Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

Portland wished he had not shown petulant jealousy of young Keppel whom William had favored more and more since Elizabeth Villiers had asked for a place for the boy; William wished he had not often neglected Portland for the young page.

“I shall insist that you rest before going on. You must at least do that.”

“Dear Bentinck,” said William softly, “I shall insist that there be no delay. Do not grieve for my ailments. God, man, they have been with me all my life. When I was in my cradle they despaired of my life; but I kept it. Those who loved me have been despairing since while those who hate me have been hoping; but I’m not going yet. I have decided to stay alive.”

He leaned forward and touched Bentinck’s hand.

Again they looked at each other, defenses down. For as long as they lived there would be love between them. Bentinck knew it; William knew it.

It must be for a long time, prayed Bentinck.

Ulster was shouting its joy and relief.

He was a little man with a long hooked nose dominating a pale face; he was without personal attractiveness; he suffered from undignified illnesses; he was ungracious in manner; but when he was conducting a campaign he was a great leader; and these men who were so in need of inspiration saw in William that nobility which Mary had discovered and which had made her accept her marriage as an ideal one.

At Loughbrickland, William concentrated his troops; and from there they marched south with him at their head.

And they sang as they went; and their feet kept time with the music; and their eyes were on that small but inspiring figure on horseback whom they were certain could lead them to victory.

“Lilliburlero bullen a la!” they sang.

In battle he was intrepid; because his body had always served him ill he treated it to a certain amount of contempt. Death had no terror for him. Bentinck scolded that he took unnecessary risks; but he only shrugged his shoulders and continued to take them. He was not a man to enjoy life so wholeheartedly that he held it dear, he said; and he had not come to Ireland to let the grass grow under his feet; he was going to settle this matter once and for all.

He was growing more and more certain of success.

“They have some good Frenchmen on the other side,” he told Portland, “but they are few and the majority of James’s army are Irish who are untrained and too emotional. We’ll have them running never fear.”

By evening they had come to the River Boyne on the opposite bank of which Lauzun, the French commander, had taken up his stand. His position was strong; he had made entrenchments and he had the river between him and the enemy.

Schomberg was worried, believing that they should wait before attacking, but William wanted to go quickly ahead into battle.

They rested for the night and the next morning as William breakfasted on the bank some Irish sentries saw him, and guessing him to be an important personage fired at him and his party.

One man and two horses were killed. In dismay William’s friends closed about him but not before a shot had grazed his right shoulder blade.

Portland was beside him, white faced and trembling.

“My time has not yet come,” William assured him. “This must be dressed quickly, for I am in a hurry.”

The wound was dressed and when Portland anxiously inquired if it were painful William retorted: “I have suffered much pain in my life, I can endure a little more.”

“Postpone the battle. Rest awhile. Schomberg feels we should not go into action yet.”

“Battles are rarely won by postponement, Bentinck. We have the superior force. Let us use it now before the enemy have time to strengthen themselves.”

As soon as his wound was dressed he mounted his horse and for the rest of the day went about his affairs as though nothing had happened. He was determined that everything should be ready for battle the next day.

That evening at nine o’clock he called together his generals and there was a council of war. His plan was to cross the river the next day and attack. There was opposition but he overruled it, and as soon as day broke on that 1st of July Schomberg with Portland beside him made a crossing of the river and at Slane Bridge they found a regiment of Irish guards whom they quickly beat. Lauzun had placed his own countrymen at the Pass of Duleek to prevent the right wing of the English army making a crossing; so the left and center of the force had only to face Irish Catholics.

As William made the crossing he called to his men to remember they were fighting for the Protestant religion: and they plunged into fierce battle.

The Irish went down before them. Schomberg fell, fired at in mistake by one of his own men; but William fought on; and James, who was watching from the Hill of Donore began to understand that this son-in-law whom he disliked was one of the greatest generals of his day; and that though courtiers might turn shuddering from him, soldiers rallied to him and fought as they would only for a great leader.

“Your Majesty.” It was a voice at his elbow and he knew what would be said before the words were spoken.

“It is time?” asked James.

“There is not a moment to be lost,” was the answer. James turned away; he had lost the battle; now it remained to save his life.

His horse was waiting.

“To Dublin, Your Majesty.”

“To Dublin,” he repeated.

He took one last look at the battlefield. The bitter truth was becoming clearer with every moment.

The Battle of the Boyne would soon be over, with victory for the Orangemen.

It was more than a bloody battle; it could be the end of hope. William of Orange was in Ireland to drive out James II and he would not rest until he had done it.

The only hope now was help from France.

But first he must think of preserving his life.

Shrewsbury at her side; William victorious in the decisive battle of the Boyne; James fled to Dublin and to France!

“Thank God,” prayed Mary, “he is safe. Thank God they are both safe.” If her father would stay in France and live there peacefully; if William would come and take over the task of troublesome government. But that would come, for the tide had changed.

William was no longer in danger from battle; but what of his health? Portland was there to look after him and she trusted Portland to do that well, although often she had been hurt because he had seemed to think it was a duty better performed by him than a wife.

Torrington had been recalled to face eventual court-martial and there was the task of appointing a new Admiral which no one was going to agree about. Perhaps the greatest piece of good luck of all was the stupidity of the French who, after the Battle of Beachy Head, having England at their mercy, could have landed and did not. Marlborough would have done his best to deal with them when they did, but the pick of the army was in Ireland and even the brilliant generalship of Marlborough could not achieve success without soldiers.

Invasion of England had always terrified the foreigner; it was believed to be well-nigh impossible, because the English had special protection from Providence; they had never been invaded. Somewhere deep down in the heart of every invading force was the fear that it never would be.

The French Admiral Tourville procrastinated. Anchored off Torbay he sent a small experimental force to Teignmouth. The little village was sacked and from his flagship, Tourville contemplated the flames with satisfaction. There were many Catholics in England, and he imagined that now he was at hand they would be ready to rise against the new rulers and stand for James, and make his landing easy.

But his soldiers had burned the church, and the men of Devon, shocked that their navy had failed to protect them, were incensed because an enemy had dared set foot on their land.

All other grievances were forgotten. If foreigners were attempting to land in England there was only one enemy. Whether James or William and Mary should rule was a matter to be settled internally. But foreigners must always be shown that England belonged to the English and no hostile foot should ever be allowed to set itself there unbidden.

Never mind the “Squeezing of the Orange” or drinking to the King over the Water now. It was: Curse the invader. We’ll show him what he can expect if he sets foot on Devon shores!

The whole of the West Country was rising against the Frenchmen. Bonfires were seen along the coast; the men of the West were ready and waiting.

It was true, Tourville realized; they were unbeatable. A small success at sea did not mean that the land could be conquered.

He had had that success; was it going to be forgotten in the ignoble failure of attempting the impossible?

Tourville was certain there was only one action to take; he took it and sailed back to France.

It was imperative that Torrington should be dismissed his command, and two names were put forward as his successors. These were Sir John Ashby and Sir Richard Haddock, both excellent men of wide experience and well capable of taking command of the Navy.

Mary had believed that the affair could be quickly settled, but she had forgotten the jealousy of those about her. The Admiralty was incensed because it had not been consulted. Why should the Cabinet decide who should command the Navy? Was it not the prerogative of the Admiralty?

The Cabinet said that they, with the Admiralty, should discuss the matter, but the Admiralty wanted no easy solution. The Queen had discussed the matter originally with the Cabinet; so why, when the Admiralty was represented, should she be absent?

Mary, angered by the pettiness of all this, refused to see them and Lord Lincoln, one of the Privy councillors, came bursting into her apartment, acting, as she said, like a madman, shouting at her, demanding this and that. She ordered him out; but weary of the ridiculous conflict agreed to make an appearance at the meeting.

It was a stormy meeting. The Admiralty rejected Haddock and Ashby, not on their merits, for they could find no fault with their records, but simply because they had been chosen by the Cabinet.

It was Russell who suggested that the two men should share the responsibility with a third man of quality whom they could all trust. The Earl of Shrewsbury was now recovered in health and he was a man of whom they all had a high opinion.

This pleased Mary, for if Shrewsbury held a high command she would feel that she had someone in an important place on whom she could rely.

Her suggestion was that Haddock and Ashby be given command and that William should name a man of his choice to stand with them. She was certain that William would choose Shrewsbury for he had been as sorry as she was when the Earl had retired from public life.

Sir Thomas Lee answered her curtly that he and his Commission would make the choice. “We refuse,” he added, “to accept Haddock.”

“It would seem,” said Mary, who was always stung to action by any criticism of William, “that the King has given away his power and cannot make an Admiral whom the Admiralty do not like.”

“No,” snapped Lee. “He cannot.”

The entire company was shocked by this outburst and Danby immediately closed the meeting.

Danby now showed his strength and advised that if the Queen insisted on the nomination of Haddock who was the best man for the job, her ministers would see that her commands were obeyed.

“Your Majesty,” pointed out Danby, “not one criticism have they been able to raise against Haddock. Their only reason for refusing him is that they did not choose him.”

Mary replied: “I am very angry with Lee—at the manner in which he spoke of the King. I have rarely been so angry. Yes, Haddock shall be appointed and Ashby with him.”

The Admiralty, themselves shocked by Lee’s outburst, now saw that they would have to accept Haddock and Ashby; and the names which were put forward as the man of quality who should assist them were four in all: Shrewsbury, Russell, the Duke of Grafton, and Henry Killigrew.

Russell would not leave the Cabinet, so it was a choice between the other three. Grafton had a reputation as a sadist and seamen would not wish to serve under him. Henry Killigrew was suspected of being a Jacobite, and Shrewsbury was the Queen’s man.

The Admiralty preferred to choose Killigrew; and with Ashby and Haddock he was given command.

Shrewsbury, who had hoped to receive the command immediately became ill when he had heard that it had been given to Killigrew.

He came to the Queen—his face set into lines of resignation.

“I came out of my retirement too quickly,” he told her. “I fear I must go at once to Tunbridge Wells.”

Mary was desolate; but clearly the charming Earl must consider his health.

This was a time of waiting for Sarah—always so irksome. John was in England and for that she was thankful. How she enjoyed those occasions when they could be alone together, planning, always planning for the grand future which lay ahead. He did not always agree with her and there were frequent quarrels, but he was as ambitous as she was, and they were working toward the same goal, although they did not always want to take the same road. He told her that she was too domineering, that she made too many enemies; she retorted that he wasted time on attempted diplomacy. But they always made up their quarrels; they knew they were bound together for the glory of the Marlboroughs. If he could get command of the Army and she could get command of the Queen—which Anne would be one day—they would be for all important purposes King and Queen of England. It was a wonderfully exhilarating prospect and worth a lifetime’s plotting, planning, and occasional disagreements.

Marlborough was almost hoping for an invasion of England that would give him an opportunity to show his skill. He had hoped that it might happen because there had been rebellions in Deal and Rye, and as far north as Berwick. Scotland was always suspected of being firmly behind the Stuarts and therefore for James against William. But French folly in making the hit and run attack on Teignmouth had quelled all thoughts of rebellion against William and Mary because of a need to stand against England’s enemy: France.

They must wait in patience, said Marlborough; but patience was not one of Sarah’s virtues.

She looked about for some light diversion and found one.

She was playing cards with Anne and a few of the Princess’s women when they began to discuss the effects of the victory in Ireland.

Sarah commented that this would probably mean that there were estates in Ireland which would come to the King’s faithful supporters. Then she noticed that Lady Fitzharding was looking a little smug.

Sarah could guess what this meant.

It was an astonishing thing that Elizabeth Villiers should have received so little from the King. She supposed it was because he hoped to keep his relationship with her secret. What a fool Elizabeth was not to feather her nest while she had the chance. Little Hook-Nose was not going to last forever, and if she could believe her spies, which she could for they would not dare deceive her, he was spitting blood. And what would Elizabeth Villiers have when he was gone? Would Queen Mary offer a pension to the lady who had served her husband so well?

Sarah snorted with amusement.

Impatiently she played her cards, bringing the game to an early end; then she sought an opportunity of cornering Barbara Fitzharding.

“It would not surprise me,” she said, “if your sister did well out of this Irish business.”

Barbara’s lips closed quite perceptibly tighter.

Does she think I’m blind! thought Sarah.

“Well,” said Sarah, “have you lost your tongue?”

“His Majesty has not taken me into his confidence,” replied Barbara.

“I didn’t think His Majesty had. But it’s no use pretending your sister isn’t his mistress when we all know it. I think she’d be a fool not to get what she can out of Ireland and I don’t think she’s all that much of a fool.”

“I agree with you on that. I do not think my sister is a fool either.”

“She will be rich in a short time. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Earl of Portland has his picking.”

“It may well be,” answered Barbara.

May well be! thought Sarah. It is.

She told Anne about this. “It is quite funny. That Dutch Abortion. Such a clever general, my dear! Why wasn’t Marlborough sent to Ireland? He would have settled them long ere this. No, Caliban must go! He must be the great hero.”

“They say he is a great soldier.”

“Great soldier indeed. Ha! Great soldier and great lover! Do you know he has the Irish estates to dispose of now? He is going to shower them on … whom do you think? Two guesses, Mrs. Morley. I should have thought he was neuter. But he teeters half one way half the other. There is Betty Squint-Eye on one side and his dear Bentinck on the other, with Keppel waiting for his turn. It will be pickings for Betty and Bentinck.”

“My sister will not be pleased,” said Anne.

“They hope to keep it secret from her. I think she should be told. After all, think to what good use she could put the Irish estates.”

Mary sat alone in her apartment weeping.

Life was too difficult. There had been the dreadful affair of Torrington and the disaster of Beachy Head; then all the trouble over Haddock and Ashby and she knew Killigrew was a most unwise choice; dear Shrewsbury had become so ill over the matter that he had retired to Tunbridge Wells; she had been frantic with worry as to what was happening to William in Ireland; and when she had visited her dear little nephew for solace, her sister Anne had been there and had hinted that William was going to bestow Irish estates on Elizabeth Villiers.

Often she was able to dismiss that woman from her mind. It is not so, she had told herself. It used to be, but it is no longer. But for all that, she knew that Elizabeth continued as his mistress.

Why? she demanded. Why?

William was not a sensual man like her uncle Charles and her father. Women were essential to them—not so to William. Why then could he not be contented with his wife?

She understood his affection for Portland. She herself had once loved Frances Apsley better than anyone else in the world; it was for this reason that she no longer saw her; she did not want to be tempted again into passionate friendship with a woman.

She accepted Portland’s influence with William. She could tell herself that it was good for a man to have ministers whose fidelity he could rely on.

But Elizabeth Villiers was his mistress and while he was in Ireland he was thinking of her.

She would not allow it. She was after all the Queen and should have some say in matters.

She thought of gentle Shrewsbury and she wondered whether he would have been a faithful husband.

What an extraordinary idea! Her thoughts then skipped to the visit of Monmouth to The Hague. How they had danced and skated together, and if Monmouth had not been so devotedly attached to Henrietta Wentworth at that time and she married to William, there might have been gossip about them. Perhaps there had been, for who knew where gossip was? Did William know how there were always men and women to discuss his relationship with … that woman.

She took up her pen and wrote:

You will have Irish estates of which to dispose. I believe it would be an excellent idea to set up schools on these estates and instruct the Irish. If you will give me leave I must tell you I think that your wonderful success and deliverance should oblige you to think of doing what you can for the advancement of the true religion and the promoting of the Gospel …

She reread what she had written. Would he be angry that she sought to dictate to him. She wanted to cry out: “This you must do and not shower such gifts on your mistress while all London, all the Court, all the country titters behind your back.

“I will not endure it,” she said aloud.

But she knew that when she was face to face with him she would do exactly as he wished.

He would be home soon. Her great plan now was to have Kensington Palace ready for him. In her frequent letters she had told him how progress was going on and she knew that he would consider her very incompetent if it were not ready for him to take up residence when he arrived.

But there was so much to be done; she looked with dismay at the apartments not yet painted. Every day she was at Kensington urging the workmen to work faster, while at the same time they made sure that all the skill of their craft was put into practice.

“The King’s homecoming will be spoilt if Kensington Palace is not ready for him,” she complained.

She herself was planning the gardens with feverish activity. She longed for William’s return and yet at the same time she was terrified that he would come too soon.

She was at Kensington when the news of fresh trouble reached her. The Jacobites were rising in Scotland.

The pleasant trips to Kensington were over; now it was no longer a matter of, Will it be finished in time? It was And who are these Scottish traitors?

There were Scotsmen in London and the Scottish songs were sung in the streets.

Ken ye the rhyme to porringer?

Ken ye the rhyme to porringer?

King James the Seventh had a daughter

And he gave her to an Oranger.

Ken ye how he requited him?

Ken ye how he requited him?

The dog has into England come

And taken the crown in spite of him.

The rogue he shall nae keep it lang

To budge we’ll make him fain again

We’ll hang him high upon a tree

King James shall hae his ain again!

Was there to be no end to it? Would there always be the “Jacks” lurking behind every corner? And how could she sleep peacefully at night when she heard threats against William?

There was a scare when a man and woman were overheard in Birdcage Walk plotting her assassination. The woman was thought to be Catherine Sedley, although there was no real evidence of this. The Queen was guarded but no attempt was made on her life; and the rebellion in Scotland was ended by the capture of the ringleaders. Catherine Sedley was involved with them, but Mary could not allow her to be punished very severely for, after all, had she not been James’s mistress and she must have had some affection for him. How difficult it was to punish those men whose crime was that they were loyal to her own father?

Several of them were in the Tower. She did not want to think of them. How she longed to be back in Holland, tending her gardens, living quietly, peacefully. How she wished that she had never been drawn into this conflict between her father and husband.

Each day she rose wondering what new crisis would be brought to light. She had always been one to form habits and her days ran to a pattern; she awoke at six, had tea brought to her and worked at her papers until eight when she went to prayers; then she worked again through the day until evening when if there were no public engagements she relaxed at her favorite cards; she rarely went to bed before two of the morning. Each day she wrote to William; she had always been a great letter writer and she found it so much easier to write to him than to talk to him.

She had had no reply to her letter about the Irish estates, but William was no letter writer. He was a soldier with serious business to occupy his time; and she, good ruler though she had proved herself to be, was first of all an emotional woman.

Her success as a ruler would have meant nothing to her if William’s campaign had been a failure. She was constantly turning attention from her own achievements to point to his. If the people cheered William, which they never did, that would have given her greater pleasure than their cheers for herself. She longed for the people to appreciate him, to understand why he had taken the crown. It was not for his own glory, she would have them understand; it was to save England for Protestantism.

He would soon be home now. She had heard that he was on the way.

She drove home from Kensington where she had been to see how the building was progressing and there was an anxious frown between her eyes. It would not be ready—she was certain of it now—and he would be very disappointed.

I should have made sure, she scolded herself.

As her coach had turned into the courtyard, the horses shied suddenly; they reared and plunged … onto the statue of James II.

Her hand on her throat, she alighted. She stood for a moment staring at the remnants of her father’s image, which her coach had destroyed. She was shivering, seeing in everything that happened a symbol.

William was home, and as Kensington Palace was not ready the meeting took place at Hampton Court.

She smiled at him, her face illumined with great joy.

The bells were ringing and the people were giving him a welcome. He was uncouth and Dutch with a hooked nose and crooked back, but he was a conqueror for all that. He took Mary’s hand and managed to smile at her. She had done well and her letters with their adulation and deep sincerity had been a comfort to him. He had molded her until she had almost become the wife he wanted; and he was well pleased.

“You see me in a very happy condition,” she told him. “You are home and well. The people know you for the leader you are and that makes me rejoice.”

He answered: “You have done well in my absence.”

His mouth twitched a little at the corners. She had shown herself capable of ruling. She would have increased her popularity. Were the people going to wish that she was the sole Sovereign? Would they say now that they could well dispense with him?

She said: “I shall now be rid of all the troublesome business I was so little fit for.”

“You showed yourself fit,” he told her.

“Perhaps I wished to please you and I always said to myself, ‘What would he do?’ ”

Again that half smile. He was well pleased.

She could not show him a completed Kensington Palace, but she could assure him that she was his devoted docile wife.

It was a happy homecoming.

MARLBOROUGH’S DEFEAT

t was impossible for Marlborough to advance his fortunes in England; and he had no intention of wasting time.

Life was too short, he explained to Sarah.

They took a few days from Court to be together with their family. Henrietta the eldest was now nine years old, and John, four, was the pride of them both. There was also another boy—little Charles. Sarah had great plans for her four daughters; but for her boys she wanted the whole world.

Exciting days. She wished that they could have been longer. Each one was filled to the last minute with the mingling joys of family life and dreaming dreams—practical dreams. Sarah was always practical.

“A successful campaign in Ireland,” Marlborough whispered to her, “and I’ll have the command of the Army.”

“Dutch William wants all the glory, don’t forget.”

“He has his kingdoms to rule.”

“He prefers to lead his armies. Why if he had had the sense to send you to the Boyne the Irish troubles would be all over now.”

Marlborough smiled at her affectionately.

She went on: “He’s spitting blood and I can’t believe he’s much longer for this world. As for Mary, she grows fatter every day and looks well. I would to God she would go back to Holland with him and leave the place free for Anne.”

“You always want to move too fast.”

“And you, my lord, are too slow.”

“They do say that the more haste often means less speed.”

“Nonsense. I continually move fast. I have Anne exactly as I want her. She cannot bear me out of her sight. As soon as Gloucester’s a little older I’m going to get John to Court. He shall be Gloucester’s companion as I was Anne’s. You can’t start too young.”

He laid his hand over hers. “As I said before, be careful.”

She threw him off impatiently. “John Churchill, I know what I am doing. I trust you do.”

They understood each other. They were close; she was dynamic, so it was natural that sometimes she bubbled over with the emotion of the moment; he believed in diplomacy; he had been born with a natural charm which it would have been a sin not to use. Sarah had no such charm; she was impatient of subterfuge. She believed in saying what she meant—although she would not tolerate others being so frank to her.

They were convinced that they would succeed.

But events did not work out quite as they had hoped.

The Cabinet did not wish Marlborough to go to Ireland, but William did; therefore the King persuaded the Cabinet of the wisdom of the move. But, thought William, who was Marlborough? He was a good soldier, but so far he had done little. But for the fact that he had a forceful wife—an obnoxious woman whom he, William, personally disliked intensely and would have preferred to banish from Court—who had bullied the Princess Anne into giving her rich gifts, where would he be? There was a great deal of noise around the Marlboroughs, but what had they done?

Still, William had an instinct where soldiers were concerned and he believed Marlborough to have talent. Moreover, he had come over to his side at the beginning of the revolution and such an action was worthy of a reward.

So Marlborough was allowed to go to Ireland—not with English soldiers trained by himself but with a company made up of Danes, Huguenots, and Dutchmen. This was the first disappointment for Marlborough. The second was that he was placed under the Duke of Württemberg instead of in supreme command. This was a terrible blow which made Sarah almost dance with fury. But Marlborough exercised his diplomacy, was ingratiating to Württemberg, who very shortly was ready enough to hand over the command to this able general.

The result was great victory, all due to Marlborough. He was fighting his brother-in-law the Duke of Tyrconnel, who was the second husband of Sarah’s sister Frances; and so successful was he that Tyrconnel was forced to escape to France. His place was taken by the Duke of Berwick who was the son of his sister Arabella. He won the towns of Cork and Kinsale; and then returned to England.

He was certain now—and so was Sarah—that having served so brilliantly William must reward him—perhaps make him a Duke, perhaps give him some high office at Court.

William received him graciously. He even congratulated him on his success.

“I never knew one who has seen such little service so fit for great commands,” he said.

A good compliment coming from William. But surely he did not think Marlborough could be rewarded by words.

As the weeks passed it seemed that he did.

“We shall not endure such treatment … indefinitely,” said Sarah ominously.

Since the Battle of the Boyne and Marlborough’s southern campaign, Ireland was no longer a major menace; but the French who were sheltering his enemies were a continual threat to peace and William decided that he must go to Holland and take his place as commander of the forces engaged there; and Marlborough, having proved his worth in Ireland, should go with him.

“This is another chance,” Marlborough told his wife.

“If this does not bear fruit,” she said, “we must then consider new plans.”

Marlborough was inclined to agree with her.

She told him that Prince George had almost been in tears over the King’s treatment of him. Anne had told her how upset he was and how unfair he thought his brother-in-law.

“He treats him like a lackey,” said Sarah. “Of course we all know he is no better than a lackey, but Caliban might show a little civility. After all, George does happen to be the husband of the Princess Anne. She says he is treated as though he were no better than a page of the backstairs.”

“William should be more careful,” agreed Marlborough. “He hasn’t too many friends. He should be more diplomatic.”

“As you are, my love?”

“It worked with Württemberg.”

“It would never work with William, my dear. He has not your handsome countenance, your soft voice, and your charm of manner. William could never be anything but what he is—however much he tried. Hooky Nose is a Dutch abortion and I cannot see how Elizabeth Villiers endures him for the silly creature gets little for her pains.”

“And George?” asked Marlborough, for she had raised her voice and he was always afraid that her vituperations against William would be overheard.

“He does not want to go to Flanders with William, to be treated like a page of the backstairs. He wants to go to sea and he is going to ask William’s leave to do so.”

“He won’t grant it.”

“So much the better,” snapped Sarah. “Then there will be a big fat quarrel between our sisters. Now, my lord, do not look alarmed. What if anyone did overhear me.”

“They might tell Anne how you speak of them all.”

“Pah!” cried Sarah. “They are a fine family, the lot of them.” She laughed aloud and began to quote one of the Jacobite couplets.

There’s Mary the daughter, there’s Willy the cheater,

There’s Geordie the drinker, and Annie the eater.

“Now don’t fret my lord. Why if anyone carried tales of me to Annie the Eater I’d have it all explained away in a minute and have her falling on her knees to ask my pardon for having suspected me.”

“It’s never wise,” he warned her, “to be too sure.”

But she only laughed at him, and told him that he kept his boldness for battles. He should be more like his loving wife. Bold and adventurous every minute of her life.

William, on the point of leaving for Holland, came to the Queen’s apartment for a private word with her.

“George has a notion that he wants to go to sea,” he said. He gave a snort which was meant to be an expression of derision. “George!” he said. “We should soon be having another court-martial like that of Torrington.”

“Oh, William, what are you going to tell him?”

“I refuse to discuss the matter with him. You must prevent his going.”

“You mean, William, that I must forbid George to go to sea?”

“I should try to arrange it more diplomatically, if I were you.”

“But if he wishes to go?”

“I have said he is not to go.”

“Then I …”

“You will use methods of persuasion. If they fail, of course you will have to forbid him.”

“It is going to be very difficult.”

“You are the Queen,” said William. “In my absence you take sole command.”

“William, if you could explain to him.”

William did not answer. It was an indelicate task, he agreed; and therefore one more suited to a woman’s skill.

There was one thing he must insist on: George was not to go to sea.

The expedition had left for Holland and Mary was once more sole ruler.

An idea had come to her that if Anne would persuade George that she wanted him to be with her, for she was as usual pregnant, he would abandon the idea of going to sea. As it was he was going ahead with preparations, for when he had said good-bye to William he had mentioned the matter. William had not answered but had merely said good-bye and George had taken that for consent. Unfortunately she was not on good terms with Anne so she could not approach her; then she thought of Sarah and summoned her.

Sarah was astonished for she knew that the Queen disliked her and had even tried to break up her friendship with Anne. She was therefore very excited when the message came.

The Queen was affable.

“Pray be seated, Lady Marlborough. I want you to help me.”

“If it is in my power, I will,” said Sarah with a trace of arrogance. “I want you to ask the Princess to prevent the Prince from going to sea.”

Sarah opened her eyes very wide. “Am I to tell her that Your Majesty does not wish him to go?”

“I do not want you to mention me, but to persuade the Princess to keep her husband at home.”

“Not mention to the Princess why I make the suggestion?”

“That is what I ask.”

This was power! thought Sarah. The Queen was actually asking her to persuade Anne to do this. Indeed she was recognized even by her greatest enemies as an influence at Court.

“Your Majesty,” she said haughtily, “I will ask the Princess to persuade her husband to stay at home.”

“Thank you,” said Mary, hardly able to hide her dislike.

“But,” went on Sarah, her voice rising triumphantly, “I could not hide from her the fact that you had asked this of me.”

“You mean you refuse to do what I ask?”

“Your Majesty, I am in the service of the Princess Anne. I could not reconcile my honor to doing this—unless I could tell her that I did so on Your Majesty’s orders.”

The Queen rose to indicate the audience was over.

“You may leave, Lady Marlborough.”

Sarah swept a curtsey. “Thank you, Your Majesty. You understand that …”

But the Queen had turned away.

To be in the company of that woman was an alarming experience! There was venom in her flashing eyes. Would to God there was some means of dismissing Sarah Churchill from the court! thought Mary. What a fool I was to betray myself to her. What is she plotting? What does she say to Anne when they sit together? Anne is her slave, her creature. Cannot Anne see how the woman uses her? She is capable of anything. What does she want? To see Anne on the throne? That is it, so that she can be the Queen in truth. She will say “Do this” and “Do that” and my silly sister will do it.

What a state of affairs! There is a serpent at our Court who is watching and waiting to destroy us. What will she do now? Of course she is planning to take the crown from William and from me … as we took it from my father.

Was it true that when such a wrongful act was committed, others planned to imitate it?

There was nothing to be done now but to summon Nottingham. He was to carry the news to George. He must tell him that there would be no sea campaign for him because it was against the orders of the King and Queen.

Sarah went straight to Anne.

“The impudence! Oh, my dear Mrs. Morley and poor, poor, Mr. Morley!”

“Dear Mrs. Freeman tell me what has happened.”

Sarah told.

“Oh, the wickedness, the slyness of it! ‘Lady Marlborough, I wish you to persuade the Princess to persuade her husband … and not a word that you do so because I have asked you.’ What do you think of it!”

“They exclude us from everything. Poor George, he did so want to go to sea.”

“So he will not be allowed to. Caliban wants all the credit.”

“And to think that the Queen should try to make you work against me.”

“That would always be in vain.”

“I know it. I know it.”

George came into the apartment, his face bewildered like a child’s who has been ordered to stop a favorite game.

“Est-il possible?” he murmured. “Est-il possible?”

Marlborough had no opportunity of distinguishing himself in Holland and on the return to England expressed his dissatisfaction to Sarah.

“We are not moving forward,” he said.

“I am glad you realize it,” she retorted. “Great names are not made by marking time.”

“Well, my love, we will look out for our opportunities, and when they come I am sure we can trust ourselves to seize them.”

But Sarah was going to make opportunities, not wait for them.

“Is it not a strange thing,” she said to Anne as they sat together one day, “that those who serve this King and Queen are not rewarded if they happen to be English.”

Anne agreed as she always did with Sarah.

“Poor Mr. Morley longed to serve his country,” went on Sarah, “but no! He is not allowed to.” Sarah slid over the fact that he was not an Englishman and went on quickly: “And Mr. Freeman. I am sure Mrs. Morley will agree with me that there is not a man in this country who has done as much for it as Mr. Freeman.”

“He is a great soldier and I know you are proud of him and he of you, which pleases me, for I like well to see those I love appreciated.”

“Dear Mrs. Morley, what should I do without your sympathy? I had thought that after his services Mr. Freeman would have received some decoration. He is worthy of the Garter. But my poor Freeman is too modest to think of these things. I declare he is like Morley in that. So we, my dear Mrs. Morley, must think for them.”

“What would they do without us to think for them!” sighed Anne, smiling.

“If I could see Freeman wearing the Garter I think I should be the happiest woman alive.”

Sarah glanced sideways at Anne. It had worked. A conspiratorial expression had flitted across the plump highly colored face. Anne was going to see what she could do about procuring a Garter for Mr. Freeman.

“The Garter for Marlborough!” said William. “They’ll be asking for the crown next.”

Mary shivered. That was what she feared. There were so many Jacobite plots. One never knew where they were going to spring up next; and prisoners when questioned told strange stories. She was certain that the Marlboroughs were not to be trusted. They had betrayed James and people who betray once will do so again. Mary’s nightmare was that they rose and deposed William. It would break his heart if that happened. He always seemed so indifferent to the three crowns of England, Scotland, and Ireland but this was not so. He believed that in possessing them he fulfilled a destiny which he had known was his ever since the midwife at his birth had seen three circles about his head which were believed to signify a prophecy that he would one day inherit three crowns.

“Anne is very eager to get a Garter for Marlborough,” said Mary.

William frowned. “They do what they will with her. They have bewitched her.”

“It is that woman.”

“The sooner Anne rids herself of Sarah Churchill the better.”

“She never will.”

“No, I’ve aways said that the most stupid woman in England is your sister.”

“Poor Anne!”

“Not poor in worldly goods, only in mental equipment,” growled William. “And I’d as lief decorate one of your dogs with a Garter as Marlborough. So that’s an end of it.”

But it was not the end, for now Marlborough was agreeing with Sarah that little would be achieved under William.

His services were unrewarded. William did not believe it was necessary to consider him. Very well, he would show William.

In the first place he had great influence in the army. He had good looks and great charm of manner. He was also a first-class soldier and a born leader of men. Therefore what he said carried weight.

He began to point out how extraordinary it was that so many high posts in the Army were held by foreigners. One would have thought it was a foreign army. Of course the King was a Dutchman. That was the reason why favors were always given to the Dutch, and the English passed over.

Sidney Godolphin, Earl of Godolphin, who was a friend of the Marlboroughs, became aware of what was happening. Godolphin, a brilliant statesman and a Tory, had voted for a Regency at the time of the Revolution and was by no means satisfied when William and Mary were made King and Queen.

He sought out Marlborough and when he invited him to walk in the park, Marlborough guessed that something was going to be said that was too dangerous to be mentioned inside four walls.

Godolphin said: “You’re dissatisfied with the manner in which affairs are being conducted and I understand why.”

“I am a soldier,” said Marlborough, “I do not care to see the Army in the hands of foreigners.”

“It is inevitable when we have a Dutchman for a king.”

“What is, must perforce be borne, I dare swear.”

“Unless it were changed.”

Marlborough was alert; this was what he had expected.

“I never believed that they should have taken the crown,” went on Godolphin. “Had there been a Regency we might have made some compromise. James might have been made to accept certain conditions and return. In fact I am sure he would.”

“It would have been preferable to this.”

“I believe so.”

“Alas, it is too late.” There was almost a question in the remark.

“Some of the old King’s friends are still in touch with him.”

Marlborough’s cool brain was rapidly weighing up the possibilities. Men like Godolphin were in this. Then it had a good chance of success.

“I have often felt contrite,” he said, “because of the way I acted.”

“James would be ready to forgive, if forgiveness were asked.”

They were silent for a while. Godolphin was waiting for Marlborough to speak and when he did he said what he expected him to.

The Marlboroughs’ policy had always been that where they went, the Princess Anne must follow, for their fortunes were inextricably bound up with hers.

Marlborough was writing to James, asking forgiveness for the part he had played, hinting that he would be ready to bring down the regime he had helped put up, assuring James that he would persuade his daughter Anne that she had been an undutiful daughter.

The task of persuading was, of course, Sarah’s, and Sarah accomplished it with speed. When she had a definite project Sarah was happy and this was not a plan to bring back James, but merely to depose William and Mary. They wanted no Catholic monarch; therefore with the Dutchman out of the way, and his wife with him, for she would not reign without him, it would be Anne’s turn.

When Sarah came to her mistress’s apartments the cards were laid out. Sarah sat impatiently drumming her fingers on the table.

She had already spoken to Anne and she was sure the Princess was now ready. She hated William; she disliked Mary; and she was ready to wish she had been a better daughter. Once she had put her intentions in writing, the matter would be sealed.

Cards! thought Sarah impatiently. What a preoccupation when there was life to be lived! Not that Sarah did not enjoy a game of cards. They were her favorite recreation, for she had never had much patience with books. “Prithee do not talk to me of books,” was a favorite remark of hers. “I know only men and cards.” It had not occurred to her that had she looked into books she might have learned some invaluable lessons; she might have been able to see herself in relationship to others; but Sarah could not do this—it was her great fault. She could only see herself as a giant in a world of pygmies, and, as John often feared, this could be her downfall.

She played the game with a careless abandon which was not lost on Lady Fitzharding, who had come to know Sarah very well. When she played like that, her mind was on other things and it was clear that she wanted to be alone with the Princess Anne.

Sarah lost heavily and made no accusations against the others, which was unusual; and very soon she had contrived to be alone with Anne.

It was on such occasions that Barbara made sure that she was aware of what went on between Anne and Sarah. She owed that to Elizabeth.

“Oh, those tiresome women!” cried Sarah in her resonant voice. “I thought the game would never end.”

“It was a good game, and you, my dear Mrs. Freeman, played very badly.”

“I know. My mind was on more important matters.”

“Oh?” said Anne, her eyes shining. “Do explain.”

“There is news from your father. He is delighted that you are with those who are ready to show him friendship.”

“My poor father. Do you know, Mrs. Freeman, I have been haunted ever since the morning of the Coronation. That letter! To be cursed by one’s father. And all the babies I have lost. And my little Gloucester … sometimes my heart almost fails me when I look at him. He is such a clever little boy, so alert, so brilliant … oh, but dear Mrs. Freeman, so frail.”

“I know, I know. If you had your father’s forgiveness everything would be better, for it is not a good thing that there should be enmity between a father and daughter.”

“What can I do, Mrs. Freeman?”

“Well, I believe that if you were to write a letter to him and tell him how sorry you are, he would be ready and willing to forget the past and be friends again.”

“How I wish that could be.”

“We will write that letter and see what happens. It can do no harm. Now … pen and paper and to work.”

Sarah bustled about the apartment, laid out writing materials, and helped Anne to the table.

“Now … what do you think? Something like this. ‘I have been very desirous of some safe opportunity to make you a sincere and humble offer of my duty and submission to you; and to beg you will be assured that I am both truly concerned for the misfortune of your condition and sensible, as I ought to be, of my own unhappiness …’ ”

“That is wonderful.”

“Well write that down.”

Anne obeyed.

Sarah went on: “ ‘As to what you may think I have contributed to it, if wishes could recall what is past, I had long since redeemed my fault …’ ”

Sarah went on dictating; Anne went on writing; and in the anteroom Barbara Fitzharding’s ear was pressed against the keyhole that she might not miss a word.

Elizabeth Villiers made William lie on her bed and rest, for she said that when he came to her he must, for a short time, forget his troubles.

She smiled down at him and he regarded her with affection—the face which so many failed to appreciate, that fascinating cast in the eyes which had endeared her to him in the first place, and the clear alert mind which she devoted to his interests. He was blessed in his mistress as he was with his male friends. He was a man who was loved by few, but those few gave him wholehearted devotion.

Wife, mistress, and friend. He could rely on them all—though perhaps not his wife because, for all that she was the meekest of the three, her exalted position and the power she could wield if she wished meant that he could never be completely sure of her.

“My sister reports disturbing news from the Cockpit,” she said. “Anne is writing to her father.”

William raised himself on his elbow and stared at her.

“It is so. No suggestions … yet. A little contrition; the dutiful daughter is haunted by the wrong she has done her father and asks his forgiveness.”

William was silent; then he said. “The Marlborough woman.”

Elizabeth nodded. “She dictates all.”

“Marlborough will be aware of it.”

“I am sure of it,” said Elizabeth. “That woman continually abuses you, but I do not think she would take this step without Marlborough’s being aware of it.”

“He’s a good soldier but his ambitions run ahead of his achievement,” said William. “I wonder how far this has gone.”

“I think that James is too tired for action and the French have refused him the army which he needs to invade. The Marlboroughs are intent on mischief. They don’t want James back.”

“No,” said William, “they want Anne on the throne so that the Churchills can rule the country. Anne, being the most foolish of women, does not see this.”

“Barbara declares that it is quite sickening to listen to them. Dear Mrs. Freeman and poor silly Mrs. Morley! Anne looks upon it all as a girlish game, but Sarah is no girl. She’s the most ambitious woman at Court—and since she is married to the most ambitious man, they are a pair to be watched.”

“He could be taken up for treason.”

“He could be,” admitted Elizabeth, “but I am sure you would consider that unwise at this stage.”

“At this stage,” agreed William. “I think, though, that we could well dispense with their services. I can bring a charge against Marlborough. He has been talking seditiously in the Army, complaining that foreigners are favored. He is very fond of money and having little is always seeking ways of finding it. On account of his position in the Army he has posts to dispose of. He could be dismissed for bribery and extortion.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly and leaning toward William kissed him.

He took her wrist and said: “It is a pleasure to me to talk of these matters with you. There are times when a woman’s wit is … agreeable.”

Elizabeth was well pleased. The rivalry between herself and Bentinck was never forgotten. Bentinck was devoted; but his mind worked along similar lines to William’s; the viewpoint of a woman was invaluable, particularly when that woman was his devoted mistress.

He went from Elizabeth to the Queen’s apartments. Her women disappeared as he entered. Mary came to him, arms outstretched, delighted, as always, when he sought her out.

“I wish to speak to you,” he told her. “The matter is urgent and concerns your sister.”

“Oh, dear William, I trust Anne has not been causing you anxiety again.”

“It is what we must expect. She is a constant anxiety.”

“What now, William?”

“She is writing to your father.”

“No!”

He looked at her with mild contempt. How different from Elizabeth! Elizabeth made it her business to have a spy established in the Cockpit who could report to him, yet Mary, who had so much more power and opportunity, had failed to do this.

“At the moment it is merely, ‘Please forgive me.’ But that is of course a preliminary. You will know of course who is at the bottom of this.”

“Not that odious woman!”

“Who else?”

“I loathe her. The airs! Really, my sister is a fool. How can she so far forget her royalty as to grovel at the feet of that woman.”

Mary felt a twinge of conscience. She had remembered suddenly the humble letters she used to write to Frances Apsley. Anne was no more humble to Sarah Churchill. She could well understand Anne’s devotion to Sarah as she had once entertained a similar feeling toward Frances. Perhaps Frances wondered now why she was never invited to see the Queen. Mary was determined not to become enslaved to a woman as Anne was to Sarah Churchill.

“These Churchills seem to have some unnatural power over her. We have to be rid of them. You must start. Try to persuade your sister to get rid of the woman.”

“But William, she never will.”

“You must talk to her. I want them out of Court.”

“You have only to order them to go.”

He looked at her in exasperation. How obtuse she could be! One of the more dangerous occupations of the Marlboroughs in recent weeks had been to increase the popularity of Anne. She had been appearing in public, smiling at the people, distributing alms, visiting the playhouse, laughing when the people laughed, being one of them.

In any case, of all the royal family she was the favorite; she was the mother of the heir to the throne and when she appeared with him in public, playing the fond mother to perfection—not that she had to act in that role; for she always had been devoted to her children—the people applauded her. They knew of her quarrels with her sister and brother-in-law and they were ready to believe the worst of Dutch William.

“Anne will refuse. Don’t you see that this time we cannot afford to upset Anne. She is too popular. We have to be wary. You must speak to Anne and try to make her see what harm this woman is doing. I will deal with Marlborough if you will deal with his wife.”

“I will do my best of course, William, but …”

“Do it then … and without delay.”

The two sisters faced each other. It was rarely that the Queen came to the Cockpit. She would visit her nephew frequently, take him toys and if she was prevented from visiting him, send to inquire for his health; but she was not on such good terms with his mother.

Mary looked with distaste at her sister who was growing so fat. Mary herself was a big woman and getting fatter every week, but Anne had had a start of her, and she was becoming enormous.

Mary’s eyes went to the dishes of sweetmeats in the apartments. Her own mouth watered for she dearly loved them; but what a temptation to have them always before one! She supposed Sarah Churchill encouraged the habit; the fatter Anne became, the more lazy she was—and therefore the more ready to do as she was told.

“Anne,” she said, “I want to talk seriously to you.”

Anne looked mildly interested.

“There is one woman in your suite who, I am sure, is a bad influence. I’m going to advise you to consider ridding yourself of her.”

“I know of no such woman.”

“You must be aware that Sarah Churchill attempts to govern your life.”

“Govern my life. How?”

“Does she not tell you what you must do and are you not inclined always to do it?”

“Sarah Churchill is my friend … my greatest friend … the friend I trust more than anyone in the world.”

“Then I am sorry for you.”

“I know of course that you hate her. You haven’t a great friend now, have you? I am sorry. You must have forgotten how once Frances Apsley was your great friend. She is still mine, but not such a great friend as Sarah, of course. I see no harm in having friends. Nor did you once. I suppose William has asked you to do this.”

“I am asking you because I believe you would be better without Sarah Churchill.”

“I think I should be allowed to choose my own household.”

“I am advising you.”

“I could advise you.”

“Do not be so foolish, Anne. If you are not careful I shall take away half of your income.”

“You couldn’t do it,” retorted Anne. “The Parliament has voted me my income … although I know you and William tried to deprive me of it.”

“And how much do you allow the Marlboroughs?”

“That is my own affair.”

“Anne! You forget …”

“That you are the Queen? I do not. You won’t allow me. You come to talk to me like a sister, you say, and then you are reminding me that you are the Queen. Well, I am the Princess Anne—our father’s daughter no less than you, and the heiress to the throne, for you and William have no children—nor ever will have. So I and my little Gloucester are entitled to some consideration.”

Mary interrupted her. “You give the Marlboroughs a thousand a year. That is ridiculous and extravagant. Why should they have this money. Are they not paid for their services … he in the Army and for his Court duties … she for her duties here at the Cockpit? Why these extravagant gifts? Shall I remind you that your income has to come out of the royal purse and if it is so large that you can afford to give rich gifts of one thousand a year—to those who don’t deserve them—then I think it high time your income was reconsidered.”

“This is monstrous,” cried Anne, wiping her eyes. “To think that you come here … and me in my present state …”

“I do not mean to upset you, merely to make you see a little good sense.”

“Which in your opinion is to rid myself of my best friends.”

“Your friends are the King and myself.”

“I have yet to see any signs of your friendship.”

“Oh, you are the most ungrateful wretch!”

“Should you talk of ingratitude?”

Anne’s lips were pursed together, for she was remembering the letter she had written to her father. How much happier she had felt since writing that! Mary had asked no forgiveness. How could she, tied as she was to Dutch William? The only way she could repent was to go back to Holland and take her Dutchman with her.

How much more pleasant for Anne; all she had to do was write her penitent letter and continue to live at the Cockpit with Gloucester nearby and perhaps another little one soon, and dear Sarah her constant companion.

Her constant companion—that was the point at issue.

“Sarah shall remain with me,” she said stubbornly. “No one shall take her away from me.”

The Earl of Marlborough, one of the lords of the bedchamber, arrived at the King’s apartment to perform his duties as usual.

William, wigless, in bed, was not a handsome sight; but all his attendants were accustomed to that by now.

The ceremony was never a very pleasant one. Charles II had made of it a very merry occasion, with his quips and jokes and the King’s wit was something worth listening to. James’s rising ceremony had not been amusing, but it had been dignified and there had been conversation, although it was almost always confined to horses and women. William’s was silent and was merely the grim purpose of dressing the King.

It was Marlborough’s duty to put on William’s shirt. He did this as usual, and if the King looked at him as though he did not exist, that was not unusual.

The duty over, Marlborough was leaving the apartment when Lord Nottingham approached him.

“My Lord Marlborough, a word with you.”

Marlborough and several of the bedchamber people halted to listen, for there was something grave—even ominous—in Nottingham’s tone.

“The King has asked me to inform you that he has no further use for your services.”

“What!”

Nottingham nodded. “All your employments should be sold or disposed of, for neither the King nor the Queen wish to see you at Court.”

Marlborough was stunned. This could mean discovery. Then why not imprisonment? Dismissal. Banishment. How could he possibly go forward with his schemes if he were forbidden the Court?

Curious glances were directed toward him. He must pull himself together. He lifted his shoulders, smiled and went quickly on his way.

There was gossip all through the Court. What is Marlborough’s sin? What a disgrace! To tell him in that way with so many looking on! And after his campaign in Ireland! Why, if Marlborough had not deserted James when he did, William would not have had it so easy.

It was circulated that he was accused of taking bribes. Well, that was true enough. But if everyone who took bribes was going to be driven from Court there wouldn’t be many left.

Ah, here was the real reason. He had spread infection in the Army by complaining of the privileges given to the Dutch and denied the English.

Dutch William did not like that.

So … that was the end of Marlborough.

Sarah was stricken between sorrow and rage. That this should happen to her John, to the most brilliant commander in the Army, was unthinkable! If ever she had disliked William and Mary she hated them now. Loathed them! Detested them! And she was determined that they should pay to the full for this.

She went at once to her husband.

He took her into his arms and tried to soothe her for he had never seen her in such a state of rage and excitement.

“My dear, be calm,” he begged.

“Calm! When you have been insulted … by that monstrosity, that gorilla, that abortion! How dare he!”

“He has discovered that I am writing to James.”

“No!”

“I think so.”

“He has not said …”

“No, he is too clever. He knows that if it were said half the country would rise up behind me. They do not want him here.”

“And a good thing if they did.”

“No, Sarah. Bring back James … and the Prince of Wales? What are you thinking of?”

“It would not do, of course.”

“No. Remember it, my dearest, and be calm.”

“They want to drive me away too.”

He nodded. “They will not feel safe while you are at the Cockpit.”

“But I am staying at the Cockpit.”

“I fancy they won’t allow it.”

“We shall see. We shall see.”

There was nothing for him to do but retire to St. Albans.

“Not for long,” said Sarah fiercely.

She went to Anne for comfort and it was one of the rare occasions when Anne saw Sarah weep.

“My dearest, dearest Mrs. Freeman,” cried Anne, the tears flowing down her plump red cheeks. “I beg of you, do not weep so. You distress me. I cannot bear to see my proud Mrs. Freeman thus.”

“I think of what he has done. But for him they would not be here. He could have prevented them. He has helped to subdue Ireland; he has fought for them bravely and this is how they reward him. Dismissed the Court! Banished … and all on trumped-up charges!”

“They must not be allowed to do this,” said Anne ineffectually.

“They have done it; and what is more they have only just begun. You know what they will do next. They will separate us.”

Anne was fierce suddenly. “Never!” she cried.

She threw her arms about Sarah and clung to her.

Sarah remained quietly at the Cockpit; Marlborough was at St. Albans; and three weeks had passed.

On February 6th, which was Anne’s birthday, Anne was invited to Kensington Palace to celebrate the occasion.

“I shall accompany you,” announced Sarah.

“Of course, dear Mrs. Freeman.”

“They will not be expecting me. They will think I want to hide myself because of my husband’s so-called disgrace. I will show them that nothing he has ever done makes me ashamed. I am proud of him. I wonder they do not forbid me to go to Court; but they have not done that yet.”

“They know that I should never go without you,” said Anne.

“Dear Mrs. Morley. My one comfort in my trouble.”

“Dearest Mrs. Freeman, what are friends if not to comfort each other in adversity?”

They left the Cockpit together; and as the Princess’s carriage passed along, the people cheered her; but the surprise of the people was obvious when they saw that Sarah Churchill was accompanying her; the entire city knew of Marlborough’s disgrace and believed that would be an end of his ambitions. Therefore it was odd to see Marlborough’s wife in the Princess’s carriage.

When they arrived at the Palace even greater surprise greeted them.

“Was Marlborough’s wife mad?” courtiers whispered to each other. “How could she be received at Court when her husband was in disgrace?”

Sarah was well aware of the stir she created; she walked a pace or so behind Princess Anne, her head high, her eyes flashing scorn, through the royal apartments, which even now retained a whiff or two of fresh paint, into the state apartments so lovingly designed by William and watched over by Mary, to where the King and Queen were waiting.

Anne curtseyed; so did Sarah; and when Mary saw the latter she was almost unable to suppress a gasp of dismay and astonishment.

Mary drew her sister aside and spoke coolly to her. Sarah she ignored.

Many would have tried to hide themselves in the throng; not so, Sarah; it was as though she flaunted her presence in the royal apartments, as though she were saying: “You may not want me, but here I am and here I remain.”

The next day a letter was delivered to the Princess Anne from the Queen.

I hope you do me the justice to believe it is as much against my will that I now tell you that, after this, it is very unfit that Lady Marlborough should stay with you, since that gives her husband so just a pretence of being where he should not. I think I might have expected you should have spoken to me of it; and the King and I, both believing it, made us stay thus long. But, seeing you so far from it, that you brought Lady Marlborough hither last night, makes us resolve to put it off no longer, but tell you she must not stay, and I have all the reason imaginable to look upon your bringing her here as the strangest thing that ever was done. Nor could all my kindness for you (which is always ready to turn all you do to the best way) at any other time have hindered me from showing you so that moment, but I considered your condition, and that made me master myself so far as not to take notice of it then.… I tell you plainly that Lady Marlborough must not continue with you in the circumstance her lord is.

Sarah, who was with Anne when she read this letter, snatched it from the Princess and gave vent to her rage.

“You see how they treat you! Who would believe that you are the heiress to this crown when you are treated like a serving wench!”

“Sarah, we are not going to be parted.”

“Until you dismiss me, I would never go,” was Sarah’s rejoinder.

“Then what can I do?”

“You can write to her and tell her that you resent her unkindness and have no intention of parting with Lady Marlborough.”

“What will they do then?”

“What can they do? It is for you to choose those you wish to have about you.”

So once more under Sarah’s dictation Anne wrote to her sister, and when the letter reached her Mary sent orders that Lady Marlborough was to leave the Cockpit.

“There is only one thing to do,” said Sarah; “I must leave the Cockpit, so if you do not want us to be parted you must come with me.”

“Where can we go?”

“My dear Mrs. Morley forgets she is the heiress to the throne. There will be some who are ready to lend her a lodging, I’ll swear. What of Sion House? That would be comfortable. I am sure the Duchess of Somerset would not deny you shelter there if you asked it. Shall I arrange for a letter to be taken to her while we prepare to leave.”

“Oh, dear Mrs. Freeman, you think of everything!”

“Then write immediately. Someone must take care of Mrs. Morley. Remember her condition, and she is never well during these times. A miscarriage could be brought on. I am sure the people will realize how harsh your sister and her Dutchman are to turn you out of doors at such a time.”

So Anne wrote the letter while Barbara Fitzharding immediately went to her sister to tell her that Anne was proposing to move to Sion House with Sarah.

When William heard this he sent to the Duke of Somerset asking him to refuse the request of the Princess Anne.

As one of the foremost noblemen of England, Somerset was furious to be dictated to. What did this Dutchman think he was doing? He must realize that England was not Holland. They wanted no uncouth foreigners here. A request had been made to his wife by a kinswoman who happened to be heiress to the throne, and Somerset implied that he had received the Kings request too late, and his wife had already offered Sion House to the Princess Anne.

Anne, with Sarah and George, left for Sion House, and William’s retort was to rob them of all the honors which they had enjoyed; these included their guards, so when they left, they rode in their carriage unaccompanied.

The people watched them: the Princess Anne, large with child; her faithful woman beside her and her husband, holding her hand, assuring her of his affection during all their troubles.

What was the Dutch monster doing to their Princess? asked the people. She was no favorite of his because she was English and the King had no favor to bestow on the English. Was not Marlborough in disgrace for pointing this out?

Anne smiled wanly and waved her hand in acknowledgment of the cheers.

“Poor long-suffering lady!” said the watchers.

A few days later when she rode out in her carriage, with Sarah beside her, her coach was held up near Brentford by two masked men.

Anne was terrified. Such a thing had never happened to her before. Sarah demanded: “What does this mean?”

“It means, lady, you hand over your valuables and keeps your life … or if you don’t, you loses both. The choice is yours.”

“Do you realize this lady is the Princess Anne and I am Lady Marlborough.”

“Thanks for the information, lady. You should have some very nice valuables.”

Anne was lying back against the upholstery, her plump cheeks quivering. The coachman dared do nothing. Trembling she removed her jewelry and put it into the grimy outstretched hand; she dared not look at the eyes glinting behind the mask.

To her chagrin, Sarah was forced to do the same.

Then satisfied, the highwaymen allowed them to go on their way.

The Princess Anne held up in her coach and robbed of her jewels—some said to be priceless!

What next? Had she not been robbed of her guards, of course, she would not have been robbed of her jewels. This was no way to treat a royal Princess. It was Dutch William’s doing. He had taken away her protectors and she, poor lady, not far off her accouchement, was in peril of being robbed—perhaps murdered—on the highways.

The lampoons began again. The popularity of the Princess had never been so high, that of the King never so low.

Rebellion all about him, thought William. How ready the people were to take sides against him! They were cheering Anne, that fat, stupid creature who hadn’t a mind of her own, and obeyed the odious Churchill woman in everything.

He was continually wondering what news was coming from Ireland and Scotland. Three crowns! he thought. How much better had there been but one. Ireland and Scotland—they were not worth the trouble.

In the last weeks he had heard that MacIan of Glencoe had refused for some time to take the oath to live peacefully under the Government. William had believed that if he promised pardon to all who had been in rebellion, provided they took the oath before the end of the last year, he would succeed in quelling rebellion. The majority, tired of conflict, had taken the oath.

William did not know that MacIan, head of the McDonald clan, had waited until the last day of December and then had gone to Fort William to take the oath, only to find there was no magistrate there. This had meant that he must travel to Inverary, through the Highlands in difficult weather, and thus he had not taken the oath until the sixth day of January.

The Campbells decided that this would be a good way of destroying the rival clan, and keeping from William the fact that MacIan had belatedly taken the oath, assured him that if he ordered that justice should be done, they would see that it was.

William, weary of troublemakers, believing that he had to show a strong hand, decided to make an example and gave the required order.

As for the McDonalds of Glencoe, if they can well be distinguished from the rest of the Highlanders, it will be proper for, the vindication of public justice to extirpate that set of thieves. W.R.

Captain Campbell rejoiced to receive orders which were to fall upon the rebels, the McDonalds of Glencoe, and put all under seventy years of age to the sword.

Taking his band of soldiers to the glen, he was welcomed by the McDonalds, given hospitality, as was the custom of the district, and invited to stay as long as he wished.

There was revelry for a day or two; then the order was given; the passes were closed so that none might escape, and men, women, and children were slaughtered in what came to be known as the Massacre of Glencoe.

The news of what had happened was hurried south.

Innocent men and women murdered by the orders of the Dutch Monster! MacIan had sworn the oath—but because he was a few days late doing it his entire clan was destroyed.

“This is a deed which will be remembered long after Dutch William lies in his tomb,” growled the people.

There was no peace to be had. Ireland was still not completely subdued; the news of the Massacre of Glencoe was shocking the British Isles, and in Scotland many were ready to rise against the Dutchman whom they blamed for that tragedy.

On the Continent James was raising an army and Louis was helping him. His wife was pregnant and James had sent invitations to all those who should be present at the birth of one who was in the line of succession to the throne. Mary and Anne were sent invitations—and all were promised a safe conduct into France and liberty to return to England when they wished.

The discovery of Marlborough’s duplicity, while it had made William and Mary so apprehensive, had put heart into James. He believed that if he could gain one big victory many important men who now served William—somewhat discontentedly—would come over to him. Marlborough was one; Godolphin was another; he believed that Nottingham was a Jacobite at heart; and who was most important, Admiral Russell who could bring over a part of the fleet.

William’s health had taken a turn for the worse and he was spitting blood so frequently that he found it difficult to keep this a secret. Mary was beside herself with anxiety. But when he came to her and told her that he must go to Holland, for matters seemed to be coming to a head on the Continent, she knew that she could do nothing to dissuade him.

“I know that I can safely leave the government in your hands,” he said with more kindness than usual.

“I trust I shall not disappoint you,” she answered.

He pressed her hand, which was as near a caress as he could get.

“One thing that pleases me is that the greatest of all troublemakers is banished from Court. But what of the woman? I fancy she is more deadly than the man.”

So once more he sailed away and Mary was left to govern her turbulent realm alone.

Soon after he had left she developed a cold which because of the pressure of business she ignored. In a few days she was delirious and those about her feared she was dying.

In Sion House Sarah was so delighted she could not hide her pleasure.

“Think what this is going to mean, Mrs. Morley. He was spitting blood before he went to Holland. She is laid low. After all Providence cannot go on forgetting us. Evil is always punished; good rewarded. You will see.”

But Sarah had her anxieties; when she looked at Anne whose pregnancy should end in a month or so, she wondered if she were not in as bad a state as her sister and brother-in-law. She was enormous. Surely something must be wrong for a woman to be so large. If Anne should die that would be the biggest misfortune which could befall the Marlboroughs. Sarah bustled around Anne, never allowing her for one moment to be in a draught, cosseting, fussing to such an extent that Anne was often in tears merely to contemplate the devotion of her beloved Mrs. Freeman.

Meanwhile Mary was growing so ill that those about her were certain she was near her end.

Mary herself believed this. She was young to die—thirty; and she felt that she was leaving her affairs in the utmost disorder. William needed her, she was sure, far more than he realized. She thought of him, driving himself to work in Flanders when he was suffering acutely from all the disorders which had been with him so long that he considered them a part of his life.

There were times when she was so ill that she was not sure where she was. Sometimes she thought she was a little girl again playing in Richmond Palace with the Villiers girls. Sarah had intruded there, and was a shady figure in her dreams to disturb her. The pleasantest dreams were those in which Monmouth figured—gay and dashing, dancing with her at The Hague; and sometimes the face of Monmouth changed to that of Shrewsbury. She was depressed to be dragged from such dreams to the reality: her sickbed, with troubles crowded about her; rebellion abroad and at home; surrounded by spies so that she did not know whom she could trust; her own sister, under the influence of that venomous woman—her enemy.

To her surprise and that of everyone else Mary recovered.

She believed this to be a sign. She had been spared because she had more work to do on earth. She surprised everyone by the speed of her recovery.

There were letters from William. She must realize that James was amassing an army in Normandy at this time, and she must be prepared for invasion. She must be watchful for it was possible that those whom she felt she ought to be able to trust were at this moment working against her. If there should be an invasion he would immediately send Bentinck to her. He himself would not be able to come until he had raised the siege of Namur.

“He shall not be disappointed in me,” she murmured.

Sir Benjamin Bathurst was asking for an audience with the Queen.

In the midst of all the preparations, when a knock at the door would make Mary start and wonder what fresh disaster was about to be announced, Mary’s heart began to beat fast, for Benjamin Bathurst was the husband of Frances Apsley, the woman whom Mary had once loved best in all the world.

“Frances’s husband … to see me,” she murmured; and her thoughts ran on. Is Frances dying? Is she asking for me?

She was trembling a little when Sir Benjamin entered.

“Welcome, Sir Benjamin,” she said. “Pray give me news of Frances.”

“She is well, Your Majesty.”

“Ah!” Her relief was apparent.

He said: “I bring you this letter.”

She seized it and her eyes sought the once familiar handwriting which had meant so much to her, but this was another handwriting which she knew well.

“The Princess Anne has asked me to deliver this letter into your hands.”

So he came from Anne. Of course Anne had kept up her friendship with Frances. Anne had always had to imitate her in those days and because she had loved Frances passionately, Anne had had to do so too. And now Anne had turned to Sarah Churchill—a friendship Mary certainly did not share.

“Thank you,” she said. “I will read it at once. Pray wait a while. There is much I wish to ask you … about dear Frances.”

The letter was in Anne’s childish scrawl. Her pains had started and as she feared she was much worse than usual, she thought the Queen should come at once to Sion House.

Mary folded the letter, and put it into her pocket.

“Pray tell me of your wife,” she said. “It is long since I have seen her. She comes so little to Court. But of course now she has her family. I know how happy she must be with her children.”

Benjamin said that the children were well and that their mother was devoted to them.

“Dear Frances!” sighed Mary.

Sir Benjamin was surprised that the Queen should make him talk of Frances for he knew the contents of the letter he had brought.

Sarah said: “So she does not come. Her sister may be dying for all she cares.”

Barbara Fitzharding shrugged her shoulders. “It is because you are here.”

“And a mercy it is that there is someone to look after the Princess!”

“There are many of us,” Barbara pointed out.

“She needs someone whose sole care is for her. She needs affection and there are few who can give that.”

Barbara lowered her eyes. She would like to have told Sarah Churchill that she was not subtle enough; her loud voice and her loose tongue didn’t deceive anybody. Those who believed her motives were altruistic would have to be very simple indeed. But Barbara had no wish to quarrel with her, for Sarah’s behavior was just what was needed to give everything away. It would not be nearly so easy to gauge what was going on in this household but for her audible vituperations.

The midwife was with the Princess. This had been a longer labor than usual and Sarah was anxious.

She was at the bedside when the child was born.

A boy. A poor frail little boy, who breathed for a few minutes and then like so many of his predecessors, died.

Mary came to Sion House expecting, from the reports she had had, to find her sister on the point of death.

Anne was propped up in her bed and when Mary saw that she was no worse than after other accouchements she was angry. A campaign, doubtless, started by Sarah Churchill, to call attention to the poor neglected Princess who had been brought to bed in Sion House instead of Whitehall or St. James’s.

All this, when the country was in danger of invasion, and sisters could not stand together!

Mary sat beside the bed and said: “I had expected to see you in worse state.”

“I have had a very bad time,” sighed Anne.

“You look a little tired, that is all.”

Anne put her kerchief to her eyes. “And I have lost my baby.”

“You have little Gloucester, so you should be thankful. You have been more fortunate than I.”

“But think how many times I have been brought to bed … only to suffer loss.”

“We must accept our fate. I have come to talk seriously to you. There should not be quarrels in families. The times are too dangerous. We should stand together. So I have made the first step toward ending our quarrel by coming to see you. You must make the next.”

“But how so?” asked Anne.

“You know what I mean. Get rid of the Marlborough woman.”

“I have never disobeyed you but in this one respect,” said Anne. “I believe that some time you will see how unreasonable it is of you to ask me to give up my greatest friend. I will not do it.”

Mary stood up. “Then I have nothing more to say to you now.”

When she had gone, Sarah, who had naturally been listening, came into the apartment.

“Well done, Mrs. Morley. I am proud of you.”

“She came just to ask me to get rid of you.”

“Insolence! She is worried you know.”

“I gathered that. It is the thoughts of invasion.”

“James has an army assembled in Normandy. If he comes, you should be prepared. He will hate them … but he will be ready to forgive you. You should write to him without delay.” Sarah brought her mouth close to the Princess’s ear. “Tell him that when he comes to England you will go at once to him.”

“Oh, Sarah, you think he will soon be here?”

“No. But it is as well to be prepared. One can never be sure.”

“How right you are on all things, Sarah.”

“It is because my undivided attention is given to the affairs of my dearest Morley.”

THE FLOWERPOT PLOT

here were many people in England at this time who were wondering how to turn the situation to their advantage—some low born as well as high—and one of these was a man named Robert Young.

He was lying in Newgate Prison when he conceived the idea of fabricating a plot which would be a sham, of course, but which could be used by people in high places to rid themselves of their enemies. He had tried to get this taken up and even succeeded in having it brought before William himself, but William had treated the suggestion with disdain and had thought it too trivial to inquire from what source it came.

Robert Young had been cheating all his life—he lived by it, he delighted in it, and if it had not brought him great wealth it had brought adventure. His greatest skill was forgery; he could copy a signature after a little practice so that it was impossible to tell it from the original. Such a gift was invaluable to his schemes and he longed to make use of it. He had spent most of his youth in Ireland although he had been born in Lancashire. He claimed that he had been educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and although he had diplomas to authenticate this his name was not on the list of graduates. By producing his forged certificates he procured admission to deacons orders and became a curate in Waterford. He married, tired of his wife, and went through a form of marriage with Mary Hutt, the daughter of an innkeeper who, liking the adventurous life, was more to his taste. He did well as a curate, performing all sorts of illegal acts for a good price, but he had to run away when one of his flock became pregnant.

He was arrested for bigamy and sent to prison but was released when he promised to divulge a Popish plot. This he did by forging the signature of various people to whom he had written at some time or other merely for the purpose of supplying himself with signatures he could copy: On the point of being discovered he came to England.

It did not take Young long to forge more documents which he pretended had been written by the Archbishop of Canterbury. With these he managed to delude several clerics, live on their bounty, and extract money from them, until he was found out; at Bury he and Mary Hutt were imprisoned.

While he was in jail he wrote to the Archbishop of Canterbury telling him that he had been ill-used, giving him a long account of a fictitious Irish background, asking for his help and promising in return to uncover plots against the state. The Archbishop ignored this and on being released from Bury jail Young forged the Archbishop’s signature and worked the same trick in England as he had in Ireland, visiting wealthy clergymen, telling them he came from the Archbishop, and extracting large sums of money from them.

Eventually the Archbishop heard of the fraud, and Young and Mary Hutt went back to jail—this time to Newgate.

Failing to gain interest in the plot he was trying to fabricate, Young decided that he would work by himself. If he could disclose a plot involving famous people he believed he would not only be released from prison but would be substantially rewarded and given an opportunity of being in the company of men who could be of use to him—if only giving him opportunities of forging their signatures.

The great scandal at this time, even in the prisons, was the dismissal of the Earl of Marlborough. Marlborough had distinguished himself in Ireland and Holland; he had been a soldier of importance even before the coming of William; yet he was deprived of all his commands and employments and living in disgrace. It was said that he had spread disaffection in the Army by complaining of favor shown to foreigners and had taken bribes. Was this the real reason? It was whispered everywhere that Marlborough was a “Jack” planning to bring back James.

A plot, thought Young, which would involve Marlborough, would make them notice him.

He drew up a document which was meant to be a declaration for the restoration of James II. He had had opportunities of examining the signatures of the people he wished to involve, for he had seen Marlborough’s signature on military papers and those of others on public declarations; and his knowledge of church affairs decided him to involve the Bishop of Rochester, who was known to be easygoing and something of an opportunist.

It was amusing to while away the weary hours of captivity formulating a plan which should be foolproof. All the men he intended to involve were already suspect; but of course Marlborough was the one who was going to cause the greatest stir.

This document had to be put in the house of one of the suspects, and then attention called to it so that it could be discovered there. But how operate all this from prison?

Young’s agile brain enjoyed nothing more than working out an involved and seemingly impossible scheme; and as he was searching for the solution he thought of a disgruntled prisoner named Stephen Blackhead.

Blackhead had suffered badly in the pillory and as a result part of one of his ears was missing, the other being badly mauled. He hated society on account of this injury.

Young began by talking to him about his wrongs—a subject Blackhead was always ready to discuss.

“You have been cruelly treated, my friend. Society is against people like us.”

Blackhead was mollified by the attention of the apparently well educated Robert Young, particularly when he was allowed to talk of his early days, of his poverty and of all he had suffered in an unsympathetic world.

Blackhead was only in prison for a short while, and Young had no idea when he himself would be released; so Blackhead was the man for the job.

“There is a way of getting your revenge on them,” said Young. “They are worse criminals than you, my dear fellow. You are trying to get enough to eat; they are trying to make wars and bring rebellion into the country.”

“Who?” asked Blackhead.

Young appeared to consider. Then he said: “I know I can trust you with an important secret. This is a matter which concerns the state. Will you swear to secrecy?”

Blackhead swore.

“I happen to have a document in my hands which could bring important people to the scaffold.” Blackhead looked incredulous. “You think I’m mad. What if I showed it to you?”

“You would?”

“I trust you my friend.”

Young brought the document from inside his jacket and showed Blackhead. Blackhead could not read, but he was impressed by the writing.

“You see that name,” Young pointed. “That is Marlborough. And you see that—that is Thomas Sprat, Bishop of Rochester. That is the Archbishop of Canterbury and those are Lord Salisbury and Lord Cornbury.”

“All those famous people! But how did you get it?”

“Never you mind. I make it my business to discover these plots and help the government. In this it says they’ll kill the King and Queen and bring back James.”

“The King and Queen ought to know about it.”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“But you could send it to them.”

“Do you think they would believe me? I’ve tried to help them before, but I’m a poor man, wrongly accused. What chance have I against them?”

“There’s one law for them, another for us. Why, I wasn’t given a chance …”

Young interrupted; he wanted no further meandering through the wrongs suffered by Stephen Blackhead.

“The only way to get this brought to light is to put it in one of their houses and then let it be known that it will be found there.”

“How’d you get into one of their houses?”

“I would if I were free.”

“But you’re here and so you can’t.”

“No, but you’ll be free next week.”

“Me?”

“You want a slice of the reward, don’t you? I can tell you it will be a big one.”

Blackhead licked his lips and although he had turned pale he said: “What would I have to do?”

“It’s easy. You go to the Bishop of Rochester’s house to take a letter.”

“What letter?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you the letter. It will have been sent by your master.”

“What master?”

“Some Doctor of Divinity. You’re his manservant and he has sent you to deliver the letter. When you get there you’ll be in need of refreshment and it will be given to you. You’ll be taken to the kitchens by the servants. You will talk to them, tell them how honored you are to be in a Bishop’s house; you can ask to see where the Bishop works. You’ll touch his table with reverence. ‘Is this where His Honor does his writing? Is this where His Honor sits?’ you’ll ask. You’ll flatter them. Lucky people to work for a great bishop. You’re just the servant of a humble priest. Then, when none of them is looking you slip the document somewhere … behind a picture … in a drawer, pushed well back so that it won’t be easily discovered. You’ll have to find the place when you get there. All you have to do is to make sure it is somewhere where the Bishop is not going to find it for a little while. Once you’ve done it, we shall inform the government that the document is in the Bishop’s house and where it is. They will find it and we shall be rewarded.”

Blackhead was staring at Young

“Suppose they won’t show me into his rooms?”

“Then you’ll put it somewhere else. I can see you’re a man of resource. Think what your reward will be. The state owes you something in my opinion.”

“In mine too,” grumbled Blackhead; but he was bemused.

Young was slightly anxious. Would Blackhead have the sense to work this thing? He wasn’t the accomplice he would have chosen. But how else was the plan going to work? Young was accustomed to taking chances. Well, he had to take a big one now.

Stephen Blackhead arrived at the Bishop of Rochester’s house in Bromley, hot and dusty.

Could he be taken to the Bishop for he had a letter to deliver from his master and he had been told he must himself put it into the Bishop’s hands.

He was taken into the study of the Bishop who received him cordially.

“A letter for me from your master?”

Stephen Blackhead handed over the letter which Robert Young had given him.

It was a beautifully written letter complimenting the Bishop and asking his advice on a matter which, the writer pointed out, would seem trivial enough to him but was of some importance to a humble deacon.

The Bishop glanced at the signature. He did not know the name but the letter had come from some little distance. He was pleased with the terms in which it was couched, and the subtle flattery put him into a good humor.

“I will answer your master and in the meantime you will be refreshed. I see you have traveled far.” He sent for his butler and told him to take the messenger to the kitchen and give him food.

This was working out exactly as Robert Young had said it would and Stephen’s spirits began to rise. He had never been inside such a magnificent house; he had never tasted such food as the butler was putting before him.

“This is a grand house,” he said, for Young had told him he must admire the house and he could do it with sincerity.

Yes, it was a fine house, agreed the butler and the Bishop was a good master. It was a comfortable living serving such a man.

Stephen looked wistful. “I have never been in such a fine house.”

The butler was clearly proud of it.

“I’d like to see a little more of it,” said Stephen. “I’d like to see the Bishop’s study.”

“The Bishop’s study! But he’s working there.”

This was where the plan was going wrong. How was he going to plant the document in the Bishop’s study if the Bishop was working there; and how was he going to put it somewhere without the butler’s seeing?

“The Bishop,” said the butler, “is very fond of his gardens. He plants things himself. You see those flowerpots all along the windowsill; he’s got his special plants and things in there. Would you like to see the gardens? I could show you them.”

“Well, yes,” said Stephen blankly. How was he going to put the paper in the gardens?

“Flowerpots,” said the butler. “They’re everywhere.” He showed Stephen a little parlor leading off from the kitchens. “A lot of them go in here. We’ve got to put them somewhere. Now would you like a piece more pie while you’re waiting?”

Stephen said that he would and while he was eating it the butler was summoned to his master’s study for the reply which Stephen was to take back to his master.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” said the butler.

And Stephen was alone, but he could hear the voices of other servants in some of the outhouses. This was the moment, he knew; he might not be alone again; and how was he going to rid himself of the document unless there was no one to see him.

He looked wildly about the kitchen; then he thought of the parlor with the flowerpots. He went into it quickly, picked up a large flowerpot, and knocking out some of the earth it contained, put in the document; he managed to conceal it by covering it with earth. Then he slipped back to the kitchen.

When the butler returned he was sitting at the table eating his pie.

He felt triumphant. He had done the job assigned to him; now all he had to do was wait for his reward.

The butler took him around the gardens as promised and as he feigned an interest he did not feel, he believed himself to be a grand conspirator.

As soon as he could get away he hurried to London and went to Newgate to visit the prisoner, Young.

“Well?” said Young.

Blackhead told him of everything that had taken place and how the incriminating document was in a flowerpot in a parlor which was clearly rarely used.

Young was delighted. “It couldn’t be better,” he said.

Mary sat with her Council to discuss the latest scare.

A prisoner in Newgate had written to the Privy Council warning them that he had evidence of a plot in which the ringleaders were the Bishop of Rochester and the Earl of Marlborough. These men had been in correspondence with James II and a letter containing the signatures of the conspirators and an offer of their services to James, had fallen into his hands. The letter was now in the house of the Bishop of Rochester at Bromley and if they would allow him to explain in detail, he would give them all the information they needed.

“Young?” said the Queen. “I fancy I have heard his name before.”

“I have ascertained, Your Majesty, that he is a criminal, in prison for forgery,” Danby told her.

“These are dangerous times,” replied the Queen.

The Council agreed with her; also that no sources of information, wherever they were, should be overlooked.

As a result Young was able to tell them that if they searched the flowerpots in the Bishop’s house they would find the document.

As a result the Bishop was arrested and a search party was sent to the Bishop’s house and his flowerpots investigated.

Fortunately for the men whose names had been forged, for they would have been sent to the scaffold had the document been discovered, since Young’s signatures were very good indeed, the disused parlor was overlooked; and the party came away without discovering the document.

Sarah was with Anne at Berkeley House in Piccadilly, whither they had come from Sion House as soon as Anne had recovered from her latest confinement, when news was brought to her from St. Albans that her youngest child, Charles, was ill.

“You must go at once to him, dear Mrs. Freeman,” said Anne, “and write to me every day that I may know what is happening to you.”

Sarah promised and when, arriving at St. Albans, she found the child with a high fever, she immediately put all her energies to nursing him.

It was pleasant to be home with her family, but not, as she told her husband, for such a reason.

“This ridiculous state of affairs must be over soon,” she said. “Time is being wasted.”

“Anything can happen in the next few weeks,” replied Marlborough. “There are going to be mighty battles either at sea or on land and they may well decide great issues.”

“And Marlborough skulking at home … in disgrace!”

“Which may be as well,” he said grimly. “It is difficult at this stage to know which side one should be on.”

Sarah was ready to launch into discussion of great plans, but the sickness of the child worried her and as the days passed he grew worse.

She was in the sickroom one day when she heard the sounds of horses galloping and looking from her window she saw a company of guards coming toward the house.

She called to her husband, but he was already on his way down. Rushing after him she was in time to hear what the leader was saying.

Marlborough was arrested on a charge of high treason, and orders were to conduct him without delay to the Tower of London.

Sarah was in despair. She thought of the letters Marlborough had written to James and trembled. Had one of these fallen into the Queen’s hands? If so, he was doomed. But Sarah was not one to believe the worst until it had happened.

Marlborough must be freed from the Tower. He must be proved innocent.

How?

She must go to him. She could be with him in his lodging, make sure that he was well cared for, plan his escape if necessary.

She was preparing to leave when one of the nurses came to her and begged her to come at once to the child’s sickroom.

Little Charles had taken a turn for the worse.

Sarah, numb with misery, sat reading a letter from the Princess Anne.

“I am very sensibly touched with the misfortune that my dear Mrs. Freeman has in losing her son, knowing very well what it is to lose a child, but she, knowing my heart so well, and how great a share I bear in all her concerns, I will not say more on this subject for fear of renewing her passion too much.”

Anne was right. There must be no renewal of passion. The grief was overwhelming. Her beloved son for whom she had planned such a grand future—a corpse in a coffin. But that was past. There were the other children—her dear son John still left to her; her girls, Henrietta, Anne, Elizabeth, and Mary. She still had them.

And her own dear husband, that other John, who was at this moment a prisoner in the Tower.

She must go to him at once. She would take up her lodging there that they might be together.

No. Wait a while. She would go to see him, but she would not stay. She would return to the Princess Anne, because there she could work more hopefully for his release.

Meanwhile there was heartening news for the Queen. The fleet, under Admiral Russell, had beaten the French at La Hogue after a mighty sea battle lasting five days and nights. It was a complete victory. How delighted Mary was! All the anxieties of the last days seemed to be lifted if only temporarily.

Her first thought was for those men who had been wounded in the battle and she sent fifty doctors and hospital supplies to Portsmouth; she gave thirty-seven thousand pounds to be distributed among those who had taken part in the victory; she ordered all the bells to be rung throughout London.

“This has decided the issue,” was the comment. “James will never come back now.”

Young, who feared that, since the paper Blackhead had deposited in the Bishop’s house would never be discovered and therefore the plot founder, sent Blackhead back to the house in Bromley to recover the paper.

Blackhead this time went as an emissary of the government and forced the astonished servants to allow him to search the house. He went straight to the disused parlor and there found the paper where he had put it. He carried it back to Young, who immediately sent Blackhead with it to the Secretary of State.

Meanwhile the Bishop of Rochester had been questioned; so had his servants; and he certainly had the air of an innocent man.

Blackhead had brought the document to them so it was decided to bring both the Bishop and Blackhead before the Council and question them together.

This was more than Blackhead had bargained for, and he was terrified when he was brought into the great chamber and saw the lords seated around the table. He was even more alarmed when the Bishop was brought in.

“This fellow came to me with a letter from his Deacon,” cried the Bishop.

“So you are a servant of a Deacon. His name please?” Blackhead could not remember. “Er … sir … he was a very good master …”

“His name?”

Blackhead bit his lips. For the life of him he could not think of a name. Young had not prepared him for this.

“The fellow’s scared out of his wits,” said one of the men at the table. “Give him time to think.”

Blackhead thought hard and he mentioned a name and a town he knew. This was written down. He breathed more easily.

The Bishop said: “There is no such Deacon. There is no such living.”

“Well, you had better tell the truth.” Blackhead’s knees were shaking.

“It were no fault of mine,” he said. “Then whose fault was it?”

“Well ’twere Robert Young. He said as how it would be easy like. These men had plotted against the King and Queen and ’twere the only way to bring ’em to justice.”

“Why did you take this false letter to the Bishop?”

“So as I could put the paper there.”

“So you put the paper in the flowerpot did you?”

It was no good. He couldn’t think of any story to tell them, so had to tell them the truth.

Young was brought before the Council.

“Do you know this man Stephen Blackhead?” he was asked. “Yes, my lord. He was in prison with me. I was wrongly accused …”

“And you used him in this plot, to incriminate the Bishop, my Lord Marlborough, and others?”

“My lord, I have never spoken of the matter to this fellow.”

“Yet he seems to have a good knowledge of the plot which you promised to disclose.”

“It is all simply explained, my lord. The Bishop has bribed Blackhead to tell this preposterous story.”

“Yet you informed us that this letter was in a flowerpot in the Bishop’s house?”

“That is not so, my lord. It is part of the plot against me.”

Young defended himself fluently and with an aplomb which suggested innocence; but his story lacked authenticity. He had in fact warned the Council to search the flowerpots; moreover, he had a criminal record.

When the results of the examination were brought before the Queen she said that Young was a rogue and that the plot against the Bishop had clearly been fabricated by him.

She still believed the men implicated to have Jacobite leanings, but they could not be found guilty in this case.

“Send Young and Blackhead back to Newgate,” she commanded, “there to await their trial. As for Marlborough …”

She looked at the members of her Council. She would have liked to keep Marlborough a prisoner; but that would be unjust. He had been sent to the Tower for being implicated in this plot and the plot was proved to be a sham, fabricated by a villain with a criminal record.

Marlborough must be released.

“On bail,” was the verdict. Marlborough was not entirely free from guilt, they were sure.

Thus Marlborough was released from the Tower, but suspicion of guilt clung to him and he could not call himself a free man.

Even as the bells were ringing for the victory of La Hogue came the news of the defeat of William’s army at Namur.

Mary was astounded.

“Such a sudden change,” she cried to Lady Derby, “is more than I can bear.”

She had been planning great celebrations, for it had not occurred to her that William could be defeated; it seemed ironical that he should have failed, and the fleet which was operating under her jurisdiction should have been victorious. She would, in her heart, have preferred it to be the other way about, just for William’s satisfaction; but of course that was folly. The victory of La Hogue was of far greater consequence than the defeat at Namur. That sea victory might well have made a future invasion impossible.

“But,” she insisted, “I am quite stupefied.”

There was more bad news to follow. Turning from Namur where he had failed to break the siege William was defeated at Steinkirk, but fortunately inflicted such losses on the enemy that it was impossible for them to take full advantage of the victory.

Moreover, there was news of a plot to assassinate William which had been miraculously discovered in time. A French officer named Grandval was caught by the English and executed; but before he died disclosed that James II and his wife had been involved in the scheme.

When Mary heard this, although horrified at the danger through which William had passed, she could not help feeling a kind of exultation. Her father was guilty of such a thing! It seemed as though there was a balance of their sins—hers against her father, his against her.

A little of the guilt which had oppressed her so often was lifted. She talked often of the Grandval affair with those about her, stressing the part her father had played in it.

“When I heard that he whom I dare no more name father was consenting to the barbarous murder of my husband, I was ashamed to look anyone in the face,” she declared.

William came home from Holland, not this time a conqueror, planning to return again after a time.

Robert Young faced a trial for perjury and Blackhead promised to turn King’s evidence. Having been granted freedom because of this, he promptly disappeared which meant a delay of the trial.

Eventually Young was found guilty of conspiracy and perjury; the plot was proved to be one fabricated entirely by himself, and the people whose signatures he had forged were clearly innocent.

Young was sentenced to imprisonment and to be set in the pillory where he suffered greatly from the attentions of the mob before he was returned to Newgate.

Marlborough still remained on bail and neither the King nor Queen were eager to grant him his freedom. But Marlborough had no intention of submitting to such treatment and had his case brought before the Lords, declaring that it was an infringement of privilege to retain bail after the charges against him had been dropped.

William presiding, was very loth to allow Marlborough to escape. He wanted to keep a close watch on the man, for he was well aware that he was corresponding with James and that although he was guiltless of implication in the flowerpot intrigue, he was nevertheless as much a traitor to the present regime as Young had implied.

There was a noisy session and William, knowing the Marlboroughs, could well imagine their using this to represent themselves as martyrs in the public eye. Martyrs were the biggest enemies a King could have, and the Marlboroughs were not going to be allowed to join that band.

Marlborough should be watched; he should be excluded from favor; but he should be free.

William therefore exercised the royal prerogative and brought the case to an end.

So Marlborough returned to his wife, but there was little to make them rejoice.

They had lost all they had carefully built up; their son was dead; they had little money. All they could rely on was the bounty of Anne; and her fortunes were not very high at this time.

She was living at Berkeley House and thither she invited the Marlboroughs.

In Kensington Mary found the outlook disturbing. The Marlboroughs influencing Anne; the quarrel with her sister growing; the people cheering her and disliking William.

The people were cruel and they did not hesitate to express their thoughts in the fashion of the day.

Lampoons and verses were circulated in the streets and the latest one, calling attention to William’s failures and the success of La Hogue which they called Mary’s triumph ran:

Alas, we erred in choice of our commanders.

He should have knotted and she gone to Flanders.

She hoped William would never hear that cruel couplet. How she wished that she could make everyone see him as she did! But that was impossible. He would make no concessions. He was only friendly with his intimate friends … like Bentinck, and now Keppel, and Elizabeth Villiers.

Bitterly Mary thought of that intimate circle in which even she was locked out.

But she would not dwell on it. She must continue to see William as the hero she had made him in her thoughts.

HIS HIGHNESS’S SOLDIERS AND STAYS

uring the months which followed Mary’s health was not good; there were frequent attacks of the ague, that disease which had first attacked her in Holland. To add to her troubles there were constant rumors of Jacobite plots; William was obliged to return to the Continent which meant that she must give up the role of Queen Consort which she happily took on when he was in England and become the reigning Queen.

She had a natural aptitude for ruling; perhaps it was something she had inherited; her flashes of wisdom still astonished her Parliament for she was apt, when William was present, to offer no suggestions and thus appear to be merely a figurehead.

She was popular, for she had a natural dignity and because she liked to go among the people they were reminded of her uncle’s affable manners. She was a Stuart, they told themselves; she looked like a Queen; she acted like a Queen; she was what they expected in a ruler.

With her ladies she often made excursions from the Palace; and would visit the fairs and, to the delight of the stallholders, made her purchases. She was a fine figure—large enough for three Queens, was the comment; but they preferred this to meagre William. Had she not been so big she would have been extremely beautiful in her coronet headdress consisting of three tiers of guipure point; beneath it her hair, drawn back from her forehead, showed dark and glossy. Her brocade dress was magnificent with the bows of ribbon at the shoulders; diamonds and pearls were about her neck and her garments. A Queen, said the people, of whom they could be proud.

But there were many, of course, who favored the Princess Anne. Why should she not have the friends she wanted? Did it not show how faithful she was to insist on keeping the Marlboroughs with her? There was the Princess Anne, heiress to the throne, not received at Court, deprived of her privileges.

It was interesting, though, to have such a quarrel in the royal family. What material it provided for the lampoon writers! And all the time, of course, there was the excitement of having a King over the Water.

The rumor was circulating that Mary and Anne had passed when driving in Hyde Park and Mary had pretended not to see her sister.

What next!

As for William, nobody wanted him. The English had never liked the Dutch and the idea of having a Dutchman for a King was intolerable, in some respects. He was so small, and to see him pulling on the arm of the Queen when they took their walks in the gardens about Kensington Palace was a comic sight, and therefore provided some amusement; but they would never like him.

Oh, for the days of good King Charles who gave them peace and pleasure! Wars, wars, it was all wars now—and there had to be taxes to pay for them. But what could be expected with a King over the Water and his daughter on the throne, and her not on speaking terms with her sister!

It was something to laugh at and as long as the English could laugh they were ready to be lenient.

But Mary was the one they cheered; nobody was going to raise one little shout for Dutch William.

Fortunately he was often abroad. “Let him stay there,” said the people.

Anne was now living at Berkeley House, although she had apartments in Campden House where her son, at this time about four years old, had his household. Anne was a devoted mother and could not bear to be long away from her son; consequently she was often at Campden House.

The little boy’s health caused constant anxiety; although he was extremely intelligent his body did not keep pace with his mind and the members of his household who loved him were terrified that, like his brothers and sisters, he would not survive. But that one of Anne’s children should have lived four years was a triumph; Anne herself was continually fretting about his health and talked of it until, as Sarah complained to John, she nearly drove her mad.

The young Duke of Gloucester suffered from hydrocephalus and his head was out of proportion to the rest of his body so that it gave the impression that it was a great burden he had to carry around. He found difficulty in walking and had to be carried almost everywhere so that he was never without a retinue of nurses and attendants. Wherever he happened to be, his high young voice could be heard asking questions. Although only four, he wanted to hear about his uncle’s campaigns in Flanders and what the war was all about. His manner was that of an adult, and although those whose duty it was to look after him were anxious about his physical state they were extremely proud of his mental capabilities.

When he was taken into the parks, in his carriage, he would demand to stop when he saw a soldier and discuss his uniform, medals, and campaigns with him like a veteran.

The Duke of Gloucester was by no means the least picturesque member of the family.

Anne adored him; so did Mary. Even William had to turn away to hide a smile at some of the boy’s drolleries; and when he visited Campden House it was noticed that he would linger by the boy’s side and answer his questions with a patience, and amusement, that no one had ever seen him display before.

It was expected that this common interest in the young heir to the throne might bring the sisters together, but this did not happen. Mary had given Anne her ultimatum which was that she did not wish to see her until she rid herself of Lady Marlborough. Anne’s reply was to keep Lady Marlborough with her.

So the rift continued.

Each day the Duke of Gloucester was taken to Kensington Palace to see the Queen, for although his mother was forbidden the Court, this naturally did not apply to him.

He was interested in Kensington Palace where work was still going on, for he was always delighted to watch men at work, and if he could persuade them to let him have a tool so that he could join them, he was very happy.

Mary looked forward to his visits and was never with him without wishing that he were her son.

Mrs. Pack, the Quakeress, who had saved his life when he was a baby by feeding him at her breast, had remained with him in spite of Sarah Churchill’s endeavors to get rid of her. Anne had shown herself very stubborn on this point; she was clearly terrified that something would happen to Gloucester if the outspoken, somewhat domineering Quakeress departed. It was disturbing for Sarah to have someone with a temperament like her own near the Princess Anne, but she realized that it was something she had to accept. Moreover Mrs. Pack was attached to the little boy’s household in Campden Hill and therefore was not, as Sarah said, constantly under her nose to worry her.

Mrs. Pack rather naturally took as firm a dislike to Sarah as Sarah had to her; and with her plain good sense deplored the state of affairs in Anne’s household. She thought Anne a fool; her only redeeming characteristic being her love for her son. In the quarrel between the sisters Mrs. Pack sided with the Queen; and as a result carried to her any little piece of information which she thought might be important to Mary, who, recognizing the shrewdness of the woman, was very glad to have her spy in Gloucester’s household.

Mrs. Pack could tell the Queen when the Princess Anne was likely to be at Campden House which meant that Mary would not go at that time, thus avoiding an awkward meeting. But of course Mrs. Pack had other information to offer.

Anne often occupied her suite of rooms in Campden House, for she could not bear to be parted too long from her son, much to the disgust of Mrs. Pack who preferred to have the household to herself.

Gloucester was watched over with the utmost care. His food was sent from Berkeley House and knowing her own fancy for sweet things, Anne had banned confectionery, lest he develop too strong a taste for it.

Gloucester at the age of four was as intelligent as a seven-year-old; his quaint remarks were a delight to Mary, and when he called on her at Kensington Palace she enjoyed taking him around and showing him the men at work, for there were constant alterations and extensions being made at the Palace.

It was such a pleasure, in the midst of her anxieties, to spend an hour with the child. He always greeted her gravely, giving her the required homage and then having done his duty he would chat in a carefree way without a hint of shyness.

“How is my nephew today?” asked Mary.

“My dear Queen,” he answered, “I am taken too much care of. Did they take too much care of you when you were a child?”

“I don’t think they did,” replied Mary.

“You were lucky. ‘He mustn’t walk too much.’ As if I could? ‘He is getting over excited. He must be bled.’ Do you know there is a blister on the back of my neck?”

“No. Show me.”

He did.

“It is the doctors. They are always doing something to me.” He began to laugh. “They tried to fit me with a periwig. The blister was in the way.”

“So no periwig,” laughed Mary. “I think I like you better without.”

“Still, as heir to the throne I should have a periwig. I should like to be Prince of Wales. Why cannot I be?”

A difficult question. He knew nothing of his grandfather who had been driven from his throne, for all those about him had been forbidden to mention the matter. Why couldn’t he be Prince of Wales? How could one explain that in France there was a boy who was called the Prince of Wales. Not that he was accepted as such over here. But to give this boy the title would immediately give the Jacobites a fresh cause for complaint.

“You are young yet. All in good time.”

“Some people have been Prince of Wales when they are babies.”

“I think Duke of Gloucester a better title.”

“I don’t,” said the boy.

“Well, come and look at the men working on the masonry. You will be interested and I want to see how they are getting on.”

“It is good.”

“What?”

“To be a mason. I would like to be a mason.”

Mary smiled. Prince of Wales one moment, a mason the next.

“I think,” she said, “you enjoy these little jaunts to the Palace.”

“It is good to escape from them all. There is Lewis, my governess and her husband, and Mama as well as Pack. They are always there to see I do not tire myself, or if I need the leeches. Of course I wish I could walk better.”

“You will when you’re older.”

“There is so much to wait for. I wish I were older.”

“Most of us grow up too quickly.”

That was a point which made him pause to consider. Later he would inform someone that most of us grew up too quickly—that was as if he had convinced himself that it was so.

But when he watched the masons he was a child again, crying out with pleasure when one of the masons gave him a tool and showed him how to work with it. His big head on one side, an expression of deepest concentration on his face, he did as instructed and then turned to Mary, his eyes alight with triumph.

“I wish I were a mason,” he said.

“You are all wishes.”

“And you are not?”

She was silent and he went on: “But then you are the Queen. You can have everything you want so you don’t have to wish long.”

She looked at him wistfully and thought: If you were my son I should be very happy.

When she left him she told him that a surprise would be coming to him.

In a few days he received a set of exquisite ivory tools. They had cost twenty pounds, which was a large sum, but worth it, Mary thought, to give him pleasure.

He played with them for a few days; then he saw the soldiers when he was out on one of his trips in the carriage with Lewis Jenkins, his Welsh attendant. He insisted on stopping to watch them drill, and spoke to them.

Then he knew that more than anything on earth, more than a mason, more than Prince of Wales, he wanted to be a soldier.

There was consternation at Campden House. The Duke of Gloucester had whooping cough—not a serious complaint in itself, but when one considered the delicate state of health of the little boy every ailment struck terror into his family.

Anne, whose greatest quality was her devotion to her family, went to Campden House and stayed there. Sarah was with her. Mrs. Pack resented the intrusion into the nursery but could do nothing about it and silent enmity reigned between her and Sarah.

Mary was worried, but knowing Anne was in the nursery could not face the embarrassment of calling and coming face to face with her sister, who had so disobeyed her by keeping Sarah Marlborough and, moreover, had the woman with her at this time.

She therefore sent Lady Derby to inquire after the child’s health and to bring her back an account of how he was getting on.

“Go straight to Mrs. Pack,” said Mary. “She will give me a truthful account; and try not to have any conversation with either my sister or Lady Marlborough.”

Lady Derby, informing the servants that she came from the Queen, went straight to the nursery where Anne was seated in a room next to that in which Gloucester was sleeping. With her was Sarah.

Lady Derby walked past the Princess and Sarah into the nursery where she found Mrs. Pack, while Sarah and Anne exchanged glances before Sarah’s fury burst forth.

“You might have been a rocker, the way she behaved. You know whose doing this is!”

Anne nodded. “I know,” she said, “and I pray you, Sarah, say nothing to Lady Derby who but does what she is told. I care nothing for my sister’s attitude at this time. There is only one thing I pray for; and that is my boy’s recovery.”

Anne the mother had a dignity which she lacked in other roles. Sarah recognized it and, although it was a great strain, forced herself to be silent.

In the nursery, Lady Derby was questioning Mrs. Pack.

“He’ll get better,” Mrs. Pack assured her. “He’s over the worst. He wants to be a soldier, he told me today. He wants his own company and he does not want to wait till he is grown up. That’s a good sign.”

“I will tell Her Majesty and she will be pleased.”

“Tell her too that I am keeping that Churchill crow out of my nursery.”

“I will tell her,” Lady Derby promised.

When she walked out Anne and Sarah were sitting together, and they ignored each other.

Mrs. Pack was right; the Duke of Gloucester began to recover quickly.

To mark the occasion and because she had heard of his desire to be a soldier, Mary sent him a toy sword which was set with real jewels.

“If you will eat this,” Gloucester was told, “you shall be a soldier.” Gloucester would do anything to become a soldier—even eat the hideous potages that were put before him to build up his strength. “If you will wear this, you shall be a soldier.” He wore what they wanted him to.

He went out for rides in his carriage when he would have preferred to stay in, because a soldier must go out every day.

He was not one to allow these promises to go unfulfilled.

“Mama,” he said, “I was promised that I should be a soldier and it is not good to break promises.”

“My boy shall be a soldier when he is old enough.”

“Mama, he is five years old.”

“It is a little young to be a soldier.”

“Not when promises have been made.”

Anne consulted with George. “He will have his way,” she said fondly. “And we promised him to make him get well quickly.”

“We must get him a toy musket, cannon, and a uniform. That will please him.”

Anne smiled at George; no one could have had a kinder husband. He never interfered with what she wanted to do; they supped and drank together; he had taught her to like the same wines that he did; and the pleasures of the table delighted them both. There was no excitement to be had with George; for that one had to go to Sarah; but the fact remained that he was the kindest husband in the world and as devoted to their boy as she was.

The cannon, the musket, and uniform pleased the little boy, but he said: “I am the Duke of Gloucester and cannot be a soldier on my own. I need a company. I have to drill them and lead them into battle. I shall start recruiting immediately.”

The parents exchanged glances. This was an extraordinary child they had begotten. He was full of energy in spite of his physical weakness. What a King he would make when he grew strong!

Even they were surprised when they saw him drilling five or six boys in the gardens.

When they spoke to him about it he shook his head. “It is not enough,” he said. “I need many more for a company of soldiers. And I must have more uniforms and muskets and swords for them all, for they can’t be soldiers without.”

Naturally they wanted to please him; and it was so pleasant to see him well again. The Queen heard of the new project and muskets and cannons began to arrive. It seemed that to serve in the Duke of Gloucester’s army might be a good opening for many little boys. So it did not take the little Duke long to form his army and soon he had ninety boys to be drilled each day. He had his drummers and his pipers—all of the ages of six and seven, a little older than himself but he was old for his years.

This occupied his thoughts to such an extent that he could talk of little else. The people could come and watch him drilling his army and they laughed and cheered.

The most popular member of the royal family was the Duke of Gloucester.

Mary was forced to reign alone while William was on the Continent and both she and William greatly regretted that Shrewsbury was not in office.

William had taken the seals of the Secretary of State from Nottingham and offered them to Shrewsbury before he left, but Shrewsbury would not accept them. Shrewsbury was piqued because he supported the Bill for three-yearly parliaments which William was against for he sensed that this would curtail the royal prerogative. The Tories opposing the Bill in the Commons enabled the King to refuse his assent; thus it was thrown out. William, however, believed he and Mary needed Shrewsbury and while he offered him the office of Secretary of State he hinted at a Dukedom. Shrewsbury, ever ready to plead ill health, retired to the country, expressing indifference to the King’s offers.

William was harassed. His defeats on the Continent had depressed him; he had heard the rhymes about himself and Mary and the continual fear that he would be regarded merely as her consort—and which had been with him ever since their marriage, souring it and filling it with misunderstandings—returned.

He believed he needed Shrewsbury, and he was afraid that if he did not bind him with high office, Shrewsbury would go to the Jacobites. This affair of the Bill for triennial Parliaments was unfortunate, and he consulted one who never failed to comfort him and give him sound advice.

Elizabeth nodded shrewdly. He wanted Shrewsbury and there might be a way of persuading the Earl that he should become a member of the Government.

“He was completely without interest, but when I mentioned a dukedom there was the faintest flicker and then that died and he seemed adamant.”

“Would you like me to try to see what could be done?”

“My dear, do you think you could?”

“He has a mistress—Mrs. Lundy. She is a foolish woman, but he is devoted to her. It might be possible to persuade her. Have I your permission to try?”

He took her hand.

“I know you to be completely discreet.”

“You can trust me always to work … as you would yourself … and what higher compliment can there be than that?”

He wondered what he would do without her. Fortunately the Queen never mentioned her now. She knew of his relationship with her and accepted it. That was well.

And it was largely due to the cleverness of Elizabeth who never irritated the Queen, never intruded. She should be rewarded; yet how could he reward her without calling attention to their relationship.

She never asked for rewards. Incomparable woman!

He had forgotten that she had her small rewards. Bentinck was falling out of favor, although William would always have an affection for him; Keppel was rising in power; and Keppel had been the protégé of Elizabeth. They stood together while Bentinck had been the enemy who had dared criticize her.

Elizabeth had her power. It was enough.

It was absurd, said the Princess Anne, for her boy to be dressed as a child. One only had to look at him drilling his soldiers to realize how advanced he was.

Sarah yawned. She was a little weary of Anne’s obsession. She would tell her so, but for the fact that John had warned her; and it was true their fortunes were not very bright at the moment. As soon as that child was a little older she would have her own son brought to be a companion to him; but not yet; she did not want her young John to be drilling with that band of boys. When Gloucester had a worthy post to offer her son he should have it.

The Princess Anne went on: “Mr. Morley and I were talking of him last evening …”

I’ll swear you were! thought Sarah. What else do you talk of but food and drink.

She was getting very restive and finding Anne more boring than ever; and she was often angry at the way things were going. William was spitting blood and looked as if he would soon be in his tomb; but Mary recovered from her illnesses and in fact seemed a great deal more healthy than Anne. Life was madly frustrating at this time. But she was subdued—for her; Marlborough’s sojourn in the Tower had had a very sobering effect.

“So we have summoned Mr. Hughes to make him a suit in white camlet and the loops and buttons are to be of silver thread.”

“I am sure the little Duke will look charming thus attired.” Poor little monster, thought Sarah, complacently, thinking of her own handsome son. Then her expression clouded when she remembered little Charles lying in his coffin. There was no safety anywhere now, it seemed. Tragedy could hit the Churchills just as any other family. They were meant for distinction, she was sure; but they had their troubles.

“When Mr. Hughes comes I want to take him to my boy for I wish to discuss with him how the clothes shall be made.”

Sarah hid a yawn; and was rather pleased when Mr. Hughes came so that she could be rid of Anne.

“Mrs. Pack,” said the boy, “I do not like Mr. Hughes.”

“Why not. He’s a good tailor.”

“My stays are so tight, they hurt me.”

He looked incongruous with his enormous head and his bright darting eyes which seemed as though they should be on the body of a boy in his teens instead of that fragile little creature.

He pulled at the stays under his waistcoat. “Do stays always hurt like this, Mrs. Pack?”

“They are meant to make you straight so they are bound to restrict a little.”

“They do not make me feel very friendly toward Mr. Hughes,” said the Prince.

Mr. Hughes the tailor called at Campden House on the orders of the Duke of Gloucester. As he entered the hall he was almost knocked over by a noisy crowd of small boys—ninety of them. One stood apart shouting orders.

“This way. Bring him here. Hurry, men.”

“What the …” gasped Mr. Hughes as his legs and arms were seized by small hands and he was dragged to the floor; for small as his attackers were, they were numerous and they swarmed over him.

“Over here,” was the order. “This way. We’ll teach him to make stiff stays.”

“Help me!” cried Mr. Hughes, so bewildered that he could not imagine what was happening to him.

A voice said: “Your Highness, what is this?”

“My men are in control,” was the answer.

“It’s Mr. Hughes, the tailor. Why Mr. Hughes, what has happened to you then?”

Mr. Hughes gasped his thankfulness to hear the voice of his friend and fellow Welshman, Lewis Jenkins.

“I do not know. These … imps fell on me as I came into the hall.”

“We are taking him to the wooden horse,” said a high pitched voice. “He is to be punished for making stiff stays that hurt.”

“Mr. Hughes,” said Lewis Jenkins, “get you up then, man. Now stand away, you boys.”

“They take orders from none but me.”

“The wooden horse, Mr. Hughes, man, is the punishment they use for soldiers who disobey. Take no notice. Mr. Hughes is not one of Your Highness’s men.”

“He makes stays that hurt. They’re hurting me now.”

“Why don’t you ask him to remake them for Your Highness. That would be more sensible than this game you’re playing.”

Mr. Hughes was on his feet, but hands still pulled at his clothes. He said: “I’m sorry the stays are too tight, Your Highness. You must allow me to alter them.”

“You can alter them?” asked the Duke.

“Certainly, Your Highness. I can make them so that you won’t feel you’re wearing stays at all, and would have done so, had you asked me.”

“Men … dismiss!” cried Gloucester. “Mr. Hughes, to my apartments quick … march.”

So Gloucester went off with the tailor and in a short time the stays had been altered to fit comfortably.

Lewis Jenkins laughed at the affair with his fellow attendants. “He’ll get what he wants, that little one,” he commented, and it struck him that they were fortunate to be in the service of the Duke of Gloucester. It was time he was acknowledged the Prince of Wales, for the more honors that befell him, the more they would all benefit.

THE END OF A LIFE

rs. Lundy, daughter of Robert Lundy, who had been Governor of Londonderry, where he had served with little distinction, and had betrayed William and deserted the town during the siege—smiled at Elizabeth Villiers and wondered why the woman was being so gracious to her.

“You have great influence with my lord Shrewsbury,” said Elizabeth, “and I can well understand that.”

Mrs. Lundy, a vain and pretty woman, laughed. “He’s an obstinate devil,” she said, “once he has made up his mind.”

“What man is not?” asked Elizabeth. “But sometimes—nay, often—it is possible to use a little gentle persuasion.”

“You think Shrewsbury would listen to me?”

“If he would not listen to you he would listen to no one.”

That pleased the woman; she tossed her head. No doubt she was proud of her conquest, for Shrewsbury was reckoned to be a fascinating man. He had a damaged eye which some people found repulsive; yet that seemed but to add to his attractions where others were concerned. Elizabeth herself knew the value of some slight imperfection and how it could be turned to an asset.

She must get Shrewsbury to take office. William would be so delighted if she did; and she was eager to bind him closer and closer to herself.

“A Dukedom. That is worth having,” went on Elizabeth. Surely, she implied, you would rather be the mistress of a Duke than an Earl? As the mistress of a King, Elizabeth could show that the rank of one’s lover was of the utmost importance.

“He doesn’t seem to care for titles.”

“He is well equipped in that direction,” added Elizabeth. “But I have yet to know the man who was not ready to take a little more. I’ll warrant you will make him do as you wish.”

Mrs. Lundy was not at all sure that it was her wish; but Elizabeth was subtly convincing her that it was.

Well, Mrs. Lundy was thinking, Secretary of State, a Duke … that was rather pleasant. And the King—and the Queen—would know that it was Mrs. Lundy who had persuaded that obstinate man to change his mind. They ought then to be very respectful toward Mrs. Lundy.

“I will talk to him,” she said.

“I know you will succeed,” Elizabeth assured her.

Gloucester was suffering from the ague and his mother was frantic with anxiety until she remembered that a Mr. Sentiman used to make up a prescription of brandy and saffron which he claimed would cure any sort of ague. Anne’s uncle, Charles II, had dabbled in the making of medicines and she had heard him recommend this prescription. So Anne immediately sent for Mr. Sentiman.

The mixture was brought to Gloucester who, protesting, took it. It cured his ague but made him so ill that his parents feared he was on the point of death.

Anne sat on one side of his bed, George on the other.

“He must not die,” whispered Anne brokenheartedly, and George came to stand at her side and place one of his fat hands on her shoulder. Dear comforting George, who loved the boy even as she did. Gloucester looked weakly from one to the other and smiled faintly.

“You must not fret so, Papa and Mama,” he said. “I shall get better soon. I have to drill the men I intend to offer the King to go to Flanders with him.”

Then he closed his eyes and slept.

He was right; he did improve.

It was a glorious day when Anne and George knew that he was out of danger.

“He should be proclaimed Prince of Wales,” said Anne.

George shook his head, meaning that it would not be wise.

“Mary is fond of him; she gives him almost everything he asks for. I think sometimes she would give everything she has for a son like our boy. George, I have just thought of something. The Duke of Hamilton has died. Does that convey anything to you?”

“No, my dear, only that the Duke of Hamilton is dead.”

“He had the Garter.”

“It’s true,” said George.

“A blue ribbon vacant. Why not for our boy?”

“It should be his. Why not?”

“My lord Shrewsbury to see Your Majesty.”

“Pray tell him to come to me at once.”

Mary was pleasurably excited as always by this man.

He came to her and bowed low. What was it about him that reminded her of her youth in Holland when she had danced with Monmouth? He was not in the least like Monmouth—he had far more to commend him. He was more serious. Poor Monmouth had tried to snatch at office and had lost his head in doing so, and Shrewsbury had been remarkably shy in taking it.

“I hope, my lord,” said Mary, flushing slightly, “that you have come to give me the news I shall best like to hear.”

“Your Majesties have been most gracious to me, most complimentary.”

“I know the King desires you to take office. There are few men here whom he can trust.”

“I once heard it said to him that there was no one in England who could be trusted and he replied, ‘Yes, there are men of honor in England, but alas, they are not my friends.’ ”

Mary nodded. “In his great wisdom he knew that to be true. You, my lord, are one whom he would trust; and if I could write to him and tell him that you have accepted office that would be the best news he could have.”

“It is my desire to serve Your Majesties.”

Mary gave a little cry of pleasure and laid her hand on his arm, then flushing still deeper, removed it.

“I am so delighted that you have made this decision.”

They looked at each other intently. He was suspected of being a Jacobite; but he was also a man of honor. Perhaps he had refused office because he had no wish to serve against the King to whom he had once sworn allegiance. This taking of office, in the case of a man like Shrewsbury, must mean that he had accepted the revolution, that he had decided that it was impossible to attempt to bring back James and would work therefore for William and Mary.

William was right. There were few men of honor who had been his friends. If they had been men of honor they would not readily have deserted the old King in favor of the new. That was why William had had to look for his friends among Dutchmen.

But Shrewsbury was a man they knew they could trust, and the Queen felt a mingling of relief, delight—and excitement.

Gloucester was preparing to visit the Queen; he had recovered from the ague and was as full of vitality as ever. He looked like an odd little man in his white camlet suit with the silver thread decorations and he was pleased now because Mr. Hughes had taken most of the stiffness out of his stays.

His mother put a blue ribbon over his shoulders and stood back to admire the effect.

“But what is that?” he asked.

“Do you not like it?”

“Soldiers don’t wear them.”

“Ah, yes they do, if they are honored enough.”

“I have never seen a soldier in a blue ribbon.”

“It is the ribbon of the Garter.”

“A garter, worn there …”

“They have a garter too.”

“Where is it?”

“You haven’t got that yet. It has to be given by the Queen. Perhaps when she sees how that blue ribbon becomes you she will give you one.”

Gloucester was not greatly impressed, but was always pleased to visit his aunt; and when he was with her he forgot about the blue ribbon for she did not mention it either.

Mary had noticed it though and understood the implication. Anne wanted her to bestow the Garter on her nephew.

She would have liked to do so, for nothing pleased her better than bestowing honors on the little boy; but she had already made up her mind who was to have the vacant Garter.

A Dukedom was not enough for one whom she admired, as she did Shrewsbury; and the Garter should be his.

“So it is the Garter for Shrewsbury!” cried Sarah. “A Dukedom and the Garter!”

“She knew that I wanted the Garter for my boy.”

“You can want all you like. She can’t do enough for that man. You can guess why, Mrs. Morley.”

“You don’t mean …”

“What else? I have heard that she starts and blushes every time he comes into the room. Well, you can’t wonder at it when you consider Caliban. And what of the Villiers woman too! Naturally the Queen wants a little fun.”

“As you say considering Caliban …”

They laughed together, Anne a little bitterly because she was furious that Gloucester had been denied the Garter.

“You know what Jack Howe says …” went on Sarah.

“Pray tell me.”

“You know, Mrs. Morley, that Jack Howe was dismissed from the Queen’s service, but he knew much of what went on there and he said that if William died she would go so far as to marry Shrewsbury.”

“He is supposed to be handsome, Mrs. Freeman, but that eye of his is so repulsive.”

“William has Squint-eyed Betty and you know the Queen thinks William has such good taste.”

It was like Sarah to be able to make her laugh when she was feeling so miserable about the loss of Gloucester’s Garter.

“Oh, Mrs. Freeman, do you believe this?”

“I do,” said Sarah.

More than that she was determined that others were going to believe it too.

Mary wondered whether the child had expected to have the Garter; she guessed that there would be a good deal of light chatter when his mother was about; and his ears were alert for everything that was said. She feared he might be disappointed and therefore decided that she would give him a present instead.

She had a beautiful bird in a cage brought to her; it was of a rare species and the same blue colors as the Garter.

Surely a bird would be more exciting to a child who could not understand the honor implied.

When Gloucester next came to see her she received him with great affection, complimented him on his glowing looks and asked how the army was progressing. He delighted to tell her that his men were shaping well and when they were ready he intended to offer them to the King.

Mary assured him that the King would be delighted.

“And now I have a present for you,” she said.

He looked pleased; he was certain that she was going to offer him a blue ribbon. He had heard so much talk about the Garter between his parents that he had begun to regard it with awe and look forward to the day he would wear it over his uniform. All his soldiers must be told in advance that it was a great honor and they must have a special field day to mark the occasion.

So when the Queen’s woman brought in a bird in a cage he was taken aback.

“There!” said Mary. “Is that not a beautiful creature.”

Gloucester regarded the bird intently. “Yes, it is a beautiful creature,” he said.

“I knew you would like it. How much more beautiful than a Garter.”

He looked stonily at the cage.

“I will give it to you,” said Mary. He bowed courteously but distantly.

“Madam,” he said very distinctly, “I would not rob Your Majesty of the creature.”

Then to the astonishment of the Queen he began to talk of other matters.

Sarah had been talking to Princess Anne when suddenly she rose and throwing open a door found Mrs. Pack standing very close to it.

“Ah, Mrs. Pack, I expected to find you there!”

“Did you?” said Mrs. Pack, for the moment abashed.

“Oh, yes. A favorite spot of yours.” Sarah smiled and then let her expression become grim. She shut the door with a bang and went back to the Princess.

“There we have our spy,” she said. “I have told you before, Mrs. Morley, that you should suspect her.”

“I wish she would go.”

“You wish she would go? But in this household your wishes are law.”

“My boy has an affection for her.”

“He cares for nothing but his soldiers. Give him a few more to drill and order about and he’ll gladly exchange Mrs. Pack for them.”

To order about? thought Anne. Sarah liked to order people about.

She dismissed the thought at once; it was so unfair to Sarah who thought only of her comfort. But what to do about this Mrs. Pack? The woman was a spy for the Queen. There would always be spies. If you were rid of one, others took their places. That was why Barbara Fitzharding had remained. She was a good governess to Anne’s boy even though she did report everything to her sister. There must always be spies.

“Pack must pack,” said Sarah facetiously.

But Anne shook her head. “My boy wouldn’t like that. Remember she fed him. I shall never forget the day she came to the nursery. Dear Mr. Morley and I were breaking our hearts because we thought we were going to lose our boy.”

“My dear Mrs. Morley, because Pack was a good wet nurse that does not mean that she should be allowed to spy on your household.”

“The boy is fond of her.”

“Then you will not let her go?”

“I do not care to make a hasty decision on such a matter.” Sarah was quite obviously angry, but Anne was firm.

It was Mrs. Pack who made the decision. She had been found out and she guessed her usefulness was at an end. She told the Queen what had happened and Mary gave Mr. Pack a place in the Custom House which Mrs. Pack gratefully accepted on his behalf. Then Mrs. Pack addressed herself to Anne.

“Madam,” she said, “I am begging leave to retire as the Duke is now growing too old for a nurse and I find my health failing me.”

Anne was pleased. This gave her an opportunity of pleasing Sarah without upsetting a woman to whom she must always be grateful, so she settled an annuity of forty pounds a year on Mrs. Pack who went to join her husband and family at Deptford.

It was true that Mrs. Pack’s health was not as good as it had once been; and the Deptford air did not suit her as Kensington had.

Only a few weeks after she had left she caught the small pox.

The Duke of Gloucester who had been distressed when she left was even more so when he heard that she was ill. He wanted to visit her, but when this was forbidden, he sent messengers each day to inquire for her health.

He was noticeably less exuberant than he had been; and the attendants said that there was a closeness between a wet nurse and a child she had suckled which nothing could break.

The Duke of Gloucester stood staring disconsolately out of the window. Several of his attendants noticed that he had been quiet that day.

Mrs. Wanley, one of the women of the household, asked him if he were feeling ill.

“No,” he told her; and continued to stare out of the window.

There was something odd about the child, yet at the same time lovable. He was so grown up in his mind and yet so physically delicate. Everyone in the household was constantly on the watch for a cold or an ague or fever.

“I know what,” said Mrs. Wanley; “you miss Mrs. Pack. You haven’t been the same since she went.”

He did not answer and she went on: “Poor Mrs. Pack. I always said the Deptford air wasn’t to be compared with this at Kensington. Why, she hadn’t been there a week when she took this small pox. Mind you, I haven’t heard that she’s got it badly …”

Gloucester said slowly: “Mrs. Pack will die tomorrow.”

Then he walked slowly out of the room.

Mrs. Wanley staring after him, murmured: “Lord have mercy on us!” and then shrugged her shoulders.

She remembered the remark the next day, though, for Gloucester did not send to Deptford as he had every day since he had heard of Mrs. Pack’s illness.

Lewis Jenkins, thinking that he had forgotten, reminded him.

“It is no use sending,” said Gloucester gravely, “for Mrs. Pack is dead.”

“Dead!” cried Lewis. “How do you know.”

“That is no matter,” answered Gloucester, “but I am sure she is dead.”

The entire household was discussing this strange incident and Jenkins, out of curiosity, sent a messenger to Deptford to find out the state of Mrs. Pack’s health.

When the messenger returned several of the servants were eagerly waiting for him.

“Mrs. Pack died today,” he said.

They looked at each other. The little Duke of Gloucester was strange in more ways than one.

Oddly enough now that Mrs. Pack was dead he ceased to grieve for her, and it was almost as though she had never existed.

Mary, hearing the story, was struck by the strangeness of her nephew and wanted to know more about the incident and asked him if he were very upset because his old nurse was dead.

His expression was stony suddenly. He looked into his aunt’s face and said coldly: “No, Madam.”

Then in that disconcertingly adult manner, he began to talk of other subjects.

The news from the Continent was not good; Mary was beset by troubles. The Whigs were in revolt against William’s policies both at home and abroad, for they had supported him in the first place—expecting him to take orders from them, and the Tories were naturally dissatisfied. Why, Mary wondered, did men covet crowns? When she thought of the pleasant life she and William might have had, living quietly in Holland she could cry with frustration. But then William was a born leader; he would never have been content with the simple life.

She herself was discovering a talent for government which surprised no one as much as herself. She was gracious to all; she wished to be just; she was rarely arrogant and the people liked her, in spite of the spate of lampoons which were written about her and William. She had inherited some quality from her Uncle Charles which meant that when she came face to face with trouble she would be inspired to act in a manner which could best avert it.

This she was able to prove when she was with her Cabinet; as it was a ceremonial occasion she was wearing her velvet robes lined with ermine and there were jewels on her gown.

The defeats the Army had suffered on the Continent meant that the Exchequer was low and there were rumors that the country was on the edge of bankruptcy. Servants of the state had not been paid for some time and this was a condition which could not continue.

She was discussing this matter with her ministers when there were sounds of angry voices in the courtyard, and she sent one of her pages down to discover what was happening. Shortly afterward—while the shouts became nearer and more menacing—he returned to say that it was a party of sailors’ wives from Wapping who had come to demand their husbands’ pay.

Mary was aware of the consternation on the faces of her ministers. This was the first riot, they were thinking. Where was it going to end?

It was then that Mary showed her special talent.

“Go down to these women,” she said, “and tell them to select four of their group as spokeswomen; these four shall be brought to me here and I personally will talk to them and they shall tell me of what they complain.”

Her ministers were astonished.

“Did she realize that there was a mob of angry women below threatening to tear the palace apart? And did she know what a mob could be like when it was aroused?”

She answered: “They have a grievance and have come to Whitehall, I believe, to see me. It would be discourteous of me to refuse to talk with them.”

She insisted that four women were brought to her presence chamber.

When she, in her ermine and jewels, faced them in their patched serge, her ministers trembled, but she was unafraid.

So royal did she look; so large, so glittering, so very much like their picture of a Queen that even the leader of the four was temporarily overawed. And when Mary spoke to them in a beautiful soft voice which betrayed at once her sympathy they were still further taken aback, that someone who looked so sumptuous could at the same time be kind and sympathetic.

“You are anxious because your husbands have not been paid, and I understand that full well. So you came to see me about it which was a wise thing to do, and I am glad you did it. Now tell me everything that is in your minds.”

They told her. They spoke of their poverty, of the arrears which had not been paid and how the sailors’ wives of Wapping had decided that they would not accept this state of affairs.

She did not attempt to interrupt, but listened gravely, nodding her head.

When they had finished she said: “I will tell you this: Everything that is owing to you shall be paid in time. The first payment shall begin at once. I give you my word.”

There was a brief silence. Promises had been made before. But this was a woman like themselves who seemed to understand. She was magnificent yet kind; she was a Queen and they did not believe such a woman could deceive them.

“We believe Your Majesty,” said the leader of the group, turning to her companions for confirmation. They nodded.

“Then,” said the Queen, “take your friends back to Wapping, and take them in peace, for riots would serve no good to any of us.”

The four retired, reported what had happened to their friends and assured them that the Queen was a lady whom they could trust; the mob went quietly away, and, summoning the Cabinet, Mary ordered that whoever else suffered the sailors must be paid.

She made them see the wisdom of this move and that having given her promise it must be honored.

The sailors were paid and what might have been the beginning of disaster was avoided.

William was in England, rather weary, rather dispirited and poor in health.

Mary noticed that he was turning more and more to Keppel and that there was an unhealthy rivalry between him and Bentinck for William’s affections. She was sorry for this because Bentinck had been a good and faithful friend; and she was afraid that William’s obvious preference for the younger man would turn Bentinck from him.

It was Elizabeth Villiers’ doing, she knew; for Elizabeth had promoted Keppel when Bentinck had shown himself to be against her, and so subtly had she done this that she had undermined the friendship of a lifetime. Mary felt very sad to see William’s neglect of his old friend in favor of the gay young man; and more so because it was an indication of the hold Elizabeth Villiers still had on William.

It was pleasant, however, to discover that he could be amused by young Gloucester. Perhaps the boy with the grown-up manner and the big head reminded him of what he himself had been at that age; and Gloucester’s preoccupation with the Army was something they had in common.

When the boy announced that there was to be a grand field day in Kensington Gardens and invited the King and Queen to attend, William’s mouth turned up at the corners and he said to Mary: “It is an invitation we must accept.”

Mary was delighted. “Such a droll creature he is, William. He is most unusual. I never knew such a boy. If only his health would improve we should all be so much happier.”

“He certainly does not resemble his father or mother.”

“He is not in the least like them.”

“If he were, I for one would not wish to see him.”

“I think you must have been rather like him when you were a boy, William. He is so bright and so interested in his soldiers. To see him drilling them is better than a play.”

William grunted and they set out together for the gardens where Gloucester had his troops lined up in readiness.

Gloucester saluted the King and Queen and conducted them to the grand stand with their attendants.

“Such guards you have!” he commented. “Once my Mamma had Guards. Why does she not have them now?”

There was a brief silence. The boy certainly had a habit of firing awkward questions. Then the Queen said quickly. “I am always rather pleased to escape from guards and formality. Tell me are you going to fire the cannon?”

Gloucester was thoughtful for a second or so which Mary knew meant he was making a mental note of her answer. He would probably want to know later why she did not wish to discuss his mother’s lack of guards.

He turned to William. “Have I the King’s permission to fire the cannon?”

“It is readily granted,” answered William, and Mary was happy again.

“I hope the King will inspect my troops,” said Gloucester. “I have assured them that this would be a great honor.”

To Mary’s delight William expressed his willingness to inspect the troops and he carried out the performance as gravely as though it were a real military display.

Gloucester walked with the King through the ranks of boys who stood at attention, toy muskets on their shoulders, wooden swords at their sides. An incongruous sight, some might think—the boy with his enormous head and little legs which hardly seemed strong enough to carry him so that he gave the impression of tottering, and William stooping forward, his great periwig overbalancing his body. They might have been father and son, thought Mary; and how wonderful it would have been if they were.

The cannons were then fired; there were four of them but the fourth had gone wrong and only three of them worked. Gloucester was very downcast about this. “That this should happen on the field day when the King is inspecting my troops!” he moaned. “Oh, be doleful!”

William replied that he would send a cannon to replace that which had failed to work and Gloucester was mollified.

“My dear King,” he said, “you shall have both my companies with myself to serve you in Flanders.”

William gravely thanked him and watching them Mary almost wept with joy, for never would she have believed William capable of such make-believe.

She said to herself then: This is one of the happiest moments of my life.

In May William prepared to leave for Flanders and Mary decided to accompany him as far as Canterbury.

As the weather was impossible for William to cross the Channel they decided to stay for a while in Canterbury and Mary was glad of these few days’ respite.

She felt there was little to look forward to but these separations which meant long periods of anxiety for her when she must shoulder the burden of sovereignty alone. That she was admired and respected by her ministers was some comfort; and she had Shrewsbury to lean on. But her relationship with him was a little uneasy for she could not be unmoved in his presence and somewhere at the back of her mind was a thought which she refused to consider. There was a man whom she could have loved. It had been thus with Monmouth; and if she had loved one of them how different her life would have been from that which she shared with William.

She was thirty-three, which was not after all very old; yet she was weighed down with responsibilities; and it was disconcerting to remind herself that she had never had a lover.

These thoughts were suppressed before they had time to become complete. Fragments of disappointment and frustration were stifled by the ideals which demanded that she accept her union with William as the perfect marriage.

She fancied that he was turning to her more than he ever had before. Was he admiring the manner in which she ruled in his absence, and of which her ministers approved? In fact she believed they were glad to see William go, for they preferred to serve her. William was aware of this and it did not really please him. It was natural, she hastened to assure herself, for he was the man, he was the master; and he had always been afraid that he would be regarded merely as her consort.

But he was turning from Bentinck to Keppel; could it be that he was turning from Elizabeth Villiers to his wife?

He had been less irritable; he had treated her with more respect; he was forced to discuss state affairs with her; and he did like to walk, leaning on her arm, through the gardens of Kensington, talking of the plans for rebuilding which never seemed to be completed.

He seemed to have made up his mind that he could not win the affection of these alien people, and he made no attempt to do so.

When he had ridden through Canterbury only that day he had had an opportunity of pleasing the people. Knowing that he would be riding that way they had gathered the flowers from their gardens to dress up the High Street and some of the boys of the neighborhood had called “Long Live King William!” as his coach drove along; they had run beside it shouting loyal greetings.

And William, instead of bowing, smiling, and showing his pleasure, had scowled at them. “It is enough,” he said dryly.

They had fallen away from the coach, crestfallen then, but they would be sullen and resentful later.

What a King! Those boys could remember tales of royal progress. Good King Charles had always known how to please the people. What William did not seem to understand was that whenever his name was mentioned those boys would remember a sour face against a coach window grumbling: “It is enough!”

Soon afterward they went on to Margate and there she took yet another farewell of her husband.

A few weeks after William had left came news of the disastrous expedition against Brest when many lives were lost.

Sarah heard the news in silence. Another failure for William! She believed that she had had a hand in this for she had heard from John that the expedition was to take place and she had written of it to her sister Frances, Lady Tyrconnel, who was in France with James and his exiled Court. If the element of surprise had been removed, then it was hardly likely that the expedition should succeed.

Well, thought Sarah, I have no reason to be grateful to this King or Queen.

She felt an immense sense of power—which had deserted her lately—when she could convince herself that she had had a hand in this disaster.

Anne was becoming more and more boring; she was completely wrapped up in her son and this brought her and George closer together. As for Old Est-il possible? he was even more of a bore than his wife.

I shall go mad if something does not happen soon, thought Sarah.

William returned in November. The English received him sullenly. What sort of a King was this whose heart was clearly on the Continent. He had suffered many defeats, but he had inflicted great losses on the French and it was believed that they might be pleased to make peace.

William did not want peace. He was a soldier and his military skill had won him adulation abroad—if not in England. He had a greater interest in Holland than in England and chose Dutchmen for his friends.

He was more morose than ever on his return, having no time to be with Mary, nor to visit young Gloucester. He was brusque and showed no respect for his wife’s wishes. When her devoted friend John Tillotson, the Archbishop of Canterbury, died she had wanted to give the office to Dr. Stillingfleet who was most suited for it, but William had given it to Thomas Tenison, although previously it had been understood that she was to bestow such offices where she thought fit.

It was impossible to discuss anything with William. He became aloof and cold, or even sarcastic, when she tried to. So Mary shrugged the matter aside and accepted his rule.

But with the coming of the winter she was feeling depressed. Often she heard news of her sister’s household and she knew that slanderous stories about herself and William had their beginnings there; and although Sarah Churchill was her enemy, Anne was to blame for keeping her.

Information had reached William that the failure at Brest was partly due to betrayal on the part of the Marlboroughs, and he was furious, yet afraid; for the people chose to see in Anne a martyr and while she supported the Marlboroughs it was dangerous to attack them.

He summoned Marlborough and told him that he was deeply disturbed by what he believed had happened.

“Upon my honor,” cried Marlborough, “I never mentioned it but in confidence to my wife.”

“I never mention anything in confidence to mine,” murmured William.

“My wife must have mentioned it to her sister.”

William looked at him through narrowed eyes and thought of how he would have this man’s head … if he dared.

What a country! What was this crown worth? The men whom he would have chosen to have on his side, and Marlborough was one of them, were all against him. He was feeling weary and wished that he had allowed this ungrateful land to turn papist, to keep its King.

There were continual pinpricks, such as when the new coins were issued. The heads of William and Mary were to be engraved on these coins, and there had, in fact, been difficulty in getting them made because Philip Rotier, the artist who had worked for the crown, refused to do so for William and Mary, boldly stating that he did not consider them the true King and Queen. His son, Norbert, however, was less scrupulous and undertook the work.

When these were completed the head of William looked as though it belonged to a satyr. It was deliberate, and of the same pattern as the lampoons which were circulated daily. The people did not like Dutch William. They had not wanted papist James but they did not want William either. It was only Mary, he knew, who kept them on the throne. What he had always feared was, in a way, happening. It had been one of his nightmares that Mary would become Queen of England and he merely her consort. That had not happened; but again and again he was reminded that he was only accepted on her account.

The political situation was dangerous, and William was constantly at Whitehall. Mary who was suffering from a cold which she could not throw off, remained at Kensington to take advantage of the purer air. Occasionally William would come there; but when he did he would be working all the time and rarely stayed long before he was called back to business in Whitehall.

Mary was melancholy; she worried about William’s health for the spitting of blood had started again and his asthma was worse. She heard through the gossip of his pages that he drank a great deal—always Holland’s gin—when he was with his Dutch friends, and although he never showed signs of intoxication he became irritable. He was working too hard, planning new campaigns, and was never at rest.

One day when she was at her toilet the ruby fell out of the ring which he had put on her finger when he married her. Of all the splendid jewelry she possessed this ruby ring was the most precious to her. Often she would remember the occasion when he had placed it on her finger, the horror in her heart, the ready tears; and all because she was marrying William whom, she assured herself, she had come to love more than she had believed it was possible to love anyone.

“The ruby!” she cried as it dropped to the floor.

Her women were on their hands and knees searching for it, and one of them, finding it, held it up.

“Your Majesty will have it reset.”

She was trembling. “I do not like that,” she said.

“Your Majesty has had it for many years. Stones do drop out now and then.”

“I am afraid,” she said, “that it is an omen.”

“Your Majesty is tired,” soothed Lady Derby. “Will you allow me to take the ring and have the stone put in?”

Mary handed it to her, but she could not shake off her melancholy, and when the ring was returned to her she did not wear it. She wrote an account of how William had slipped it on her finger, how she had always treasured it beyond all other jewelry, and then how frightened she had been when the stone had fallen out.

She put it on her finger while she wrote. Then she thought: I shall never feel it is safe. I shall always be afraid of losing it now.

So she put it into a box with what she had written about it and locked the box.

That gave her a feeling of security; as though she had taken precaution against fate.

Mary had felt ill throughout the day; she had slept badly and in the morning was filled with such a sense of foreboding that she did not wait for her women to come to her. Instead she got up and examined her arms and shoulders. It was almost as though she had been expecting what she saw there. They were covered in a rash.

She went back to bed and lay there waiting.

There was one disease which all feared, for although some took it and survived, mostly it was fatal. If she were suffering from small pox she would have very little chance of recovery. She was only thirty-three, but she loved rich foods; her habit of drinking chocolate every night had made her put on a great deal of weight and she had heard that those whose blood was rich with a surfeit of food fared badly in the sickness.

When her women came to her she said: “Do not come too near me, but call Dr. Radcliffe.”

When Dr. Radcliffe came, he said she was suffering from the measles.

The news was quickly circulated that the Queen was sick.

At Berkeley House Sarah felt as though new life was being pumped into her. The Queen sick. Measles, they said. But was it? Doctors who wanted to cheer the patient and not spread alarm sometimes said “Measles” when they meant “Small pox.”

If it were small pox, she couldn’t survive. She was not strong enough. She was too fat; and moreover she had suffered recently from the ague. She hadn’t a chance.

The great moment might be at hand, for if she died, would the people keep William? And if they would not, it was Anne’s turn.

Sarah went to her mistress who was lying on her couch. She frowned at her. Anne herself was in a poor state; She had suffered in the last year so badly from gout and dropsy that she could scarcely walk and had to be carried everywhere. She was enormous, and the fact that she was once more pregnant made her look larger than ever and feel more indisposed.

“Mrs. Morley has heard the news?”

Anne looked surprised, and as obviously she hadn’t, Sarah lost no time in telling her.

“Radcliffe says measles, but the man’s a fool. From what I hear it’s the pox.”

“The pox!”

Sarah clicked her tongue impatiently. “You know what this can mean, Mrs. Morley?”

Anne looked startled. Then she said: “Of course. Oh, dear, we must act quickly.”

“There is nothing much we can do at the moment, Mrs. Morley, except be patient for a while.”

But Anne was not listening. “My boy must leave Campden House at once. If there is small pox in Kensington he may be in danger.”

If Dr. Radcliffe diagnosed measles, Dr. Millington could not agree with him.

The Queen was suffering from small pox, said Dr. Millington, and Mary believed him.

She assured them that she felt a little better and that night dismissed her women. “If I need you,” she said, “I shall call. If I do not call, I wish to be left in peace.”

When she was alone, she rose, and taking the boxes in which she kept her writings and correspondence she sat at her table. Many candles had been lighted at her command and piece by piece she destroyed what she had written in her journals, the letters she had received from William during his campaigns, those which she had received from her father and Frances Apsley; she wanted no one to pry into her life, for she had expressed herself too frankly in her journals about her relationships with others. She had always intended to destroy these things at the last moment; and she believed that moment had come.

All through the night she sat there, reading those letters which recalled so much of her life; they brought back memories of a passionate young girl—a girl who had dearly loved another woman before she had been thrust into a marriage for state reasons; of the reluctant marriage which she had done her best to make into the perfect union; of the love she might have had for two men, Monmouth and Shrewsbury, but had never been given, only dreamed of.

“My life has been like a succession of dreams,” she said aloud, “and it has never been easy to know where the world of dreaming ended and that of reality began. And now it is too late to discover.”

She thought of William who from the time she was fifteen had dominated her life. That meant for eighteen years. Eighteen years with William and they had never known each other. She pictured those eighteen years. She saw herself dancing with Monmouth, pleading with Shrewsbury to take office, offering him his Dukedom and the Garter. And she saw William going stealthily up the back staircase to the apartments of the maids of honor to be with Elizabeth Villiers, of his devotion to Bentinck and Keppel.

Perhaps, she thought, it would have been better to have looked for truth rather than to have made dreams.

She smiled at the ashes. The past was dead now and no one should read the truth through her.

But there was one thing she had forgotten. William and Elizabeth Villiers! She believed that she was close to death; yet William had been the one whom everybody had thought would go first. He spat blood; he was in constant pain and his asthma was dangerous. He could die suddenly.

She thought of his dying with the guilt of adultery on him.

She would write to him, implore him to repent of his sin, and warn him that there was only one way he could hope for forgiveness and that was to sin no more.

Writing had always come easily to her; that was why there had been so much to burn during this night. Now her pen flowed smoothly. She knew, of course, of his adulterous intrigue with Elizabeth Villiers and she implored him not to go to his death with that stain on his soul or she feared he would not be received into heaven. He must repent. She begged him to. He must give up that woman. She herself had known of his adultery all through their married life and it had given her great pain. He must repent now. She was going to put this letter into a casket which she would entrust to the Archbishop of Canterbury. And with it she would write to the Archbishop himself telling him the contents of the letter. Then William must take notice of it. It was the only way in which she could save his soul.

She wrote long and passionately; and enclosed the letter in the casket which she addressed to Thomas Tenison, Archbishop of Canterbury, and on the letters she wrote “Not to be delivered excepting in case of my death.”

Then she retired to her bed, exhausted. In the morning her condition had worsened.

Sarah had regained all her old vitality. Gloucester was now with his mother at Berkeley House and Anne watched over him constantly, terrified that he might have contracted the disease.

He went about the house asking questions. How was the Queen? Why did she not want to see him?

His mother explained that she was sick.

“More sick than you?” he asked.

“Much more,” she answered.

He looked at her sadly, his great head on one side.

“Poor Mama,” he said. “Poor Queen!”

There was excitement everywhere. Servants at Berkeley House who knew servants at Kensington Palace discussed the latest news.

Sarah could not restrain herself; she sat by Anne’s chair and insisted on discussing the importance of all this and the possibilities which must ensue if Mary died.

“You should write to her now,” advised Sarah. “You should if necessary see her. It would not be good if she were to die and you two not friends. Who knows what would happen. What you do now is of the utmost importance.”

“I should feel unhappy if I did not have a chance of being friends with her again. I remember when we were little. I used to think she was so wonderful. I copied everything she did.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sarah, “but it is now that is important, not the past.”

Sarah was a little overbearing, thought Anne. She herself felt depressed. It was terrible to think that Mary—once her dear Mary—might be dying. They had not spoken to each other for so long and that made her very sad. She wished that they had never banded together against her father. The last year or so when she had been confined so much to her couch had made her more thoughtful.

She would write to Mary and ask if her sister would see her. There was no danger to herself for she had had the small pox. In any case, she would have risked danger to see Mary and be friends again.

Sarah was pleased. As Anne’s chief lady she would write to the Countess of Derby telling her the Princess Anne’s wishes.

A reply came, written in the hand of the Countess of Derby.

Madam, I am commanded by the King and Queen to tell you they desire you would let the Princess know they both thank her for sending and desiring to come, but it being thought so necessary to keep the Queen as quiet as possible, hope she will defer it. I am, Madam, your ladyship’s most humble servant.

E. Derby.

There was a postscript to this letter which Sarah found significant. It read: “Pray, Madam, present my humble duty to the Princess.”

“It is the most polite note we have had for some time,” said Sarah gleefully. “And what do you think Madame Derby means with her postcript?”

“She presents her duty to me.”

“Her duty! She is suddenly very dutiful. Why? I ask you, Mrs. Morley. It is because when Mary is gone, Mrs. Morley will hold a very important position in this land.”

Sarah looked at Anne who had begun to weep silently.

But Sarah was right. During the next few days there were many callers at Berkeley House. Those who of recent months had not thought it necessary to be aware of the Princess Anne’s existence, now wished to pay their humble respects to her.