The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (24 page)

“You
will
succeed,” I said hastily. “I am sure of it. Have you forgotten Mrs. Tanner's vision?”

“I firmly believe that what she saw was heaven-sent. All through my life I have believed that. It has been long in coming, but now it is at hand. I shall come through. I shall be triumphant. But this is in the hands of God and his ways are mysterious. I said if I should not return it is your duty to marry without delay. You know full well that your father will do all in his power to marry you to a papist. That would be disastrous. You must marry a Protestant.”

I turned away. It distressed me that he could discuss my marriage to someone else so dispassionately.

He went on talking of what my duties would be in that calm way of his until I could endure no more.

I said: “You must succeed. I will not think otherwise. I do not want to marry anyone else. You are my husband. It is destined that you and I shall rule together.”

To my surprise he softened. I think he was a little surprised that I could be so genuinely devoted to him. Indeed, I was myself surprised, but when I contemplated the danger which he was about to face, and the possibility of his never coming back, and the insistence that there would be on my marrying again, I realized the extent to which I was bound to him.

I knew that I wanted to be with him, that my place was beside him.

While William was gratified by my devotion, he could not have forgotten my moments of rebellion. He would remember the grief of the child bride who had begged to be released from her marriage, the woman who had dared to send Elizabeth Villiers to England with a letter for the King. Then he would also remember that unconditionally I had agreed that he should be King of England and not merely my consort. This would indeed seem a triumph—almost as great as victory over the King.

Indeed, he was grateful and never before had he been so like a lover as he was that night.

The next day we left together, for I insisted on accompanying him to watch him embark.

I HAD BIDDEN HIM FAREWELL
and watched him as he went aboard. I felt a terrible sense of foreboding and could not stop thinking of my father. I tried to convince myself that William would return. I was determined to believe Mrs. Tanner's prophecy. The three crowns must be William's. But what of my father, my poor ineffectual father? I remembered hearing that my uncle Charles had once said to him: “James will not last more than three years after I have gone. The people will never get rid of me, for if they did, it would mean having James—and so I am safe.”

Another prophecy!

“Oh, God,” I prayed, “spare him. Let him go away quietly. Let him live in peace with his faith.”

William and my father. The triumph of one would be the humiliation and defeat of the other. And I must watch this happen to the two men who had been the most important in my life.

William embarked at Brill on the twenty-ninth day of October—not the best time of the year to cross the treacherous Channel. It was the season of gales and it was not surprising that as the fleet moved away from the coast it was caught up in one.

The wind increased. I was panic-stricken. I kept thinking of William's words. Had he a premonition? Then I heard that several of the ships had been damaged and the remains of the fleet was returning to port.

We heard news from England. The Dutch fleet had been destroyed. And where was William?

It transpired that these reports had been grossly exaggerated and I was overjoyed to receive a letter from William. He had been forced to return to Holland and had landed at Helvoetsluys. He said that he would leave again as soon as possible. The damage to the ships had not been as great as had at first been feared and they could be speedily repaired. He would see me before he sailed again.

Meanwhile my anxiety had affected me deeply and I had become quite ill. I could not sleep and was feverish. I hastily summoned a doctor who bled me.

They thought the relief of knowing that William was safe, and that I should see him soon, would help my recovery and I determined to be well enough to make the journey to Brill.

I arrived there on the tenth of November. The weather was dark and gloomy. William was ready to leave Helvoetsluys where he was to embark.

I heard that the road was bad and the weather uncertain, so I waited at Brill, fearing he might not be able to reach me.

With what joy I beheld him! He said his stay would be brief, but he had promised me that he would come to me before he sailed and he was determined to do so.

I embraced him, weeping, and for once he did not seem impatient. He talked of the coming invasion.

“I do not know what my reception will be,” he said. “They have now had time to prepare themselves. They will rejoice over our disaster in the storm. They have circulated rumors that our fleet has been destroyed. But by God's will we shall soon have a different tale to tell.”

How quickly those two hours we spent together passed. Afterward I tried to remember every word we had said, every look which had passed between us.

It was natural that William's mind should be on the great project which lay ahead and I was grateful that he had kept his promise to come back and see me.

Later that day I set out for The Hague, and in spite of the weather the people came out to cheer me as I rode along.

There I spent the next days waiting for news. When it came I could scarcely believe it to be true.

William had arrived safely and landed at Torbay. It was the fifth of November, an important anniversary—that of our wedding. I wondered if William remembered, but I expected his mind would be too engrossed in other matters. There was another anniversary to be remembered on that day. At home we had always celebrated the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. Significant dates, and this would be another.

There were none to prevent William's landing. He was welcomed by the Courtneys, one of the most important families in Devon, and given lodgings at their mansion.

Nothing happened for a few days and I was afraid that we might have been lulled into a sense of security and that the English army might suddenly appear.

It was never quite clear to me what happened at that time. Everything was so uncertain. There were many who deserted my father. He had been a great commander when he was young. He might have been so again. But I could imagine how disheartened he must have been, how saddened by the defection of those whom he thought were his friends.

I believe what would have hurt him most was Anne's siding with his enemies. It hurt me, though I had done the same. But I was married to William. Need Anne have been so cruel?

Churchill deserted and came to join William and Anne left London with Sarah Churchill.

So his two daughters, whom he had loved dearly, had deserted him when he most needed their support.

HOW MUCH MORE DISTURBING IT IS
to be away from the scene of action, desperately wondering what is happening, than to be in the midst of it. The imaginary disasters are often more alarming than the actuality. Reports were coming from England. The Dutch fleet had been wrecked, the Dutch army defeated, the Prince of Orange was a prisoner in the Tower. The Dutch had been victorious. The Prince had slain the King. Which was true? I asked myself. How could I know?

The strain was almost unbearable.

Constantly I thought of my father. What was he doing? How was he feeling? And William? What if those two came face to face?

When I prayed for William's success, I could see my father's reproachful eyes.

“Please God,” I prayed, “watch over him. Let him get quietly away where he can be safe and devote himself to his faith.”

At this time Anne Bentinck became very ill. She had been ailing for some time but now her malady had taken a turn for the worse.

Much as I distrusted the Villiers family, I had formed a friendship with Anne. I knew that she was her sister's confidante and that, since she had married Bentinck, she had enjoyed a closer relationship with William. That was inevitable, for William had used Bentinck's apartments as though they were his own and Bentinck was more often with William than with his own family. I liked Anne and although I could not altogether trust a Villiers I did respect her, and was very sorry to see her so ill.

When I went to see her I was horrified by the change in her.

The doctors had visited her, she told me.

“They will soon make you well,” I said.

Anne shook her head slowly. “No, Your Highness, I think this is the end.”

I was astounded. Anne was young. She had her life before her. The Bentinck marriage had been a happy one. It shocked me to hear her talk of dying.

“You are feeling sad. This is a sad time for all of us.”

“It is indeed. I wonder what is happening. I wish we could have some news.”

“You shall hear it as soon as it comes,” I promised her, and she thanked me.

I stayed with her for a while. To be with people gave me a respite from my continual imaginings of what was happening. I said I would call on her again and I added prayers for her recovery to those I said every day.

There was still no news. I heard that Anne's condition had worsened and went again to see her.

She looked pleased and grateful for my coming.

“It will not be long now,” she said, and I had to put my ear close to her lips to hear her.

“My lady . . . we . . . we have not always been to you as we should. You have been a good mistress to us. My sister and I . . .”

“Do not fret,” I said. “The doctors will be here soon. They will do something.”

She shook her head. “No . . . Forgive . . .”

“There is nothing for which I have to forgive you,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered. “My husband is with the Prince . . . always with the Prince . . .”

“It was a great friendship between them. Your husband would have given his life for him. The Prince never forgets that.”

She smiled. “The Prince must be served.”

“There is great friendship between them.”

“The Prince demands much from those who love him. My husband . . . he is like a slave to his master. He has little time for aught else. He is only allowed his freedom when the Prince is otherwise engaged. He is always expected to be there . . . on the spot. It is the way of the Prince.”

This long speech seemed to have exhausted her and she was silent for a while.

Then she went on: “My lady . . . my children . . . when I am gone . . . you will look to them.”

I said I would.

“They are young yet. If you could . . .”

“I will see that all is well,” I assured her. “You should not worry. Your husband will care for them. He is a good man. Anne, you were lucky . . .”

She nodded, smiling.

“Your promise,” she said. “Your forgiveness . . .”

“I give my promise,” I told her, “and forgive whatever there is to forgive.”

She smiled and her lips moved, but I could hear nothing.

I stayed with her, thinking of the day I had left England, a poor frightened child, in the company of the Villiers whom I did not much like.

There was not much time left for Anne. I was at her bedside with Lady Inchiquin and Madame Puisars and Elizabeth Villiers when she passed away.

We sat on either side of the bed, my husband's mistress and I. Elizabeth was deeply affected by Anne's death. They had been closer than any of the others and I was sure that they had shared confidences about Elizabeth's relationship with William.

Was that what Anne had meant when she had asked for forgiveness? Death is a very solemn state. I could not feel the same anger in the presence of my rival on this occasion as I should on any other. She was suffering the loss of her beloved sister and I could only feel sorrow for her.

IT WAS STILL DIFFICULT TO GET NEWS
. So far I understood that there had been no fighting and I was thankful for that; but I could not understand why this should be, grateful as I was for it.

My father's first thoughts had been for his family. Mary Beatrice and the baby had been sent away to safety. I heard they were in France. Anne was still in hiding with Sarah Churchill.

Thoughts of my father filled my mind but all the time I reminded myself that he had brought this on himself and but for him it need never have happened.

If my uncle Charles could see what was happening he would smile that sardonic smile of his and say “I was right. It happened as I said it would. Poor foolish sentimental James. This is no way to rule a country, brother.”

It was heartbreaking. Sometimes I thought it was more than I could bear.

Before December was out I heard that my father was in France. Deserted by his friends, his army depleted, there had been no alternative. But for one thing I was thankful. There had been little loss of life and scarcely any bloodshed.

And then . . . William was at St. James's. It seemed that the enterprise, so long talked of, planned with such care, undertaken with such trepidation, was over and more successful than we had hoped in our most optimistic dreams.

Dispatches came from William. They were not brought to me and I was bitterly hurt. There was no word to me personally from William. No tender display of affection. After our last meeting, I had told myself, there was a change in our relationship.

I understood later that he could not suppress his resentment of me. Although he had changed since Gilbert Burnet had told him that I would not stand in the way of his becoming king, now that he was in England, he heard the views of some of the ministers there and the question was raised again. I was the heiress to the throne, they pointed out, and because he was my husband, he was not king in his own right. So, the old resentment was back. William could not endure taking second place to a woman. That which he craved beyond all things, he was told, belonged to his wife and his power depended on her good will. So he sent official documents to Holland and no communication to me.