Виктория Холт - The Queen's Devotion - The Story of Queen Mary II

The exploits of the young Duke never failed to amuse everyone and when I heard that he was to have a field day and had said he would be honored if the King attended in person, I rather timidly put the question to William, hoping that he might comply with the Duke’s wishes.

To my delight, and amusement, he agreed. He had quite an attachment to his little namesake and I knew he often wished that this was our son.

And so the day came. I shall always remember those little boys looking so quaint in their uniform, doing their drill, marching before the King. William did his part well, walking along the line to review them, young William proudly beside him.

The toy cannon was fired and everything went off with military precision. William declared himself content to be assured of the loyalty of the Duke’s men. He gave the little drummer two guineas because he played so loudly.

The parade over, young William stood before the King and said: “My dear King, you shall have both my companies to serve with you in Flanders.”

The King thanked him and gravely accepted the offer.

I had rarely seen William relaxed and pleasant. Little William had the power to charm us all.

That was a gloomy November. I could not rid myself of a feeling of foreboding. I was feeling listless and more unwell than ever before.

I was in Whitehall Chapel when John Tillotson, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was preaching a sermon. I had always liked Tillotson. He was a courteous and tolerant man. It was not very long ago that he had been appointed Archbishop — some three years, I believe — and during that time he and I had become good friends.

It was a shock, therefore, when, in the middle of his sermon, he suddenly stopped speaking, though it was clear that he was trying to, for his face twisted and his lips were alarmingly distorted. There was a tense silence throughout the chapel, and then suddenly the Archbishop slid to the floor.

He had had an apoplectic seizure and, within four days he was dead.

It was necessary to appoint another Archbishop of Canterbury and the choice should have been mine. I immediately thought of Stillingfleet, Bishop of Worcester, one of the most active men of the Church, handsome and vigorous, although not in such good health as he might have been.

Wiliam objected to Stillingfleet. He maintained he was not well enough for such responsibility and the arduous duties which would be expected of him. He would prefer Thomas Tenison and, of course, he had his way.

I was disappointed, but felt too tired to protest, but I suppose William would have had the man he wanted in any case.

However, Tenison was a good man; he had always taken a great interest in promoting the gospel. My father had said that he was dull and a man who had a horror of levity in any form. But perhaps that was not a fault in a priest.

Tenison was a popular choice, but I believed Stillingfleet would have been more so. There were many to remember that at the time of Nell Gwynne’s death, Tenison had preached a sermon in praise of her which, in view of the life she had lived, seemed not exactly fitting. Then it had transpired that she had left £50 in her will to the priest who would make her the subject of such a sermon when she died.

I dare say the £50 had played its part in Tenison’s willingness to preach that sermon, but I said that, in my opinion, he must have known of her repentance or he would not have been persuaded.

IT WAS CHRISTMAS of the year 1694 and William was in England. We were to spend the season at Kensington Palace, which I think had become William’s favorite of all our residences.

There would be as little ceremony as possible and I was glad of this, for I was feeling quite ill. I had a fit of the ague which I could not throw off. I knew in my heart that it was more than that. I was overcome with such listlessness that I had to force myself to keep aware of what was going on around me.

I was very anxious that none should know how I was feeling, but it was growing more and more difficult to disguise.

I was not old. I had been thirty-two last birthday. I could not forget Tilotson’s sudden death. I would dream of him as he had stood in the pulpit and that sudden horror when his mouth twisted and he became incoherent. I remembered the bewilderment which followed.

It was terrible that death could come so suddenly without warning.

It was growing increasingly difficult for me to hide the state of my health. I was confined to my apartments for a few days, and of course rumors immediately began to be circulated.

I was so relieved when I felt well enough to venture out and I was amazed at the tumultuous welcome I received in the streets.

Young William came to see me. I was always delighted to be visited by him. His coming lightened my spirits.

He talked for a little about his soldiers, and then suddenly he said: “The people love you dearly, Queen. My servant Lewis Jenkins has been most unhappy because of your illness.”

“The people have always been good to me,” I said.

“He saw you riding in the park. He came back and looked so pleased that I asked him what good fortune he had had. He laughed and said, ‘Your Grace, I have seen the Queen. She is well again.’ I said, ‘I am glad of that with all my heart.’ Then Lewis took his hat from his head and cried: ‘The Queen is well again. Oh, be joyful!’ ”

He looked at me very strangely then and seemed suddenly unlike a child — more like a wise old seer. His eyes looked beyond me, as though he did not see me. It was a strange moment.

He went on: “I said to Lewis Jenkins, ‘Today you say “Oh, be joyful!” Soon you may be saying, “Oh, be doleful.” ’ ”

There was a deep silence in the room, and I thought I heard a strange rushing of wings. It was as though the Angel of Death was passing overhead.

William had become himself — precocious, it was true, but a child again.

He did not attempt to explain his strange words. Indeed, it was as though he were unaware of having said them.

He went on to talk about his “men” and a new parade he was planning. He hoped the King would come to receive the honors he was intending to pay him.

I sat still.

I knew that death was close.

My return to health was short-lived. Within a few days I was confined to my apartment. There was concern and people were praying for me in the churches.

Archbishop Tenison was often with me. He was a good man and a great comfort to me in those days.

I had known from the moment young William had said those strange words to me that I had not long to live. There was a feeling of unreality all about me.

My father was constantly in my thoughts. I kept going back over those happy days. There were times when I blamed myself. I had had to choose between them. Dr. Ken, Dr. Hooper, all those who had guided me, who had inspired me with the desire to lead a Protestant life, who had instilled in me the virtues of being a good submissive wife, had led the way. But it is also written “Honor thy father.” I had wanted to be a good wife, but a good daughter too ... a good daughter to the best of fathers.

But life had ordained that my duty toward one was my betrayal of the other.

Was anyone ever put in such a position?

I wished I could go to my father. I wished I could explain how it had happened. I think he understood a little but his letters had shown me the depth of his wounds. And William? What had I been to him? An easy way to a crown. And what had the realization been? He was not a happy man. Poor William, I could feel sorry for him.

And then sudden fierce anger came to me. I had brought him the crown. I, the Queen, beloved of the people, had been submissive to a man who had never been faithful to me through all the years of our marriage.