The Loves of Charles II (126 page)

“’Tis so, I fear, my lord,” said Nell. “But it shall not stay so. This child is going to share in some of that which has been enjoyed by Barbara’s brats.”

“Noble Villiers on their mother’s side—those little bastards of Barbara’s, Nelly!”

“I care not. I care not. Who is to say they
are
the King’s children? Only Barbara.”

“Nay, not even Barbara. For how could even their mother be sure? Now listen to my advice, Nell. Be diplomatic in your attitude towards the King. When the Frenchwoman surrenders, as undoubtedly she will, there may be changes in His Majesty’s seraglio. The lady may say, ‘Remove that object. I ask it as the price of my surrender.’ And believe me, little Nell, that object—be she noble Villiers or orange-girl—may well be removed. Unless, of course, the object makes herself so important to His Majesty that he cannot dispense with her.”

“This Frenchwoman, it seems, would have great powers.”

“She uses great diplomacy, my dear. She holds out hopes to our most gracious King, and then withdraws. It is a game such women play—a dangerous game unless the woman has the skill. She is skilled, this French Louise. It is her manners and this game she plays which make her so desirable. For the love of God I cannot see what else. The woman sometimes seems to squint.”

“And so Squintabella will throw us all out of favor!” cried Nell wrathfully.

“Squintabella will, if she wishes to. Mayhap she will not consider a little onetime orange-girl from Cole-yard a worthy adversary. But listen to me, Nelly. For this time make no demands upon the King. Administer to his peace. Laugh for him. See that he laughs. He will come to you for refuge, as a ship comes into harbor. Squintabella will not rage and storm as Barbara raged and stormed, but yet I fancy he will have need of refuge.”

Nell was silent for a while. Then she looked at the handsome dissolute face of my lord Rochester and said: “I cannot understand, my lord, why you should be so good to me.”

Rochester yawned. He said: “Put it down, if you will, to my dislike of Squintabella, my desire for His Majesty’s peace and enjoyment of the most charming lady in London, and my pleasure in helping a fellow wit.”

“Whichever it should be,” said Nell, “I’ll follow your advice, my lord, as far as I’m able. But since the days when I sat on the cobbles in Cole-yard, I have never been in control of my tongue. And, as I know myself; I am certain I shall continue to ask favors for my young Charles until he is a noble duke.”

“Aye!” cried Rochester. “Go your own way, Nelly. There is one thing that’s certain. ’Twill be a way no other went before.”

So Nell continued at the eastern end of Pall Mall. The King came less frequently. Will Chaffinch regretted that his purse was not as deep as he would have liked, and Nell had developed extravagant tastes.

She would not dress young Charles in garments unsuited to his state. She had never been thrifty; debts began to mount.

One day she said to Rochester: “I cannot keep my little Charles, in the state to which I intend he shall become accustomed, on what I get from Chaffinch.”

“You could remind the King of his responsibilities,” suggested Rochester. “Remind him gently. Be not like Barbara with her demands.”

“I’ll not be like Barbara,” said Nell. “And my son shall not be dressed in
worsted. Nothing but silk shall touch his skin. It’s going to be a duke’s skin before he dies, and I want to make it duke’s skin from the start. He was born high, and he’ll stay high.”

“Nell, I see plans in your eyes. What mad pranks do you plan?”

“Since what Chaffinch gives me is not enough, I must work for more.”

“You would take a lover?”

“Take a lover! Nay, one man at a time was ever my way. I have my friend the King, and we have our child. We are too poor, it seems, to keep him in the state due to him. Therefore I must work.”

“You … work!”

“Why not? I was once an actress, and it was said that many people crowded into the theater just to see me. Why should they not again?”

“But now you are known as the King’s mistress and the mother of his son. King’s mistresses do not work. They never have.”

“This one will set a fashion,” said Nell. “If his father is too poor to give young Charles his due, his mother shall not be.”

“Nay, Nell. It is unheard of.”

“From tomorrow it shall not be. For then I go back to the stage.”

ames, Duke of Monmouth, was whipping himself to a rage. He strutted about his apartments before those young men whose pleasure it was to keep close to the King’s son and applaud him in all that he did.

Monmouth was handsome in the extreme. He had inherited his father’s physique and his mother’s beauty; and there was just enough of the Stuart in his features to convince everyone that he was the King’s son. All knew of the King’s devotion to this young man, the liberties allowed him, the King’s unending patience; for it had to be admitted that Monmouth was an arrogant fellow, proudly conscious of that stream of royal blood which flowed in his veins. At the same time he bore a great grudge against that fate which had made him an illegitimate son of such an indulgent father.

There was a hope, which never left him, that one day the King would legitimize him. There were many to surround him and tell him that this would be so, for the Queen’s pregnancies continued to end in miscarriages, and the dislike of the country for the King’s brother’s religion was growing.

James, Duke of York, was suspect. He had not proclaimed himself a
Catholic, but it was clear by his absence from the church that he was uneasy in his mind concerning his religion, and rumor ran riot. It was for Mon-mouth and his friends to foster those rumors.

In the meantime Monmouth gave himself up to pleasure. He was a glutton for it. He had his father’s interest in women, but he lacked his father’s good-natured tolerance. Charles had the gift of seeing himself exactly as he was; Monmouth saw himself larger than life. Charles had had no need to bolster up the picture of himself, since his forbears were Kings of Scotland, England, and France. He was entirely royal. Monmouth had to link his royal ancestors with those of his mother; and, although he was the King’s son, there were many who declared he would never wear the crown. There was a burning desire within him to override those who would stand in the way of his ambitions. This colored his life.

His education had not been of the best; he had left the environment of a simple country gentleman to become a petted member of his father’s Court. His head was not strong enough for him to imbibe such a strong draught and remain sober.

So he strutted, raged, posed, and made many enemies; and those who were his friends were in truth either enemies of the Duke of York or those who thought to curry favor with the King because of the love he bore his son.

Monmouth’s time was devoted to fortune-tellers, looking after his appearance, collecting recipes for the care of his skin, and keeping his teeth white and his hair that lustrous black which was such a contrast to his smooth fair skin; soldiering attracted him; he wished to be a famous soldier and to make great conquests; he pictured himself riding through the streets of London with his military glory like a halo about his handsome head; for thus, he believed, the people would realize his worth and, when they cried “Down with the Catholic Duke of York,” they would add, “Up with the Protestant Duke of Monmouth!”

It was seven years since he had married the little Countess of Buccleuch, a very wealthy Scottish heiress whom his father had been pleased to bestow upon his beloved Jemmy. Monmouth had been fourteen then; Anne, his little bride, twelve. He remembered often how his loving father had merrily attended the ceremony of putting them to bed together, yet insisting on the ceremony’s stopping there, since the pair were so young.

It had proved a far from happy marriage. But Anne Scott was proud. Monmouth thought her callous. She gave no sign of any distress, which her husband’s wildness caused her, and some said she was as hard as the granite hills of her native land.

Monmouth was pursuing a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber, Mary Kirke. It was not that Mary appealed to him more than any other; but he had heard that his uncle, the Duke of York, was enamored of the lady and, in his slow and ponderous way, was attempting to court her.

That was enough to inspire young Monmouth’s passion, for it was necessary for him continually to flaunt what he felt to be his superiority over his uncle. He must do it in every possible way, so that all—including James, Duke of York—should realize that, should King Charles die without legitimate heirs, James II would not be James, Duke of York, but James, Duke of Monmouth.

Now, as he walked about his apartment, he was ranting to his companions on what he called an insult to royalty.

Sir Thomas Sandys was with him; also a Captain O’Brien. He had called these men in because he wished them to help in a wild plan which was forming in his mind. His great friends, the young Dukes of Albemarle and Somerset, sprawled on the window seat listening to Jemmy’s ranting.

“My father is too easy-going by far!” cried Monmouth. “He allows low fellows to insult him—and what does he? He shrugs his shoulders and laughs. It is all very well to take that attitude, but insolence should be punished.”

“His Majesty’s easy temper is one of the reasons for the love his people bear him,” suggested Albemarle.

“A King should be a King,” said Monmouth boldly.

None spoke. Monmouth, as beloved son, had a right to criticize his father which was denied to them.

“Have you fellows heard what this insolent Coventry said in the Parliament?”

All were silent.

“And who is this John Coventry?” demanded the young Duke. “Member for Weymouth! And what is Weymouth, I pray you tell me? This obscure gentleman from the country would criticize my father and go free. And all because my father is too lazy to punish him. ’Tis an insult to royalty, I tell you; and if my father will not avenge it, then should his son do so.”

The Duke of Albemarle said uneasily, “What was said was said in the Parliament. There, it is said, a man has a right to speak his mind.”

Monmouth swung round, black eyes flashing, haughty lips curled. “A right … to speak against his King!”

“It has been done before, my lord,” ventured Somerset. “What this man Coventry did was to ask that an entertainment tax should be levied on the theaters.”

” ’Twas a suggestion worthy of a country bumpkin.”

“He proposed it as a means of raising money, which all agree the country needs,” said Somerset.

“My good fellow, the King must be amused. He loves his theaters. Why should he not have his pleasures? The theaters give much pleasure to His Majesty.”

“That was said in Parliament,” said Albemarle grimly.

“Aye,” cried Monmouth. “And ’twas then that this John Coventry—
Sir
John Coventry—rose in his seat to ask whether the King’s pleasure lay among the men or the women who acted therein.”

“’Twas an insult to His Majesty, ’tis true,” admitted Albemarle.

“An insult! It was arrogance,
lese majesté.
It shall not be permitted. All the country knows that the King finds pleasure in his actresses. There are Moll Davies from the Duke’s and Nell Gwyn from the King’s to prove it. Coventry meant to insult the King, and he did so.”