The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II (31 page)

“You are the Queen,” he said.

She will never give up Sarah Churchill.”

“Then she will be forced to. But explain to her. Talk to her. You are her sister.”

“It will be useless.”

“Try,” he said.

It was like a command.

IT WAS SOME TIME
since I had been to the Cockpit. When I did go, it was usually to see little William.

Anne received me with some surprise.

“This is an honor, Your Majesty,” she said with mock respect. “I wonder to what I owe it?”

“I trust you are well,” I said.

“As I see you are, sister,” replied Anne.

She was lying back in her chair, and every time I saw her I thought she had added to her weight. I suppose I had done so too, but always beside Anne I felt almost slender.

“I have come to see you on a very important matter,” I went on.

“I guessed that was so. You rarely see me now.”

“And dear little William?”

Anne's face softened. “He is adorable. He was in the park this morning, watching the soldiers. He saluted when they passed and they saluted him in return. He crowed with joy and you should have heard the people cheering.”

“He is very bright,” I said, and wished I could have gone on talking about the charm of our darling.

I said: “I have come to talk to you about Lady Marlborough.”

Anne looked a little startled—not exactly alert, but wary and less placid.

“I think it would be an advantage if she left your service.”

“Left my service! Sarah! Sarah has always been with me, right from the beginning. You remember those days when we were in Richmond . . . when we were little.”

“Yes, I remember, but it seems that it would be better now if you dispensed with her services.”

“Why?”

I could not tell her what had been discovered. I must wait until William had dealt with Marlborough. Then Anne would understand. Perhaps I should have waited for that.

“I am of the opinion,” Anne was saying coolly, “that I am the best person to judge who shall and who shall not be in my household.”

“You allow her to guide you. She is the mistress here . . . not you.”

“She never forgets that I am the Princess.”

“Mrs. Morley, Mrs. Freeman,” I reminded her.

“We always liked names. What about you and Frances Apsley?”

“We were young. This is different. Think of your position.”

“My position tells me that I should choose my own household.”

“It is obvious that that woman rules you. She gives herself airs such as I never saw before. She behaves as though she is the mistress.”

“Oh dear,” said Anne. “You are upsetting me. In my condition . . .”

She trailed off and watched me warily. Of course, she was
enceinte.
When was she not?

“The doctors said I should not excite myself,” she said plaintively. “They say I should rest more.”

“Rest more? How could you possibly do that? You are always resting. There would have to be more hours in the day for you to rest more.”

She took up her fan and feebly fanned herself.

“Oh dear,” she murmured.

I believed she was playacting, but I could not be sure, and as she had often attempted childbirth and the only result was little William, I dared not provoke her in any way.

I said to her: “Think about it.”

“I do not have to think about it,” she said. “Sarah is my greatest friend. I could not lose my greatest friend.”

“You have good friends. William and I have always been good friends to you.”

“Sarah has always been my greatest friend.”

“You are ungrateful.”

She looked at me coldly. “We could both be accused of that, could we not . . . by some?”

She had put on a pious look, and I was sure now that she had written to our father. I wondered if she knew of the grand plan to put her on the throne.

If so, it did not disturb her; she would remain in her chair resting, while she nibbled her sweetmeats and handed over the power to the Marlboroughs.

She must have seen the hopelessness in my face, for she said: “I will never give up Sarah.”

There was nothing more I could do.

I took my leave and went back to Kensington.

The next morning, when Marlborough presented himself at the palace to perform his duties as one of the Lords of the Bedchamber, Lord Nottingham drew him aside and informed him that his services at court would no longer be required.

THERE WAS CONSTERNATION
throughout the capital. The great Marlborough, dismissed from court, stripped of his appointments!

What could this mean?

The main theory was that he had been guilty of fraud. There had been occasional rumors that he had not been entirely scrupulous, and his love of money—as well as power—were well known.

I wondered what the reaction would have been if they had known he was suspected of conspiring against us and was in touch with my father.

It was all so distressing. I was filled with anxiety, and had been so ever since I became Queen.

I was anxious about William. If only he could win the people's affections. My uncle had had that quality in abundance; my father had had it to some degree. If only
he
had not become a Catholic . . . I was back to the old theme.

They were still talking about Glencoe and blaming William for it. William had doubtless acted carelessly, being at the time concerned with weightier matters. The fact was that he had signed that order hastily, without realizing what effect it would have. And the people were only too ready to lay the blame on him.

The Civil War in Scotland had continued even after the death of John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, known to his admirers as Bonnie Dundee. Some few months ago a proclamation had been issued to pardon all those who, by the end of the year, signed an oath to live peacefully under the government. MacIan of Glencoe, head of the MacDonald clan, went to Fort William to give the pledge, but finding there was no magistrate there, went on to give it at Inverary. It was a long journey; the roads were snowbound, and he did not get there until the sixth of January; and before he could sign the oath, the Campbells, the sworn enemies of the MacDonalds, taking advantage of the fact that the oath had not been signed, sent word to William that it would be right and proper, in the vindication of public justice, to extirpate that “set of thieves” who refused to obey the law. Knowing nothing of the reason for the delay in signing, William agreed and so gave his permission for the massacre of Glencoe, which was carried out in the most barbarous manner.

When this came to light through those who had escaped to tell the tale, William received as much of the blame as the bloodthirsty Campbells who had been responsible for the outrage. But, of course, the people seized on anything they could bring against a king they so much disliked.

The Marlborough scandal though was the topic which held everyone's attention, and there were unscrupulous people who sought to turn it to advantage. I remembered how Queen Catherine had suffered through Titus Oates and his popish plot, and Titus Oates had made a fortune out of it. He had lost it in the end, it was true, but people who make such plans believe that they will be wiser and will profit from the experience of those who have gone before.

People were now talking about a man named Robert Young. He had uncovered a conspiracy. He said there was a plot to kill the King and Queen and bring James back and leading men in the country were involved in this. He had news of a certain document which they had all signed and which was hidden in the house of one of the conspirators—Thomas Sprat, Bishop of Rochester.

If they would search his house, they would find the incriminating paper hidden in a flowerpot—the Bishop's hobby being gardening, this might not be as strange as it sounded.

It all seemed wildly incredible, but such accusations must be investigated and a search was made.

To the astonishment of all, the document Young described was found rolled up and hidden in a flowerpot. As Young said, it set out an intention to murder William and me and bring back my father. It was signed by a number of well-known men—among them Sprat himself, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Salisbsury, Lord Cornbury—and Marlborough.

I do not believe much credence would have been given to the authenticity of the plot, had William not been waiting for an opportunity to put Marlborough under arrest, and he seized on this.

Marlborough was in the Tower.

I could imagine the fury at the Cockpit. Sarah would be frantic and Anne would share her grief and anguish.

William declared that Anne could no longer shelter Lady Marlborough and she must leave the Cockpit at once.

I wrote to Anne. I told her she must let Sarah go. It was not fitting that the wife of a man who was now a prisoner in the Tower should be in her service.”

Anne replied: “Your Majesty must be sensible enough of the kindness I have for Lady Marlborough to know that a command from you to part with her is the greatest mortification in the world to me, and indeed of such nature as I might well have hoped your kindness to me would have always prevented. There is no misery which would be greater than that of parting with Lady Marlborough.”

I was exasperated when I read this letter, and, as William had said that if Lady Marlborough did not leave the Cockpit then Anne herself could not stay there, the task fell to me to tell her to depart.

Anne prepared then to leave and fortunately the Duchess of Somerset offered to lend her Sion House.

Little William was staying at Kensington at the time, which gave me great pleasure, but Anne ordered that her son leave Kensington at once and accompany her to Sion House. I was desolate and William was really angry. He sent a command to Sion House demanding that Lady Marlborough leave without delay.

Anne's obstinacy came into play. She would
not
give up Sarah. William was in a quandry. What could he do? Send guards to Sion House? Remove Sarah by force? How would Anne react to that? We all knew her stubborn nature, and with Sarah beside her, what mad act would she be capable of?

The people liked Anne. They loved the little Duke of Gloucester. Poor Anne, they would say. She cannot have whom she likes to attend her. The Dutchman must even decide on her servants. It could be a dangerous situation.

So it was allowed to pass, and Sarah stayed with Anne at Sion House.

THE PROPHECY

The mystery of what was called the flowerpot plot was solved without much difficulty. It proved to be preposterous and even more farcical than Titus Oates's popish plot.

The perpetrator, Robert Young, had modeled himself on the famous Oates. He was, when it started, in Newgate Jail on a charge of bigamy. He called himself a priest and had documents to prove it, but Robert Young had no difficulty in providing documents to prove anything, because he was an expert forger.

Therefore, to produce the incriminating evidence against some of the most important people in the country, all of whom could be suspected of antagonism toward William, presented no difficulty to him at all. It was fairly easy for him to see signatures of these men, and all he had to do was study them for a while and produce replicas.

He wrote the document, but it had to be found before it could be of any use.

Stephen Blackhead was a fellow prisoner with a grievance against the State. He had been set in the pillory and badly treated, for he had lost one of his ears. He wanted revenge—no matter on whom—on someone rich and famous, someone who had everything while he, poor Blackhead, had nothing.

He was a simpleton, Young knew, but he was all he could get. Blackhead had served his time and was at liberty. Therefore he could work for Robert Young, who could promise him rewards for his labor such as the poor man had never had before.

It was quite simple. All Blackhead had to do was to take a letter to the house of the Bishop of Rochester in Bromley. He had had instructions, he would say, to deliver it into the hands of the Bishop and no other. Young would also give him another paper which he must hide on his person and show to no one. If he did, there would be no money for him—only trouble. Everything depended on his doing exactly what Robert Young told him.

He would be put into a waiting room when he arrived and would certainly not be taken to the Bishop immediately. He must look around. The Bishop was noted for his interest in plants and there would be a great many of them in pots around his house.

While he was in the Bishop's residence, Blackhead must find some means of slipping the document into a flowerpot, making sure that it was well hidden. Then he would hand the letter to the Bishop and depart.

Blackhead was not very bright, but he did need the money badly, and Robert Young had hinted that this action of theirs would bring disgrace to some very highly placed people—and that appealed to him.

Strangely enough, up to a point the plot succeeded. The letter to the Bishop—written of course in Young's expert hand—was reputed to be from some nonexistent deacon of a faraway parish, and served its purpose, for the Bishop must have received many such letters—most of them left unanswered; and being left in a room which contained numerous flowerpots, Blackhead had no difficulty in disposing of the document.

When Young received word that it was safely in the Bishop's house, it was time to act.

He disclosed the fact that he had heard that there was a plot to assassinate the King and Queen and set James on the throne. He announced that the Bishop of Rochester was involved and that in his house they would find the incriminating document, signed by all the conspirators.

The search was made and nothing found, but Robert Young said he was certain the paper was there and he was given permission to join the searchers. He knew exactly of course into which flowerpot Blackhead had placed it.

He had to act with care, but he prided himself on being a very subtle man. He called attention to the displacement of the earth on one of the pots. He did not wish to discover the paper himself—only to lead someone else to do so.

And indeed there it was.

Thus, as a result, those who signed the document—including Marlborough—were taken to the Tower.

IT DID NOT SEEM POSSIBLE
that Anne could keep Sarah with her now. If Marlborough were found guilty of treason, it would be impossible for her to remain.

I received a letter from Anne.

I had heard the sad news of her confinement and had contemplated going to see her. She had given birth to a little daughter who, like so many of her predecessors, had died a few hours after she was born.

I was sorry for Anne and felt very miserable. How sad it all was! I had been happier in Holland.

William said we should have no communication with Anne until she dismissed Lady Marlborough, but I had to see her at such a time.

She lay in her bed and was clearly pleased that I had come.

“I am sorry,” I said.

She smiled wanly. “I feared it would be so,” she answered. “It seems ever so.”

“You have dear little William.”

“My treasure! But I fear for him. I watch him constantly.”

“He will stay well. There are many to care for him. There is good Mrs. Peck.”

Anne looked a little sullen and I guessed Sarah was bothering her about dismissing the woman.

“I have made the first step in coming to see you,” I reminded her. “I like not this trouble between us. It should not be. Nor would it but for Lady Marlborough. She must go now.”

“The charges against Lord Marlborough are false.”

“Who told you so? Lady Marlborough?”

She did not answer.

“You must take the next step,” I insisted. “You must send Lady Marlborough away.”

“I have never in my life disobeyed you except in one particular, and I believe in time that will seem as reasonable to Your Majesty as it does to me.”

“You mean to say that, in spite of everything, you will not let Lady Marlborough go?”

“I mean that,” said Anne, her lips set in the well-known stubborn line.

I went away very sorrowfully.

William was angry because I had been to see her and more so because I had been unable to persuade her.

Shortly afterward Anne's guards were sent away and she moved from Sion House to Berkeley House; and Sarah continued to stay with her.

Then, when Robert Young's documents were examined by experts, the signatures were proved to be forgeries; and Marlborough and his fellow prisoners were released from the Tower.

But William still suspected him of treachery.

MRS. PACK HAD LEFT ANNE'S SERVICE
by her own desire. Lady Derby, one of my trusted ladies, told me what had happened.

“It seems, Your Majesty,” she said, “that Lady Marlborough caught her actually reading the Princess's letters. She did not deny it. She said it was her duty to make sure there was no treachery against the Queen.”

“She had always been a faithful servant to me,” I said with gratification. “What happened then?”

“Lady Marlborough went straight to the Princess.”

“In triumph, of course.”

Lady Derby smiled in agreement.

“The Princess was very upset. She was thinking of the little Duke, of course. He dotes on Mrs. Pack and all know that it is for his sake that Lady Marlborough has had to endure her all this time. The Princess was most unhappy, for the woman's reading her correspondence was a very grave matter indeed. Mrs. Pack herself then asked for an audience and, before the Princess could speak—Your Majesty knows Mrs. Pack's way—she said she could no longer remain in the Princess's service.”

“The Princess must have been very relieved,” I said. “I suppose Mrs. Pack realized she could not stay after what she did had been discovered.”

“It may have been that she thought her usefulness was at an end. But, of course, there was the little Duke to be considered. Mrs. Pack said her health was not good. I think this may be the truth, because she would never tell a lie. However, she insisted on going. Lady Marlborough is delighted and the Princess, of course, is happy to please her friend.”

“And what of little William?”

“He has been strangely quiet about the matter and did not protest as he was expected to.”

“He is a strange child—so unusual. I have never known another child like him. There are times when I think he is wise beyond his years.”

There was something strange about the child. There were occasions when he spoke like a young man and then a few seconds later would become a child again.

The unusual qualities of the boy were brought home to me afresh by an astonishing story.

He was grave after the departure of Mrs. Pack, but he had not cried, and seemed to accept the story that she had to go away to Deptford for her health.

“She is not well,” he was reputed to have said. “I would not have her ill.”

In his grown-up way, he sent over to Deptford every day to inquire about her health.

He went about his daily life, giving a great deal of attention to his favorite game of soldiers. He had now several boys a year or so older than himself whom he called his “men.” His mother was so anxious to please him in every way and the boys were fitted out as soldiers in miniature uniforms and William took them to the park and exercised them. People used to come and watch. It was one of the most popular sights.

There he would command them—this little boy of four years or so—just like a general shouting orders as they marched to his direction.

I always felt there was something strange about him.

His head was long and there was a mature look in his eyes. Anne told me proudly that his hat was the same size as a man's. His face was oval, his hair, doubtless inherited from his father, very fair; and his complexion was a glowing pink and white. His body was well-made and seemed to be strong, but he had difficulty with some movements; he always needed a rail when he went up stairs, and help to get up if he had been sitting on a low stool. In addition to this, he had an air of extreme gravity which accompanied certain remarks so that they seemed more like those of an adult than a child.

So when I heard the story I was a little shaken, yet not altogether surprised.

Lady Derby said the whole court was talking about it.

“It is very strange, Your Majesty. But . . . how could he have known?”

I waited for an explanation and Lady Scarborough, who was also in attendance, said: “Your Majesty knows how fond he always was of Mrs. Pack.”

“Indeed I know.”

“They were all amazed at how calmly he took her departure. The Princess had expected him to refuse to allow her to go, and in that case, she would have had to remain.”

Lady Derby put in: “But he always sent every day to see how she was.”

“Yes, I heard that.”

“This is the strange part of it, Your Majesty. Two days ago, when the messenger, in accordance with the practice, was about to take the message to her, the Duke said he would not send that morning. Mrs. Wanner—Your Majesty may remember her, she was in his household—asked him why he did not send. He just looked past her, as though he were staring at nothing, and said, “There is no need. She will be dead before the messenger arrives there.”

“What a strange thing for a child to say!”

“Stranger still, Your Majesty, he was right. It transpired that Mrs. Pack had died.”

“He must have heard it.”

“No, Your Majesty. It seemed she died just at the moment he was speaking.”

“How could he have known?”

There was silence.

I was thinking of the little boy and Mrs. Pack. There had been a very special bond between them. I believed that without her he would never have survived.

He was indeed a very strange little boy.

I WAS UNWELL
and had been for some months. I think it was due to the strain of perpetual war, William's comings and goings, the burden of greater responsibilities taken up and then taken away. This was all having an effect on me. Sometimes I felt old and tired. I was only thirty years old and never free of remorse on account of my father.

I was beset by continual anxiety. Every time a messenger came I would tremble and wonder what ill news he brought. If only there had not been this coldness between my sister and myself. My great consolation was little William. He seemed to be the only one who could lift my spirits. He did visit me often, and I could always be brought out of my melancholy to smile at his droleries.

I looked back over the last months and thought of the torments I had suffered over the Grandval plot.

Grandval was a French officer who had been hired to assassinate William. Fortunately, his design had been discovered in time and he was arrested by the English.

At his trial it was revealed that, before he left Paris, he had had a meeting with my father and stepmother and that my father had told him that if he carried out his plan successfully, he, personally, would see that Grandval never wanted for anything as long as he lived.

So . . . while I could rejoice in William's escape, I was overcome with sadness because my father had given his blessing to this murderous plot.

It made me very weary of life.

I suffered from the ague, from heavy colds, from a weakness of the eyes and a swelling in the face. I longed for the war in Europe to be over; I wanted William to come home. Sometimes I felt myself drifting into fancy and believing that our troubles were over. William would come back a hero, the people would be cheering in the streets, my father would come home and announce that he realized he could never reign as a Catholic and it was right for William to take his place, William loved
me,
Elizabeth Villiers had married and gone far away and we all lived happily together. What a fantasy! What a dream! But dreams were useful at times when reality was hard to bear.