The empress of ice cream

Louise

I invite Lady Arlington to cards. It is easy to beat iter now - she always plays the same hand in the same way. But, for the same reason, just as easy to let her win.

The usual questions about the king. Does he still come to me every morning? What about at night?

‘Of course, I only permit him to visit me during the day,’ I say. ‘Unless we were married, anything else would be improper.’

She snorts derisively. ‘But you cannot be married. Not while the queen stiU lives.’

I say idly, as I put down a card, ‘You know, I sometimes think it is a pity a king cannot have two queens. That would solve so many problems, wouldn’t it?’

I place the queen of diamonds and the queen of hearts together, one on either side of the king, as if my comment might have been no more than a remark about cards.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her eyes widen as she takes the bait.

«.

It is barely a day before her husband comes to see me. ‘I have had an idea,’ he tells me genially. ‘A suggestion, rather.’

‘I am sure you have many ideas, milord Arlington. All of them excellent.’

‘I do indeed,’ he agrees. ‘Many ideas. But, ah, only one wife.’

‘One is the usual complement, is it not?’

‘For ordinary men, it is.’

‘Oh, come. Lord Arlington. You are no ordinary man.’

He accepts this with an inclination of the head. ‘But not a king. No,’ he continues, almost to himself, ‘if I were like His Majesty - an absolute ruler, head of the Church, and God’s

anointed representative on earth - I could certainly have a second, official . . . consort^ if I chose.’ He regards me, pleased with himself.

‘Really? How interesting.’ After a moment I add, almost as an afterthought, ‘L> am surprised the priests would sanction it - I know how difficult they can be about these things. But naturally I trust to your expertise in such matters.’

‘Priests!’ he says, his eyes widening. Clearly, he had not bargained on my requiring priests.

‘A ceremony of that nature would require a priest, would it not?’ I say vaguely. ‘For it to be official, and recognised in the eyes of God? Of course, I am not au fait with, all the customs of your English church.’

A slight pause, and then he sees the opening I am creating for him. It is obvious when you think about it: they already have a made-up religion, with made-up ceremonies, their psalter and liturgy and rituals in a constant state of flux. What difference will one more make?

‘As it happens, I am not aware of the precise ceremony for such an . . . unusual occasion,’ he says slowly.

‘But then, you are not a bishop.’

‘No.’ Another pause. ‘It is an interesting theological question. I will put it to a bishop of my acquaintance. Do you know, I would not be surprised to find that such a ceremony exists after all.’

‘Nor would I,’ I say. ‘Not surprised in the least.’

And so, by hints and innuendoes, a deal is brokered.

Not a marriage, but a union. Not a queen, but a consort. There will be a wedding, after a fashion. Vows will be made, prayers said, a blessing given. There will be madrigals, a specially composed epithalamium in our honour, a masque. And then we will be put to bed, and the stocking thrown, just like any other bride and groom.

And Louis will have his war.

As for the venue, Arlington suggests his country palace, Euston Hall, near Newmarket. There is a chapel - of ambiguous style, neither plain Protestant nor extravagant Catholic - within the house. Of course I know why he is suggesting it; he wants this done out of London. That way, if it ever becomes known, he can dismiss it all as a frolic, a rustic masquerade held to entertain his guests. But equally, he wants it done under his auspices. He intends to get rich on the back of this. The chancellorship, at least, the gift of a grateful king.

A bishop is produced who swears that this is all quite proper. That is to say, no more improper than the alternative. That is to say, if something improper is to take place, it is better done in God’s plain sight than not. That way the king is almost asking His forgiveness and understanding. Which forgiveness is, in one sense, a kind of blessing in this world of sin.

I believe the bishop wants to be an archbishop, and soon. His arguments are nonsense - a child could blow them down. But nobody chooses to disagree. Especially not Charles. He does not care what rules are bent so long as he gets what he wants.

The ambassador, Colbert, is even more impatient than the king. ‘We need war now. Why this delay;

‘There are thirty-two warships being hammered together at Chatham docks as we speak. The delay is for your benefit, not mine.’

‘But why cannot the yielding happen first, and the ships follow after?’

I turn my mild gaze on him. ‘You may know a lot about diplomacy, Your Excellency, but you do not seem to know very much about men and women. Who do you think those ships are being built so urgently for - Louis, or Louise?’

He sees the sense in this, and bows.

‘Let us hope, then,’ he says quietly, ‘that King Charles never

sees fit to regret the high price he has paid for your companionship. Madame.’

I note that ‘Madame’. And for that slight, Your Excellency, I think, and the small frisson of distaste with which you condescend to look at me, I-will make sure that once I am his mistress, you are recalled to France.

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