The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (15 page)

My suspicions were beginning to be formed. William Bedloe was a confederate of Titus Oates.

What were these men who were plotting to ruin the Queen and my father doing here at The Hague? The answer was clear: my father was going to be robbed of his inheritance and William, through me, was going to take the crown of England.

I felt sick with horror. I wanted no part in it. I wanted to break away from it all.

How could my father have plunged us all into this morass of intrigue and misery?

And William? How much was he involved in it?

I HAD BEEN HORRIBLY SHOCKED
that a man concerned in the popish plot with Titus Oates should be received at the court of The Hague, and even more so by a discovery I made soon afterward.

I was really fortunate in having in my service that rather feckless pair Betty Selbourne and Jane Wroth, for I learned a great deal from little details which they thoughtlessly let slip from time to time in their everyday tittle-tattle. Anne Trelawny was discreet and always concerned not to alarm me, and I believe she kept from me any news which she thought might do so.

Some reference was made to my father's visit, and Jane said: “It was the day before his illness.”

“His illness?” I asked. “What was that?”

Betty was there too and she and Jane exchanged glances.

Betty said: “Oh, it was nothing much. It quickly passed. It was a day or so before he left.”

“Why did I know nothing of this? What sort of illness?”

“It was of no importance,” said Betty. “I suppose he did not want to worry Your Highness.”

“If it were of no importance, how could it worry me?”

They were both silent and I went on: “How did you know of it?”

“People were talking about it,” said Jane. “Your Highness knows how people will talk. The Duchess was so anxious.”

I knew there was something mysterious about this illness and, instead of gently urging them to talk and eventually prizing the news from them, I said imperiously: “I want to know the truth. Please tell me immediately.”

I could see the expressions on their faces. There was no help for it. They must tell me.

“Well,” said Betty. “It was just before the Duke and Duchess left. The Duke was troubled in the night with sickness and gripping pains—so they said.”

“Why did I not know of this?”

“We were told not to speak of it. We should not have mentioned it.”

“But I insist on knowing,” I reminded her. “Go on.”

“The Duchess was very worried. Their servants were there. They thought he was . . .”

I found I was clenching my fists. It was hard to control my dismay and alarm.

“What caused it?” I demanded.

Again that exchange of a glance between the two young women.

“It must have been something he had eaten at supper,” said Jane.

“But he was much better in the morning,” added Betty. “And then, of course, he left for Brussels.”

“Why was this kept from me?”

“Your Highness was recovering from your own illness. The Prince had given orders that you were not to be worried. It was just that your father was briefly indisposed.”

“And my father left almost immediately and instructions were given not to tell me.”

“No one was supposed to mention it, for it would seem as though the cooks did not know their business.”

“And you ladies were told not to mention it? By whom?”

“It was Elizabeth. She is the one who says what we must do or not do now.”

I was very disturbed. Had they tried to kill my father? Those men who assembled for the supper parties were his enemies. They wanted to see him removed to make way for William.

And William? I could not believe that such a religious man would contemplate . . . murder.

I WAS ASHAMED OF MYSELF
for entertaining for a moment such a thought of my husband. William was stern, unbending, overwhelmingly ambitious, but he would never be a party to murder—and the murder of his father-in-law.

I felt I wanted to make up for such an unworthy thought.

My attitude toward my father had changed a little. There were those who called him a fool and my uncle was one of them. I had heard that the King had said of him: “The people will never get rid of me, because if they did they would have to have James. That is something they would not want. I doubt he would last four years on the throne.”

My poor misguided father. Such a good man, he was, apart from that lechery which he shared with his brother; but he could be foolish in the extreme.

It surprised me that I could think this of one whom I had idolized for so long. I began to wonder if I were seeing him through William's eyes.

I was very eager for news of what was happening in Brussels, and I was overjoyed when I heard that my half-sister, the little Isabella, and my sister Anne were going to Brussels to stay with my father for a while.

This appeared to be a great concession, for previously Anne had not been allowed to go with him for fear he should attempt to make a Catholic of her; and I wondered if the feeling in England was less fanatical than it had been, though I still heard that people were being accused by Titus Oates, arrested, tried for treason and executed. Moreover, my father was still in exile; but the fact that Anne was allowed to visit him in Brussels did seem a good omen.

When they arrived they wanted to come and see me. I was very eager that they should do so, and it was arranged. Once again, it would not be a state visit, for, in view of my father's position as an exile, that would be undiplomatic. I think William was loath to receive him, wondering what effect this would have when the news reached England that the exiled Duke had been received at The Hague.

My husband was in a delicate position. He was certain now that I would be Queen and he, as my consort, would share the throne. No, not consort. If I were Queen, he would insist on being King. After all, he had a claim in his own right. But he had to remember the importance of my position. He had certainly changed toward me since I had begun to show a little spirit.

So I wanted to see my family and he could not deny me that. Nor did he wish to make his ambitions too plain. He had a difficult path to tread.

So they came and he greeted them with a certain amount of warmth. As for myself, I was overcome with joy. We embraced and clung together, mingling our tears. We Stuarts have a streak of sentiment in our natures.

There was one irritation. Anne had brought Sarah Churchill in her suite and as Sarah had refused to be parted from her husband, Colonel Churchill was of the party.

Anne was growing up. She was nearly as old now as I had been at the time of my marriage. So far there had been no one selected for her and she was blithely unconcerned, and she doted on Sarah; she seemed completely subservient to her. It was, still “Sarah says this . . .” “Sarah does it this way. . . .” I was tired of Sarah. Anne seemed unable to make a decision without her. But then she had always been too lazy to make decisions.

Sarah was quick to see my irritation with her and she was too autocratic to accept it. I wondered what John Churchill thought of his wife, for I was sure she attempted to control him as she did Anne. I was amazed when I saw them together, for he seemed almost slavishly devoted.

Anne said: “Oh, Sarah is so clever. I am not surprised that he is her devoted slave.”

“Does she seek to make you one?” I asked.

Anne blinked at me with her shortsighted eyes. “How could she? She is my attendant.”

My dear, simple Anne; she had not changed. She was as ready to accept Sarah's domination as ever and, of course, I noticed, Sarah always couched her orders to Anne in diplomatic terms, for indeed Sarah was at heart a diplomat. But she did not please me.

One day Anne said to me: “Sarah thinks the Prince does not treat you as he should.”

“Sarah does?”

“Yes. She says she would not endure it if she were you.”

“That is very bold of her.”

Anne giggled. “Sarah is always bold. Well, she is Sarah. No one would get the better of Sarah. And she says you are really more important than he is, or would be if . . .”

I said: “Our uncle, the King, will live for a long time yet, and so will our father. My husband is the Stadholder and Prince of Orange, and it is only if our father has no sons that you or I could ever sit on the throne of England.”

“Sarah thinks the people will not have our father, nor perhaps a son of his.”

“If Sarah were as wise as you think she is, she would look to her own business and leave that of her peers to them.”

“Mary,” cried Anne incredulously, “do you not
like
Sarah?”

“I think Sarah Churchill takes too much on herself. She should remember her place as the wife of a man who has yet to make his way in the King's army.”

I guessed she would tell Sarah what I had said and Sarah would not like it. I was glad of that.

On another occasion, Anne said: “Sarah thinks Elizabeth Villiers gives herself airs.”

I agreed with her but said nothing, and Anne went on: “Sarah thinks she has a reason for it.”

“What happens in my apartments is no concern of Sarah's,” I said. “I think it would be a good idea, sister, if you made that clear to her, and if I discovered her making any trouble in the household it might be necessary to send her away.”

Anne looked at me in amazement.

“Send Sarah away! You couldn't do that!”

“Very easily,” I replied. “This is
my
household. I do what I will here.”

“Sarah thinks you cannot do anything that the Prince wouldn't want.”

“Sarah is mistaken. I am the Princess of Orange and our father's elder daughter. I can do as I will.”

I was proud of myself. I remembered my power and I was going to exert it. I was my father's eldest daughter and that put me in a very special position. I was going to make sure that people remembered it.

I knew that Anne would have reported this conversation to Sarah Churchill, for I heard of no more comments; but Sarah Churchill and I never liked each other after that.

The visit, like the other, had to be a short one. My poor father could not forget that he was an exile. He was a very sad man. I could understand that. I had hated to leave my country, but at least I had done so in an honored fashion. I had not been forced out.

It was a sad occasion when I said good-bye to my father, my stepmother, my sister Anne and little Isabella. There were tears as we assured each other that we should soon be together again.

THERE WAS TENSION
throughout the court at The Hague. Messages were coming from England. King Charles had suffered from a series of fits—one after another. He was no longer young and, in view of the life he had led, it seemed unlikely that he would go on much longer.

There were accounts of the people's grief, not only in London but throughout the country. None of the blatant peccadilloes could change their affection for him. His many mistresses, his scandalous liaisons, made no difference. They loved the Merry Monarch. There had never been a king so loved since King Edward IV, tall and handsome, had roamed the streets of London, casting a roving eye on the handsome women.

There were more gatherings at the supper parties in the apartments of the maids of honor, and William was often present in the company of those discontents from England; and now none of them could suppress their excitement.

I wondered what my father was feeling, shut off from it all in Brussels. Then news came from that city that he had left in haste for some secret destination, leaving his family behind.

I was filled with anxiety when he arrived in England, for I knew it was because of popular feeling that he had been sent away.

Meanwhile, we were all tense, waiting for developments.

Anticlimax came. The King had recovered. The ague had disappeared and he was his old self. I could imagine his amusement at all the excitement and his sly comments that he had cheated them out of the fun.

He received my father with affection. Charles was truly fond of his family in his lighthearted way: and it was only because of his determination “never to go wandering again” that he had given way to popular demand for his brother's exile.

Even those who loved my father must agree that it was his own fault. If he had only set aside his scruples, worshipped as he wanted to in secret, none of this would have arisen.

That was a thought which occurred to me again and again. And I must confess it produced a certain impatience with him when I thought of the havoc he was causing.

Well, he was back in England. But would he be allowed to stay?

Everyone at The Hague was watchful and alert. Every messenger who arrived at the palace was immediately taken to William. Everyone was waiting for the outcome.

At length it came. My father was returning to Brussels.

He was going to take his family back to England and would call at The Hague on his way.

In the meantime we heard the news. The people of England would not allow my father to stay there. I wondered what his plans would be and it was with mingled joy and apprehension that I greeted him when he arrived; and as soon as I was alone with him, I demanded to know what had happened.

He told me with great emotion of his reunion with his brother.

“This is no fault of Charles,” he said. “In spite of his ministers . . . in spite of the people . . . he would not have me go away.”

“Then . . . you will stay?”

“He cannot have that either. There is too much pressure. Only those who have been in London can understand the trouble that has come out of this infamous plot. Only they can realize what harm has been done. The people have been roused to fury. They are shouting ‘no popery' in the streets. They are accepting Titus Oates as though his word is gospel. He has inflamed hatred of Catholics.”