Plaidy, Jean - Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II
Whom could she trust among all these people around her? Yet she must succeed for William’s sake. She would never be able to face him if she failed now. She must be suspicious of everyone.
She heard that her uncle Charles’s widow, Catherine, had refused to allow prayers for William’s safety to be said in her chapel. Therefore Catherine, a Catholic from birth, was suspect. What plots went on in her apartments? Her Chamberlain Feversham was a Frenchman, and the French were enemies.
Feversham was reprimanded. Oh, how easy it was to strike terror into the hearts of these people! In tears he assured her that he planned no harm to her or to William.
“Yet you said no prayers for the King’s safety,” retorted Mary. “I might forgive you for your insults to me, but I cannot forgive those to the King, who has sacrificed his health for this country.”
Catherine herself came and made tender inquiries as to the swelling of Mary’s face; it was difficult to believe that this gentle lady was an intrigant. She was getting old now and she had never been a fighter.
Mary accepted her condolences; but gave orders that she should be closely watched.
Her uncle, the Earl of Clarendon, was sent to the Tower. He was less self-seeking than many, she knew, but he had never approved of the revolution. He was a stern Protestant; but he had made his vows to James and he was not a man to easily break vows. She knew that he was the man of honor; but men of honor were as ready as others to make trouble if they believed they were in the right.
She had no wish to send her uncle to the Tower; but she must act as William would act if he were here; always she must think of William and do that which would win his approval.
She wote to William, assuring him of her devotion telling him of the danger. She trusted that she was acting as he would wish, which it was her intention to do at all times.
The news grew more alarming. The French fleet, consisting of over two hundred ships, was lying off the south coast.
Arthur Herbert, Lord Torrington, was dismayed. He was a man who, while a good sailor, loved his pleasure so much that in this age of parodying he had quickly earned the name of Lord Tarry-in-Town.
Some months before he had foreseen an attack by the French and believing himself inadequately prepared to meet it, had written to Nottingham begging for reinforcements, but Nottingham had merely replied that he need have no fear for he would be strong enough for the French.
He had replied then: “I am afraid now in winter while the danger may be remedied, and you will be afraid in summer when it is past remedy.”
Well now it was summer; and if Nottingham cared for the good of his country he must be taking Torrington’s words to heart.
The Battle of Bantry Bay had been a defeat; Torrington wanted at all costs to avoid another—and here were the French … waiting for the moment to open the battle.
“And here are we,” cried Torrington, “unprepared. I will not go into battle against them.”
But even as he made this declaration he received a note from the Queen, reminding him that he had a Dutch squadron at his disposal under Admiral Evertzen, and commanding him to go into action without delay.
Torrington disobeyed the order, because he believed to act on it would mean crushing defeat.
Around the Council table Mary presided. She felt ill yet stimulated at the thought of danger; she was facing a great crisis and William was not near to advise. She must succeed.
Nottingham was saying that Torrington had deliberately ignored orders, and that the French were still off the south coast though the battle had not yet begun. Torrington had done nothing, in spite of orders.
“This is mutinous,” cried Mordaunt.
“He should be court-martialed,” growled Danby.
“At this stage,” Mary intervened, “we should only be adding to our danger by a court-martial in such a high quarter. How do we know what effect this might have!”
Marlborough supported her in this.
“I will go to Portsmouth,” suggested Mordaunt. “There I will board the flagship, arrest Torrington and myself lead the fleet.”
Mary looked at him with a hint of scorn. How like Mordaunt to plan an action with himself as the hero set for glory!
“Impossible,” she said coldly.
Nottingham put in: “Before he left, the King commanded me to take command if Torrington should prove unfit.”
Mordaunt glared at Nottingham.
“My lord, would that be wise?”
“And why should you believe that you could lead the fleet to victory and I fail?”
Heaven help me, thought Mary, they are vying with each other for power. What good will this do us? We must all stand together.
“The King gave me no instructions that you should leave for the fleet, my lord,” she told Nottingham. “And I could not allow it. You are needed too badly here.”
Nottingham was mollified and graciously thanked Her Majesty for her compliments.
“Who then should go?” asked Danby sharply; and she saw the gleam in his eyes. Is he too looking for naval glory, wondered Mary, at his time of life?
“I need you all here,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I shall send a dispatch to Lord Torrington immediately telling him that I order him to attack.”
She was exhausted. If only William were here! It was not that she feared herself inadequate to deal with the situation, only that William might disapprove of what she had done. How could she know what he would do in similar circumstances?
Her women were helping her to bed and she was silent, which was unusual for her. Usually she liked to chat for, to her, talking was one of the pleasures of life and since she was never able to indulge in it to any great extent with William she did so whenever possible with everyone else.
“Your Majesty’s face is slightly less swollen,” said the Countess of Derby.
“Do you think so? I fancy it is less painful.”
Then silence. They were thinking of the change in her, for they had been hoping that once William was away there would be a little gaiety at Court. Dances perhaps, visits to the play; perhaps little jaunts to some of the houses in the bazaars.
But this was quite different. William’s absence had made of Mary a Queen with solemn duties.
Even at such an hour there was no respite. A messenger was at the door now with an urgent letter for the Queen.
Mary seized it and began to tremble as she read that the French were occupying the coast of the Isle of Wight.
The Council meeting was stormy.
What had Torrington done? Nothing! He ignored the Council in London, replying that his council upon the spot did not advise action as yet.
Devonshire was demanding action. “Does Torrington realize that the fate of three kingdoms is in his hands? Torrington must be replaced.”
“Make him a prisoner,” cried Russell.
“No, no,” interjected Marlborough. “That would please the enemy too much and put heart into them.”
Mordaunt said: “Let me go to him. I will engage the Frenchmen and drive them off … or die in the attempt.”
That someone should go was finally agreed by the Council and Mordaunt and Russell left.
In the privacy of her own apartment Mary awaited news with trepidation, feeling that disaster was very close indeed. She was unsure, and could only pray that the actions she took were the right ones.
She did not trust Mordaunt and wondered what he would do when he reached Torrington. Russell was the most outspoken of the ministers; he was coarse and crude but she believed trustworthy; and trustworthiness was a very desirable quality at such a time.
She could only find comfort in writing to William to tell him that she faced dire trouble at home as doubtless he did in Ireland. But she was far more anxious, she would have him know, for his dear person than for her own poor carcass.
“I can say nothing, but pray to God for you, and my impatience for a letter from you is as great as my love, which will not end but with my life.”
Before Mordaunt and Russell set out Mary had sent an order to Torrington to engage the enemy; and this he did, in his own way, before it was possible for the two ministers to reach him.
He attacked; or at least commanded the Dutch to do so, and this they did valiantly, but were so outnumbered that they could not hope for success. Many ships were disabled and Torrington’s contribution was to leave the Dutch to the enemy while he towed the damaged ships to the Thames mouth in order to blockade it.
There was utter defeat. The navy—Britain’s pride—had let her down shamefully; and England lay at the mercy of the invader. The French were at her coast. Torrington was locked up with the fleet in the estuary of the Thames; and while the King was in Ireland the Jacobites, who may well have been waiting for this opportunity, could now rise—and who knew who would support them?—and bring back James.
Marlborough, thank God, was at hand. He could, better than any man, protect his country should an invasion be attempted—if he would. But what of Marlborough, who could, Mary was sure, jump this way and that with agility? It would depend of course on which attitude would best serve Marlborough.
She felt that she had reached the very depth of despair, but two events, following closely on one another, brought fresh hope; and she believed them to be an answer to her prayer.
She was in her apartments writing a letter to William—for her only solace was in writing to him—when the Countess of Derby came to tell her that the Earl of Shrewsbury was asking to see her.
As Charles Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury came into the room, Mary’s spirits lifted. He would have been extremely handsome—perhaps the handsomest man at Court, now Monmouth was gone—but for a blemish in one eye. Even so, he had been called “The King of Hearts”; it was said that women loved him on sight, but he had never taken advantage of that, being gentle and retiring. He would be faithful, Mary was sure, to a woman … or a cause.
His character had begun to show in his face for he was almost thirty now; gentleness blended well with the features which could almost be called beautiful; delicacy was there; his enemies might call it nervousness.
He did not enjoy good health, and this was the reason he had not been a member of the Council. Strange that an old man like Danby clung to office; and a young one like Shrewsbury pleaded ill health in order to stay out of it.
They had been children together for he was only a few years older than Mary, but there was a stronger bond than age and similar environment between them. When Mary had been a child she had constantly heard scandals about her father’s affairs with women and there was one—the case of Margaret Denham whose husband had murdered her because of her association with James—which had shocked her deeply. Shrewsbury had suffered a similar shock when his mother’s lover, the Duke of Buckingham had killed his father in a duel because of his mother; and then created a scandal by living openly with her.
Both Shrewsbury and Mary had been deeply affected by the adulterous intrigues of their parents. Mary had sought companions of her own sex until marriage with William had made her build up an ideal so that she convinced herself that she adored her husband. Shrewsbury wanted to shrink from the world of intrigue and responsibility, which was difficult for a man in his position. He had become abnormally interested in his health and whenever a situation from which he flinched arose he would invariably become ill and make this the excuse of his retirement from it.
This was what had happened when William announced his intention of leaving England for Ireland. Shrewsbury, contemplating those who would have been his fellow councillors, had no wish to be in office; and to the chagrin of William and the disappointment of Mary he had pleaded “the comfortless prospect of very ill health.”
And now here he was, looking serious but determined; and the most attractive man Mary had seen—since she last saw him.
“Charles!” she cried affectionately.
He knelt. “Your Majesty.”
“Rise and welcome. I am pleased to see you. You are in better health?”
“Your Majesty, I could not lie abed while you are in such straits. I have come to offer you my services in whatever capacity you wish to use them.”
She began to smile; she was beautiful when animated and as the strain of the last days dropped from her she was young again.
“That makes me very happy,” she said. “I have great need of friends whom I can trust.”
Meanwhile William had arrived in Ireland. He was more melancholy than usual, for the climate did not suit his health, being even more damp than that of England. He said grimly to the Earl of Portland, who had been Bentinck, that he would give much to be back in London, even Whitehall; and having tested this climate he wondered why he had ever cursed the other.
Portland replied that he must guard his health; it was all important that he should not be sick at this juncture.
William nodded grimly; his hemorrhoids were very painful after so many hours in the saddle, but riding was good for his asthma—or would have been in a better climate.
“You should rest more frequently,” chided Portland.
“There is no time for resting. You know that well, Bentinck. We must go with all speed to Belfast to take over from Schomberg. How long do you think the army can hold out with inadequate food, and with all the disease there is among them? What do you think they are saying of a King who stays in London while they fight his battles for him. They may not like me—these English; but to see me here, fighting with them, one of them, will put heart into them, I promise you.”
Portland smiled at him affectionately. Many would be astonished that William could be almost garrulous in his company when he merely snapped out a word or two with almost everyone else.
“You will do it,” he said. “More than that you’ll conquer Ireland.”
“I have to. If not, James will be back in England. There are many who won’t have him and many who will. That will mean bloodshed, Bentinck. We don’t want it. That is why I have come to Ireland to stop his chances of ever making a bridgehead from here to England. I may die in the attempt, but at least I am going to put everything I have into driving him right off this island.”
He began to cough and hastily put a kerchief to his mouth. He tried to hide it, but not before Portland had seen the blood. Portland snatched it from him and anger blazed from his eyes.
“Again?” he demanded.
“Come,” said William lightly, “you forget your manners, Portland.”
Portland looked at him, and the anger was there to hide the tears. All the love which was between them was visible in that moment and neither attempted to hide it, for it would have been useless. This was Bentinck, the friend of boyhood who would be the friend until death; who had nursed his Prince through small pox and caught the disease himself by sleeping in his bed in the hope that he would divert something from the Prince to himself, as he might have stood between him and an attacking lion.
