perhaps because I did know of such dangerous intrigues, I could step back from the court. Perhaps because I’d felt so threatened by the
Whore’s Petition
; perhaps because, at twenty-seven, I’d learned more of the value of patience; perhaps because I simply understood how momentous this time could be for England, I was willing to withdraw for a while from the busiest scheming of Buckingham, Arlington, and the rest of the court. When pressed, I gave as my excuse the outfitting of my new house, and the education of my children, both good and valid reasons, and true as well.

The world was shifting, and once again I’d made sure I’d be at its core.

 
Pinning my hair back into place, I glanced from the window of Charles Hart’s tiring room. A carriage had drawn to the back door: a common enough occurrence, given the number of gentlemen who delighted in recruiting their mistresses from the theatre’s stage. But though this carriage was purposefully plain, I recognized it, just as I recognized the horses and the driver.

Noting my interest, Hart came to stand behind me as he pulled his shirt over his handsome head. “That’s for Nell,” he said disdainfully. “The third time this week, and she always goes to him.”

“To the king, you mean.” I’d known that when the polish had begun to wear dull on Moll Davies, the king had looked to another actress, one who specialized not in drama but in comedic roles. Nell Gwyn was beguiling rather than beautiful, small and round in her person with ringlets so tight they bounced when she walked.
When
she walked, indeed: mostly she pranced on her toes, like a small spirited pony. She was quick as blazes, always ready with a retort or clever rebuttal, which was, I knew, why Charles had taken such interest in her. What I hadn’t realized was how much.

“She goes to the king that often?” I asked Hart, keeping my voice idle and slightly bored, as if it really was beneath my notice. “He sends the carriage every time?”

“Aye, my lady,” Hart said, not bothering to hide his bitterness. “Sometimes four nights from five. He’s welcome to her, too, same as are all the other lords. I took her from the pit and put a play-sheet in her hands instead of a basket of oranges, yet first she betrayed me with Buckhurst, and then with the king. She smiles and smiles for him now, but in time he’ll taste her ingratitude, too. Is your carriage down there, too, my lady?”

“It is,” I said, reaching for my hat. “They’re waiting at the corner.”

Hart tucked his shirt’s tails into his breeches. “You could always ride together back to Whitehall, I suppose.”

“We could,” I said, not wishing so much as to imagine enduring such a ride. “We won’t. Good day, Hart.”

I kissed him quickly, my joy in the afternoon spoiled. I wished nothing more than to be home, and I hurried down the playhouse’s twisting back stairs to the street, holding my skirts and cloak clear of the grimy steps.

Four nights from five was a great deal for a common-born woman and Charles. What did she do to fascinate the king so? And how had I not realized it myself?

“My lady!” She was there at the doorway just ahead of me, her round little face as impudently merry here as it was on the stage. “Forgive me, but I didn’t see you, my lady.”

I nodded, but didn’t deign to reply as I swept past her to my own carriage.

Forgive her, indeed.

THE RIVER THAMES, NEAR GRAVESEND
May 1 6 7 0

 
I stood at the prow of the royal yacht beside Charles. Though the day was sunny and full of warmth, a stiff breeze from the water had driven all the other ladies and most of the gentlemen below. But I’d always been a good sailor, and with a broad-brimmed hat and a veil tied over my head to protect my skin from the sun and a stout cloak against the spray, I was willing to brave the deck.

Green fields full of dappled cattle and quiet country villages slipped by on either side, and gulls danced in the cloudless skies overhead. The royal banner, gold threads glittering, flew from the mast-head to signify that the king himself was on board, and extra pennants streamed merrily from the spars and jackstaff. Two fiddlers sat on the quarterdeck to supply an extra measure of gaiety to our cruise, and even the sailors themselves seemed in a festive mood, singing to the fiddlers’ tunes. When children ran along the bank to wave at us, we both waved back, and I couldn’t think of any place under heaven where I’d rather have been. Besides, here I could speak to Charles alone, without fear of being overheard.

“A splendid day, Barbara, yes?” The king squinted up into the sun like a seasoned old salt. He’d always liked the water, and like his brother, he felt entirely at home with it as an element, whether sailing, rowing, or swimming. Free of the limits of the palace, he’d openly relaxed, his happiness palpable. “I cannot wait to greet my sister again. It’s been far too long since I last saw her.”

“She should have come sooner,” I said. Henrietta, known by the family as Minette and the world as Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans, or more simply Madame, was Charles’s favorite among his sisters. By being fifteen years older, he’d stepped into a role that was as much father as older brother to her, and the two of them had exchanged daily letters without fail for as long as I’d known Charles. “France is not so very far away that she couldn’t have come visit.”

“In distance, perhaps, but there are other hindrances,” he said, meaning, of course, Madame’s difficult husband, the duc d’Orleans. Madame’s marriage had been as cursed as Charles’s, doubly so since her lack of a male heir had been caused by Monsieur’s catamite ways, dressing as a woman in paint and patches, and preying on young boys. “I don’t have to tell you how kings and queens seldom decide such matters for themselves. But it will be good to see her at last, very good.”

While our party was a small one, consisting of only the Stuart families, a few friends such as me, and our servants, Madame was said to be making the journey from Paris to Dover with over two hundred attendants. The reunion would be the cause for much celebrating and levity, as such family events tend to be. Only those closest suspected the real reason for Madame’s journey, and we kept our thoughts tightly to ourselves.

Now Charles took my hand, tucking it gallantly into the crook of his arm. “I’m glad you’re here, Barbara. Not many ladies find much pleasure in sailing.”

“Ah, sir,” I said, laughing, “I needn’t remind you that I’m not like many ladies.”

He laughed, too, as much from his delight in the day as from the foolish jest. “Surely that must be the greatest truth ever spoken, and the most apt.”

“Indeed, sir,” I said, “because we both know that you, too, are not like many gentlemen.”

“Which is why I’ve always been so eternally grateful to have had you in my life, Barbara,” he said, and even in the bright sun there was no mistaking the genuine fondness in his eyes. “Old friends, eh? Nodding together in the chimney corner?”

“Not so very old, sir,” I protested, then laughed again. It had been ten years now since we’d first met in Brussels, a frighteningly quick passage of time, even between friends. I was twenty-nine, and he was soon to be forty, and I couldn’t begin to fathom how that had happened to either of us. I curled my fingers more closely into his arm. “Old friends, yes. Which is why I trust you’ll now tell me the real reason for this journey.”

He smiled benignly. “To see my sister, of course.”

“Don’t lie to me, dearest sir,” I said, my smile equally benign. “We’ve never done that before, and I’ll thank you not to begin now.”

He patted my hand and looked out across the water. “Louis and I are going to make a small agreement, Barbara, a little trade of pledges and services between cousins. It’s been done without ministers or ambassadors, with only my sister to act as our go-between.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What services, sir? What pledges?”

“With France’s assistance, England will once again be superior to the Hollanders at sea,” he said. “Our merchant ships will be safe in their trading, and our colonies will prosper unmolested by Dutch raiders. If such assurance takes a war, why, then with France at our side, we will fight, and we will win.”