The Loves of Charles II (145 page)

Louis continued to pay to keep England aloof to enjoy that peace which her King was determined to have. Louis was assured that the talk of a marriage between England and Holland was necessary to keep the people quiet and to prevent their demanding intervention in the war on the side of Holland.

But in October of that eventful year Charles announced the engagement of William and Mary. England and Scotland went wild with joy because they saw in this marriage an end to the menace of popery.

Not all rejoiced. In her bedchamber a fifteen-year-old girl sobbed bitterly while her father knelt by her bed and sought to comfort her.

It was a misty November day, and in the Palace of St. James were assembled those who would attend the marriage ceremony of the little fifteen-year-old Princess Mary. In Mary’s bedchamber an altar had been set up, for it was here in this room that the ceremony was to take place.

The bride’s eyes were swollen; she had wept incessantly since her father had told her the news. She was terrified of the small pale young man with the grim face who seemed to her so cold and so different from her father and her Uncle Charles. They told her that she should be proud of her husband. He was a great soldier. He was called the “hero of Nassau.” He had waged war on the invaders of his country; he had declared with such fervor his willingness to die rather than give in that his countrymen had rallied about him and followed his example. Nor had those been idle words. Mary was to marry a man whose name would be spoken of with awe every time military operations were mentioned. He was her cousin, her uncle had pointed out, his own sister’s boy; and when that sister—Mary’s own namesake—had died, Charles had promised his care of little Dutch William.

“And how could I relinquish that care to better hands than yours, my dearest niece?” asked Charles.

But Mary merely threw herself into the royal arms and sobbed bitterly. “Let me stay, Uncle. Please, please, dearest Uncle, Your Majesty, let me stay with you and Papa.”

“Nay, nay, you’ll be laughing at yourself in a short while, Mary. You are but a child, and we must all, alas, leave childhood behind us. You will rule Holland with your husband and, if this new child your new mother is to have should be a girl … well, then, one day you may rule England. If that became necessary, you’d have need of Dutch William.”

But Mary could only sob and refuse to be comforted.

Now in her familiar room the King and the bridegroom were present, and the King was saying: “My little niece is the softest-hearted creature in the world. She and her sister Anne have been dear friends since their childhood. Poor Anne is suffering now from sickness, and her sister suffers with her. It is a pity that her dearest Anne cannot be present to witness the greatest moment her sister has yet experienced.”

Mary wanted to cry out: “I do miss Anne. I would that she were here. But Anne will get well and, when she is well, I shall be far away. I shall lose all those I love, and in their place there will be this cold man who frightens me.”

Her father had entered now. She suppressed the desire to run to him, to fling herself into his arms. There were tears in James’ eyes. Dearest Papa, she thought, he suffers as I do. With James was Mary’s stepmother, Mary Beatrice; she was large with child, and her beautiful dark eyes were fixed with compassion on her stepdaughter. Mary Beatrice had offered as great comfort as any could during the preceding days. She herself had not been long in England, and when she had first come she had been every bit as frightened as poor Mary was now. “That was different,” said Mary. “You married Papa … my Papa … There is no one quite as kind as Papa.” “I did not think so. I burst into tears when I first saw him. It is only now that I begin to know him that I realize there was no need for those tears. So you will find it with William.”

Mary had allowed herself to be comforted, but now, in the presence of Dutch William, her courage was failing her again.

Charles, looking anxiously at his niece, was eager to have the ceremony done with. He called impatiently to Compton, the Bishop of London, who was to perform the ceremony.

“Come, Bishop,” he cried. “Make all the haste you can, lest my sister here, the Duchess of York, should bring us a boy, and then the marriage will be disappointed.”

William looked grim. His uncle’s jovial cynicism astonished him. He was aware that Charles knew that, in marrying Mary, he was hoping that one day he would come to the throne of England, but he thought it astonishing that Charles should refer to it at the ceremony.

He looked with distaste at the poor blubbering child, in whom his hopes were centered. She did not attract him, but there would be others who did.

“Who gives this woman?” the Bishop was asking.

“I do,” said Charles, firmly.

The Prince said the words required of him. He put a handful of gold coins on the book, as he endowed Mary with all his worldly goods.

“Put it in your pocket, Mary,” said the King with a smile. “For that is all clear gain.”

After that the ceremonies began. The bridegroom was aloof and indifferent to his bride, who continued to weep throughout the banquet in a quiet helpless way as though she had given up all hope of ever being happy again.

Charles was glad he had brought Rochester out of retirement. He found Dutch William and his friends a dull crowd, and was glad when the time came for him to officiate at the ceremony of putting the couple to bed.

Poor little Mary looked with dull eyes at those who crowded into the bedchamber to break bread and drink the posset, and cut her and her husband’s garters.

At last Mary and William were in the great bed together, and the King himself drew the curtains.

He did not look at Mary. He could not trust himself to meet the appeal in the tear-drenched eyes of his little niece.

He glanced at grim William, who looked like a man at a funeral rather than at his own nuptials.

“Now, nephew, to your work!” cried Charles. “St. George for England!”

Charles could no longer deceive Louis. The marriage with Holland was a fact, and the Parliament—Shaftesbury had now been released from the Tower and was back in the House—were demanding that an army be raised to assist Holland. Louis, through Danby and Louise, increased Charles’ pension. Charles, in accepting this, continued to assure Louis that the raising of the army was being effected only to pacify his people and keep secret his friendship with France.

Louis was realizing that, in hoping to work through Charles, he had given himself a more difficult task than he might have had. There were
others in England who could be of the utmost use to him. He considered the career of Shaftesbury, he whom Charles had named “Little Sincerity,” and he felt that the leader of the Opposition might be as useful to him as the King. Louis was rich; he offered more bribes, and it was not long before the members of the Opposition—those stern Protestants—were on his pension list.

Thereupon Parliament refused to advance the money necessary for the troops, and there was nothing to be done but disband the army. Charles was forced to pay them out of his own pocket, which again put him in the power of the Parliament, for it was necessary to ask for a further grant of money.

The old struggle between King and Parliament was revived. The Commons made it clear that they wished to control the country’s affairs. Shaftesbury demanded the expulsion of the Duke of York. And Louis, furious at the way in which Danby had made him his dupe, passed over to the Commons Danby’s letters in which he had arranged for Louis’ bribes to be paid to the King.

Now Danby’s enemies were at his throat.

Charles assured the Parliament that all Danby had done had been at his command; and indeed at the bottom of each letter was written in Charles’ hand, “This letter is writ by my order. C.R.” The Commons decided to ignore the King’s part in these communications with Louis. They were out for Danby’s destruction; and his impeachment was imminent.

Nell tore herself from the domestic flurries concerning my lord Bur-ford’s shoelaces and my lord Beauclerk’s cough, and gave way to rejoicing. Danby and Louise had worked together, and she was sure that but for them she would have been a Countess by now, and my lord Burford a Duke.

Louise was afraid for, as Danby and she had worked together, she knew that many of his enemies strove to strike at her through him.

Then throughout the city there were rumors. They penetrated Whitehall.

Plots were afoot to murder the King and set the Duke of York on the throne.

People began to talk of a man named Titus Oates.

error swept over England. No one was safe from the accusations of Titus Oates. The Queen herself was in danger. As for Louise, the lampoons which the Whigs had been accustomed to pass round the coffeehouses were replaced by demands that she be brought to trial or sent back to France.

The King, hating trouble and realizing as few others did that Titus Oates was a rogue and a liar, did all in his power to keep himself aloof from the troubles. He dared not expose Titus; he dared not attempt to prevent the cruel executions which were taking place, for he knew that revolution was in the air and that he was in as dangerous a position as his father had been before he had laid his head on the block.

Louise was now known as the “Catholic whore.” No sin was too black to be imputed to her. She trembled in her apartments and played with the idea of abandoning all she had worked for and slipping back to France.

Nell, on the other hand, was unaware of danger. The King seemed fonder of her than ever before. She wept now and then because Lord Beau-clerk was in France, and thus her happiness could not be complete. Since the birth of her children her thoughts had been occupied with them almost to the exclusion of all else. Nell wanted to have the King and her sons with her, like any cozy family; then she could be happy. Plots whirled about her, but she was scarcely aware of them. Her so-called friend, Lady Harvey, had recently tried to bring to the notice of the King a lovely girl named Jenny Middleton. Lady Harvey—urged by her brother Montague—had sought Nell’s help in bringing this girl to the King’s notice, and Nell, her mind being taken up with her grief in the absence of my lord Beauclerk and the promotion of my lord Burford to a dukedom, had been quite unaware of Lady Harvey’s intention of bringing to the King’s notice one who would turn him from Nell herself.