The Merry Monarch's Wife (21 page)

We were passing out of the summer, and after a stay of a few weeks we reluctantly left Tunbridge Wells for London.

         

I SHALL NEVER FORGET
—nor will the rest of England—that night in September.

It began in the early morning of the second day of the month. The wind had been fierce all through the previous night and this played a large part in what happened.

The King's baker—a Mr. Farryner, I believe—lived in Pudding Lane where his kitchen would naturally be stored with wood faggots which would be needed for the baking of his bread. No one was sure how it started, but in a few seconds the house was on fire. It might have been possible to extinguish this, but the house was made of wood and the wind blowing so gustily that in a matter of minutes the fire was out of control to such an extent that, before any action could be taken, the whole of Pudding Lane was ablaze.

We were all awakened, and as we rose from our beds, we saw a strange light in the sky. The wind was sending hot ashes swirling through the air so that they descended on more buildings, causing more fires. People were panic-stricken. There was one aim: to get away from the fire. The river was crowded with crafts of all descriptions and crowds were piling their belongings into these.

Charles was out in the streets. The Duke of York, who was at Whitehall on some navy business, was with him. Everything was forgotten in the need to stamp out the fire.

“The whole of London will be burned down if nothing is done,” cried Lady Suffolk. “If only that dreadful wind would drop.”

Donna Maria shook her head. She could smell the acrid smell, though she could see very little. She said: “God is showing his anger to this wicked city. First he sent a plague; now he sends a fire. It is Sodom and Gomorrah all over again.”

“Wicked things have gone on in all countries, Maria,” I reminded her.

She would not accept that; and I think there were others in England who believed that we were suffering from Divine Wrath. It was significant, they said. The plague and then the fire. The licentious manners of the court, following the example set by the King, outstripped even those of that notorious den of iniquity, the court of France.

During that fearful day news kept coming to Whitehall. Houses near London Bridge were on fire; entire streets were ablaze. There was a glow in the sky and the heat from the fire was so fierce that it was dangerous to venture too near.

The Secretary of the Admiralty came to Whitehall to see the King on urgent business. Charles received him at once. Samuel Pepys was clearly overwhelmed to be in the King's company, but at the same time there was a sense of great urgency about him.

The King left at once with Mr. Pepys and the Duke of York. Charles told me afterward what had happened. London was in danger of being completely annihilated. Fires were springing up everywhere. It was as though some fire-breathing dragon had taken possession of the city. Fleet Street and the Old Bailey, Newgate, Ludgate Hill and St. Paul's were all ablaze. The cries of the people mingled with crackling burning wood; there were loud explosions as houses collapsed; the flames were stretching up to the sky and the burning heat was almost unbearable.

There was only one way of saving London: to blow up houses so that when the fire reached them there was nothing for it to consume and it could not spread.

Charles was out there directing operations with his brother James. The fact that they were there gave the people hope. Orders, which had been given by the Mayor, had not been obeyed, but when given by the King they could not be ignored.

It was a mercy that this terrible situation lasted only a few days. Indeed, had it lasted longer, the whole city of London would have been destroyed. And how right was the strategy of blowing up the houses, so making gaps which the fire could not bridge.

Charles worked indefatigably, and I am sure that to see their King riding through the streets, wigless, coatless, face blackened by smoke, ordering the blowing up of buildings, working harder than any, changed people's opinions of him. There indeed was truly a king. They were all fighting the battle against the deadly fire and because of the inspiration given by the King they knew they were going to defeat that destructive monster.

Charles talked afterward of the horror and the wonder of it—to see fire, the master, flaring, raging, triumphantly licking the buildings with relish before consuming them…the air full of smoke which, when the sun came up, gave a rosy glow to everything, making it the color of blood.

When the fire died down, the doleful task of assessing the damage and giving succor to the homeless began.

It was a great relief to find that only six people had died in the fire. We had feared there would be far more. However, over seven million pounds' worth of damage had been done. But I think the calamities of the plague and the fire—and in particular the latter—had shown the people that Charles could rise to the stature of a great king when the occasion demanded it.

I BEGAN TO UNDERSTAND CHARLES
a little better. Beneath that merry insouciance there was a seriousness and when it was touched it could reveal unsuspected strengths of character.

Having put an end to the fire, we learned that the Cathedral of St. Paul's was completely destroyed, with eighty churches; so were the Guild Hall and the Royal Exchange among many other buildings. Over thirty thousand houses and four hundred streets were completely finished. It was reckoned that the damage extended over four hundred and thirty-six acres; and two-thirds of the city was destroyed.

There was a great deal to be done; a quarter of a million people had lost their homes and were camping in the fields around London. There had to be special arrangements to feed them.

Rebuilding must begin at once and Charles called in his best architect, Christopher Wren.

There were ugly rumors in the air. Lady Suffolk reluctantly told me of them.

“They are saying that the fire was started by papists.”

“What a wicked lie. It is untrue, I know.”

“Yes, Madam. But the people will say anything.”

Charles acted promptly. There was an immediate inquiry, which, of course, proved that there was no foundation in the rumor.

It was not a time for false accusations, declared the King. What was important was to house and feed the people…to build new homes for them…to make a better London…a London of wide streets, light houses to replace the old dark ones…to make sure that something better arose from the ashes.

THE ELOPEMENT

A NEW YEAR HAD COME. BUILDING WAS GOING ON APACE
and London was beginning to look like a prosperous city again. Nearly two million pounds had been voted for the purpose and life was settling down to normal.

The great interest at court was the King's devotion to Frances Stuart.

Charles really seemed to care for her. It amazed me that a man of his intellect could be besotted with such a foolish creature. Her beauty was of course unique: her skin was as smooth as a child's, her eyes clear and innocent, her features perfectly formed; and after the brazen arrogance of Lady Castlemaine one could not help liking her a little. But Charles was becoming really melancholy and the wits around him tried in vain to arouse him. They missed his gaiety. It seemed that nothing could satisfy him but the Fair Stuart.

I had two enemies at court, and they were both powerful; one was the Earl of Bristol and the other the Duke of Buckingham.

The Duke had always promoted Frances Stuart because he had believed he could make her work for him through the King. Charles was fully aware of this but it only seemed to amuse him. The fact remained though that the King could not stop yearning for Frances, and Frances was determined not to give way without marriage.

Such a situation had occurred before in royal circles and I heard the names of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn often whispered, so it was clear to me what was in the minds of many people.

Henry VIII had been married to Catherine of Aragon who had produced one child—a girl—though there had been a succession of miscarriages. Catherine of Braganza had not produced even one girl.

Clarendon was out of favor; he had been so for some time. People remembered that it was he who had helped to arrange the Portuguese marriage. Why? asked the people. Because he had known that I was barren. His daughter had married the Duke of York who was in line to the throne, they said, and if the King had no legitimate children who would follow him, the Duke would be king and Clarendon's grandchildren would be heirs to the throne.

They fancied they saw the wily Clarendon's reasoning.

I was inclined to shrug all this aside, but then a great deal of what was happening was kept from me.

It was Anne Hyde who told me, because she thought I should be aware of the direction in which events were moving. She was right, of course.

She said: “Bristol and Buckingham are trying to oust my father from office. They have always been jealous of him.” She looked at me shrewdly. “I believe that if all is not well it is better to know it. One can then be prepared to deal with these matters when they are thrust upon one.”

I liked Anne. She was forthright. I also liked her daughter Mary, of whom she was so proud. She had a second girl now, Anne, who had been born just before the plague struck London. But the Duchess had suffered the loss of her boys. It seemed perverse of nature to make the girls more hardy when everyone wanted boys. I should have been grateful even for a girl.

I said: “You speak truth. I agree with you that it is not helpful to be in ignorance.”

“Buckingham is powerful and an evil influence. I cannot understand why the King tolerates him.”

“He is witty and clever, qualities which the King greatly admires.”

“And shares, but the King's wit is more kindly. Do you not agree?”

I said I did.

She was looking at me intently. “There is this latest lampoon which they have attached to the gate of my father's house.”

“And what is this lampoon? And who fixed it on your father's gates?”

“Buckingham's friends doubtless…and the lampoon concerns Your Majesty.”

“What is it?” I asked faintly.

“You know they blame my father for the sale of Dunkirk…”

“But the reason Dunkirk had to be sold was because it was too expensive to hold.”

“That's so. But when the people want to blame someone they will do so whatever the facts. Tangiers is proving difficult to hold and they are pretending that it is not worth having.”

“And the lampoon?”

“I hesitate to repeat it. But perhaps you should know. It reads:

Three sights to be seen

Dunkirk, Tangiers and a barren Queen.

I flushed hotly.

“Your Majesty must forgive me,” said Anne.

“It is better I should be aware. They believe, do they not, that I, with Dunkirk and Tangiers, am a catastrophe which has befallen the nation.”

“They are impatient…”

“I have been the King's wife long enough…”

“It happens sometimes that these things do not come about at once. The important point is that my father's enemies…your enemies…have dared to write that.”

“The King will not be pleased,” I said.

She looked at me steadily and said: “I can speak frankly to Your Majesty. You and I both have unfaithful husbands. They are alike in this. We made grand marriages and we have gained a good deal; we must needs accept the disadvantages. I think Your Majesty should not treat this matter lightly.”

“You mean to this suggestion that I am barren?”

“They are talking about that other royal marriage.”

“Henry VIII's,” I said.

She nodded. “I do not know whether this is merely a fabrication but I did hear a rumor that the King was consulting Dr. Seldon.”

“The Archbishop of Canterbury!”

I could not believe that I was hearing correctly.

“It may be just a rumor, but sometimes when these things are said there is a little truth in them.

“You are saying that the King wishes to be rid of me so that he may marry Frances Stuart?”

“It is a case similar to that other.”

“I do not believe the King would do this. He has always been so kind and considerate to me.”

“It is his nature to be kind and considerate. He would regret it, I know. We are all aware of his regard for you. But the King is a man who will go to great lengths for those of whom he is enamoured…and if he has talked to the Archbishop of Canterbury…”

“What could the Archbishop promise him?”

“There could be talk of the need to get an heir to the throne. It is not unknown in royal circles.”

I was feeling faint. I wanted to be alone to think.

Anne was quick to notice this.

She said hastily: “I thought only that you should be aware. Perhaps I have said too much. If I have, it was due to my anxiety for you. You are my sister-in-law. I thought you should be prepared.”

“You did right and I thank you. It is better that I should know.”

“Of course, one cannot believe all the rumors one hears.”

I nodded in agreement. “Thank you, Anne,” I said. “I am grateful to you.”

I was glad when she left me, for I was stunned by what she had hinted. He wanted to be rid of me. I stood between him and Frances Stuart. If I were no longer his wife, he could offer marriage to her because it was the only way she would succumb.

What should I do? If I agreed to a divorce it would be arranged without doubt. The Pope had not given the sanction which Henry VIII had demanded, but this was different. Catherine of Aragon had been the aunt of the Emperor Charles, one of the most powerful men in Europe whom that Pope dared not offend. It was certain that there would be no one of such importance to defend the rights of Catherine Braganza.

It was foolish to think of that notorious case. All cases were different.

Moreover, there was no need to consider the Church of Rome; and if Charles had in fact consulted the Archbishop of Canterbury, it would mean that the Archbishop would now be considering how best a divorce could be contrived. I supposed a woman could be divorced because she was not fertile.

And Charles? Would he do this to me? I remembered him at my bedside when he had thought I was dying. I recalled his tears…the hours he had spent there…the genuine grief. Could he do this to me?

I tried not to think what my life would be like without him. There would be no place for me here. I should be sent back to Portugal. My mother was dead, my brothers in conflict with each other. Alfonso would be proving himself useless without my mother to guide him and Pedro, who had always resented not being the elder, would be trying to take what was Alfonso's. I could not bear it. I had to stay here. Charles, I knew, preferred other women physically, but there was friendship between us, and he cared for me in a way; and I had settled for that. I had managed to bring myself to a state when I could accept his infidelities and be moderately happy on those occasions when we were together.

I had believed that our relationship would strengthen in the years to come and that those women would become less important to him; and I would be there—his friend and faithful wife.

I remembered how he had dismissed poor Edward Montague. I had tried to deceive myself into believing it was out of jealousy. But no. Even though I so much wanted it to be, I could not accept that. Edward had gone solely because of the insinuations of Buckingham.

How deep was his passion for Frances Stuart? I asked myself. How strong his regard for me? I knew him well enough to realize that he would be upset to cause me pain; and to divorce me would certainly do that.

And the people? There would be some who would frown at divorce, but I was after all a foreigner and they did not like foreigners. They wanted to see an heir to the throne and they had convinced themselves that I could not provide it. Frances Stuart was beautiful; she would grace all occasions and it would seem that she had an excellent chance of giving the country an heir.

I saw little of Charles then. He was more immersed in state matters than usual. The aftermath of the fire, with the rebuilding, rehabilitation of the people, the progress of the war, the fact that enemies were taking advantage of the impoverished state of the country, all demanded his constant attention as well as that of his ministers.

It was reasonable enough, but to my tortured imagination it seemed that he avoided me, which a man of his temperament would do if he were contemplating getting rid of his wife.

This was one of the most unhappy periods of my life. Each day the possibility of Charles seeking a divorce seemed more plausible.

And then Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, came to see me.

He was in an uneasy state of mind, for his own future was precarious.

He was a great statesman and a man of letters. He had written several histories of his times among other things; he was learned and clever. Charles, who had known him for many years, thought very highly of his erudition. He was a man of principles and often reproved Charles for his mode of life. Charles did not resent this. He would say it was true and Clarendon was right and that he should reform his ways. But Clarendon was asking more than Charles was prepared to give, so, in characteristic manner, the King shrugged his shoulders and implied that the people had asked him to come back and they must accept what they got.

Clarendon, I often thought, was uneasy in this atmosphere of frivolity which surrounded the court; and, being entirely different himself from most of the others, he had many enemies. He had originally been intended for the Church, which might have suited him very well, but on the death of his two older brothers, he became his father's heir; and when he joined the Middle Temple at that time his uncle, Sir Nicholas Hyde, was the Chief Justice, so he had a good chance of advancement. However, he decided he would not pursue a career in the law as he wanted to devote himself to writing. This he had done. Charles had once said it was rare that a man who owed his fame to writing and speaking should have a prominent place in the government.

Well, Clarendon was an unusual man.

At this time he must have been in his late fifties, but, apart from the gout, he was in good condition.

I sensed as soon as he arrived that he found the matter which had brought him somewhat delicate and he began by saying that his daughter had thought that we must talk with the utmost frankness.

I said: “I should prefer that.”

The color was high in his habitually ruddy cheeks, and I imagined he was choosing his words carefully.

“I have come to Your Majesty in this matter of the King and Mistress Stuart,” he said.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“It seems that the King is greatly taken with the lady and…has certain plans for her.”

I said: “He has had plans for her for a long time, my Lord Clarendon, but they have come to nothing because of the virtue of the lady.”

“Exactly so.”

“The Duchess of York has spoken to me of this matter,” I said.

I guessed then that Anne had come on her father's advice.

Clarendon went on: “I am sure Your Majesty will agree with me that it would be well for everyone concerned if the lady had a husband.” He was looking at me intently, as though assessing me. We had been in a somewhat similar situation when he had warned me about Lady Castlemaine and suggested how I should act. Then he had told me that I should accept her, and had been shocked when I did.

This, of course, was different. Then we had been talking of the King's mistress…now we were speaking of one who might become his Queen.

“The King has had a most unhappy time,” he said. “The plague…the fire…this war.” He lifted his hands. “He was more disturbed than he would have people know.”

I guessed what was in his mind. The King was depressed by all his difficulties; he was frustrated by Frances's refusals; in such circumstances he might be tempted to do something rash.

He cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, Miss Stuart should be married as soon as possible.”

I stared at him in horror, and he hastily added: “To one of her admirers, and so prevent this situation from worsening.”

“Is she prepared to marry?”

“She seems to be on very good terms with her cousin, that other Charles, the Duke of Richmond and Lennox.”

I knew the man. He was of the Stuart family, as Frances herself was. He must have been about ten or eleven years older than she was.