The empress of ice cream

Louise

A

It is an open secret that Parliament will insist on peace as soon as it assembles. Every night Charles sits in meetings, debating with his ministers what to do. His objective is to buy time: a policy which his brother, in a rare flash of wit, has described as being indistinguishable from wasting it.

The only solution is for Parliament to be prorogued - that is to say, suspended by the king’s authority. But to defy in this way the very Parliament to which he owes his restoration might trigger armed rebellion. His ministers - with one eye on their own popularity with the mob - urge caution.

They do not know him as I do. Reckless gestures appeal to him. He prefers the bold course, the high-stakes gamble. And his loathing of Parliament runs very deep. Publicly, he has to appear grateful that they restored him to his throne. Privately, he does not forget that the throne was only vacant in the first place because they murdered his father.

I think there is a way. But first I must match him boldness for boldness.

I throw a party, a supper in my apartments for the king and forty of his closest friends. I even invite some of the wits, those frivolous libertines whose influence over the king is stronger than he likes to admit.

A feast of French food, French wines, French ices, French thoughts expressed in the French tongue. Only the wine flows in a way that is not quite French, and the talk quickly reverts to English and descends - as it always does in this country - from the flirtatious to the bawdy. Soon the courtiers and court ladies

stumbk off into dark corners for assignations, unbuttonings. Debauchery becomes the order of the night,

t

But not, of course, for Charles or me. He casts glances into the shadows, and I sense that on another occasion he might have liked to have joined them, but he cannot be seen to leave my side for such a purpose at my own party.

By dawn, exhausted or ashamed, they have all crept away: all except for my own ladies-in-waiting, the Honourable Lucy Williamson and Lady Anne Berowne. The king yawns, and says he must go as well. That is when I suggest a last round of Questions and Commands. But no one has any money.

When the king asks what the stakes will be, I say, ‘Our clothes.’ The girls look uncertain, but do not dare protest.

Each time one of us loses, we take something off Lucy is the first to be naked. In her nervousness she clutches at herself, giggling, trying to cover herself with her hands. The effect - is it intentional? - is to draw attention to her state of undress even more.

Anne is not far behind. I am the last to be unclothed. Charles, of course, has had a run of luck. Indeed, as the banker, he has won most of Lucy’s clothes, and is now wearing her petticoat over his shirt.

‘Come.’ Pushing back my chair, I take each girl by one hand and get to my feet. They do not demur as I lead them around the table to stand in front of him,

‘Well?’ I say lightly. ‘Which one deserves the apple?’

Of course he knows the story, and the reason I allude to it. The Judgement of Paris. A contest of beauty that led to a war.

‘Such a judgement should not be lightly made,’ he says with a hungry smile, getting to his feet.

I wait, as if we are a living statue, for him to examine us. Which he does, slowly, a connoisseur’s gaze travelling slowly over bare skin. He walks around us: fingers brush my back, the curves of my waist, my hip. I feel his breath on the nape of rhy neck. His hand cups my buttock, compares it with the other—

One thick finger touches me there. Next to me, Anne gasps, and I know he has done the same to her.

He slides his hand up to my breast, resting his thumb on the side of it briefly, before withdrawing it with a sigh.

He turns to Lucy, who is still giggling with nerves. On my other side, Anne stares at him with an intensity that makes me want to smile. Doubtless she is hoping that this display of her charms may lead to something more.

‘Your question, Lucy,’ he murmurs.

She does not know what to ask. ‘Do you like what you see.?*’ she says at last.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you,’ she blushes. ‘Do you desire me?’

‘Of course,’ he says again.

‘Then I command you to drink a toast to my beauty,’ she says with a littie coquettish toss of her head.

‘With the greatest pleasure,’ he agrees, reaching for a glass. ‘Madam, you have ravished me. I hope one day to return the compliment.’ He drinks the toast, bows, then turns to Anne. ‘And you. Lady Anne? What is your question?’

She too hesitates - but in her case, I sense, it is because she is wondering how best to turn this to her advantage.

‘Who do you desire most: Lucy or me?’ A clever question, I think: she knows that if she had included my name, he would have felt obliged to choose it.

‘That is hardly a question which a gallant man should answer,’ he demurs.

‘It is Questions and Commands,’ she reminds him. ‘You must.’

He nods. ‘Very well: I desire you both, but Lucy less than you.’ Through our clasped hands I feel, rather than hear, Lucy’s gasp of protest. ‘What is your second question?’

‘How many lovers have you taken this year?’

He smiles. ‘That I truly cannot answer, for I never keep count.’

‘Then my command is that one day you take another,’ she says.

her meaning unmistakeable despite my presence.

He nods, and drinks the toast before turning to me. ‘And you, Louise, what do you want to ask.^’

‘Who is the happiest monarch in the world.>’

He looks surprised at this, but says, ‘Louis, of course.’

‘Why is he happy

Still he doesn’t see where this is going. ‘Because he is the undisputed power in his kingdom.’

‘Then here is my command,’ I say. ‘Send Parliament home.’

He blinks, though whether it is at my effrontery or the subject, I cannot tell. I smile, and start to turn: with their hands in mine, the other two must turn with me, wheeling about my axis, until we have performed a complete about-turn.

‘I command you to do only what yourself would like to do,’ I say when we are facing each other again.

‘Because you alone are the anointed king of England,’ I add, on the second revolution.

‘And only in a game such as this one,’ I say, facing him for a third time, ‘should anyone in this country be permitted to tell you what to do.’

I can feel Lucy trembling beside me. Debauchery she was prepared for: politics terrify her.

‘Od’s nails,’ he breathes. ‘I’ll do it.’ He takes a step towards me. I am still holding the hands of my naked ladiesdn-waiting. He looks at them hopelessly. ‘Louise '

I give the smallest of shrugs. I see his nostrils flare, as if he would inhale the aroma of our skin. He puts his hands on my waist.

‘Ladies, you may go,’ I say, letting go of their hands. ‘I bid you

goodnight.’

' »

Parliament assembles later that day, and he immediately sends them away, back to their constituencies. Prorogued until further notice. The country holds its breath - but there is no armed rebellion. The gamble has paid off

The French fight on. The frosts come, but the Dutch break down the sea-dykes and melt the frozen polders. Those that do not melt, Louis advances across, inching forward with his cannon and his cavalry across the creaking ice. Out of nowhere, Dutch regiments appeared sweep through their ranks - they have taken the sailors from their frost-locked warships, armed them with muskets and put them on skates. Then the Dutch blow holes in the ice, sinking the cannon under the French gunners’ feet. The French retreat - retreat! The French army has not retreated like this in living memory.

The Sun has been first halted, then made to go backwards. The Dutch are cheered on the streets of London, by those who are meant to be their enemies.

Meanwhile James’s child bride has arrived, brought upriver by boat so that she will not hear herself being booed. It is - somewhat unfortunately - Gunpowder Night, the night when all England burns papists in effigy to celebrate the failure of a plot.

This year as well as Guido Fawkes they burn the Pope, the French king, and, for good measure, me. The stomachs of the effigies are filled with gunpowder and live cats, which squeal hideously as they feel the flames. One is burned directly opposite my windows, in the royal park. Arlington warns me with a smile that I should not go out of the palace without an armed guard.

T rarely go out of the palace,’ I inform him. ‘Everything I need comes to me.’

‘You are very fortunate, madam.’ There are daggers in his eyes now when he looks at me. He still believes that I cheated him of the chancellorship.

The princess steps off the boat, takes three paces towards me, and sinks into a graceful curtsey. ‘Your Highness.’

At once there is a ripple of laughter. The poor girl looks confused. Quickly I curtsey in return. ‘I am not the queen. Your Highness. She is not at court today. But on her behalf, I am

pleased to welcome you. Come, let me present you to some of your new relatives.’

Charles, stepping off the boat behind her, sees that I have taken steps to avert an incident. He nods gratefully. James does not even notice. It is said that he has been so overcome with piety that he has not yet spoken to the bride alone. Yet tonight he will deflower her. No wonder the poor girl looks terrified; no wonder she mistook me for the queen. Under cover of showing her around the court I squeeze her arm reassuringly.

All the same, I cannot help reflecting that no one ever mistakes Nell Gwynne for royalty.

When, a month later. Princess Mary is finally presented to the queen, Catherine snubs her. It seems a harsh thing to do to a child.

This court is a savage place, far more brutal than Versailles. I wonder how easily I will adjust, when I go back. If I go back. It is increasingly hard to see what will become of me if I do not succeed in England.

These gloomy thoughts are strangely timed, for I have not just succeeded here - I am triumphant. Finally, Charles has made me a duchess.

I am to be Baroness of Petersfield, Countess of Farnham, and Duchess of Pendennis. Then a few days later, he adds Duchess of Portsmouth as well.

‘A naval town,’ Nell Gwynne says loudly in my presence. ‘Full of whores. And very close to France. How fitting.’ But nobody laughs. It is clear that she is beside herself with envy. For his part, Louis responds with an equal honour: the ducal fief of Aubigny. The message is clear: I am the honoured protegee of the French king, just as I am the honoured favourite of the EngUsh one.

And yet, and yet. . . If it were possible for such a gift to have a disadvantage, it is that Charles could not have chosen a worse time

to bestow it. The war is no less expensive for being stalled. The French are loathed beyond measure. It is almost as if Charles wished to draw attention to my presence at court.

Has someone advised him of this course? And if so, who? Do they hope that the people will attach their blame on me, rather than him?

In theory, the lesser ladies of the court should curtsey to me now. Many do not, or try to get away with something so perfunctory as to resemble a shrug. Let them turn their noses up. My family were nobility when England was nothing more than an outpost of barbarian Celts.

I write to my parents and tell them of the titles. They have not yet replied to my previous letter, the one informing them of the arrival of their grandson. Perhaps it would have been better to have waited, and softened the blow with this. No matter: soon I may be able to do something for them, some grand gesture that makes it plain how much our family’s fortunes have altered.

One night a figure in a dark coat slips into my apartment. A secretary of some kind. Polite, self-effacing, inscrutable. I recognise him vaguely: a Parliament man, one of Arlington’s party.

T thought you should see this,’ he says, handing me a letter.

It is a dispatch, or a copy of one, from Colbert de Croissy to Versailles. It takes the form of a diatribe against a certain woman.

I confess I find hcv on occasions so ill-disposed fov the sevvice of our kin^, und showing such ill-humour against France (whether because she feels herself despised there, or whether from an effect of caprice), that I really consider she deserves no favour of Tour Majesty. But, as the Kinpi of England shows her much love, and so visibly likes to please her. Tour Majesty can jud^e whether it is best not to treat her according to her merits . . .

‘Why are you showing me this?’ I ask. ‘You are Arlington s man.’

‘I was,’ he says. ‘I am looking for a new patron, now.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘MeJ*’

‘I need someone who is minded to dispense wealth, not merely to accumulate it. And Lord Arlington is not going to rise any further.’

‘This is not worth a great deal, though,’ I say, tapping the letter. ‘An ill-considered rant, perhaps, but of no political account.’

‘No,’ he agrees. ‘But read the final section.’

I turn over and read on. It takes a moment for it to sink in.

One risks offending Arlington by drawing close to his rivcil Buckingham; but for what'i It must not be imagined that with twohundred thousand crowns we can brin^ so lar^e a body as Parliament to follow a course which reason alone should dictate . . .

‘Buckingham has approached a middleman at the French court, and offers to sell his party’s votes to Louis,’ he explains. ‘His intention was that Colbert not be informed, but as you can see he has been, and he is not happy.’

‘What does Louis say.>’

‘Nothing, as yet. But he has sent a man called Ruvigny, an exsoldier, to London as his negotiator.’

I think hard. If this scheme goes ahead, Buckingham will replace Arlington in influence. But equally, Buckingham will have betrayed Parliament by selling his party’s votes. It might be possible, later, to destroy him by revealing it. ;

As if reading my thoughts, the polite young man says, ‘Arlington will be replaced by Buckingham. Colbert will be replaced by Ruvigny. France will make terms with the Dutch. Once there is peace, perhaps the French will no longer be as hated in England as they are now. As for Buckingham, who knows what may happen to him?’

I fold the letter. ‘What do you suggest I do, to bring about this happy series of events?’

‘Make it clear to Louis that you do not support Colbert. Without him, Arlington will sink.’

‘And Buckingham will rise.’

‘Buckingham will rise,’ he agrees. ‘For now’

English politics is a constant merry-go-round of betrayal and counter-betrayal, of bribery and intrigue and ambition. Nothing is fixed; everything is possible; every outcome can be manipulated. Possibilities dance in front of men like will-o’-the-wisps. But this young man seems to have a gift for seeing clearly through these chimeras of chance and favour. ‘What is your name?’

‘Thomas Osborne, Your Grace. At your service.’ He bows. ‘Thank you, Thomas. I will write to his Most Christian Majesty immediately. And I will tell Charles what Buckingham is plotting. He will, I think, be very interested to learn of it.’