It was these three men—Buckingham, Bristol and Bennet—with whom Barbara sought to intrigue after that New Year’s ball during which the King had clearly shown his interest in Frances Stuart.
They all wished to bring about the downfall of Clarendon, and at the same time it was Barbara’s desire to damage Frances Stuart in the eyes of the King.
Barbara was seriously alarmed about Frances Stuart. The girl had in the first place seemed to be a simpleton. She was young and artless and seemed unaware of the fact that there was not a woman at Court whose beauty could compare with hers; and in a Court where the King was instantly moved by beauty in any form—and in particular the beauty of women—that meant a passport to power.
Barbara watched Frances closely. Each day she seemed to grow in beauty. The girl was perfect; her figure was enchanting, her face, with that expression of supreme innocence, delightful. Had she not been the most beautiful girl at Court, her very grace of movement would have made her stand out among them all, and allied with this was a charming air of innocence. She laughed easily; she prattled of nothing in a lighthearted way; she seemed almost simpleminded in her childishness. But Barbara had her own ideas. She did not believe in Mrs. Stuart’s innocence. She remembered the case of Anne Boleyn, who had remained haughty, pure and aloof, and had murmured to an enamored King: “Your wife I cannot be; your mistress I will not be.”
Barbara was furious with the girl, but the situation was too delicate to allow her to give full vent to that fury. Barbara was in her twenties; Frances in her teens; Barbara lived riotously, never denying her senses what they craved; Frances slept the sleep of the innocent each night and arose in the mornings fresh as a spring flower.
Barbara had realized that where this sly little prude was concerned she would have to play a wary game.
So she took Frances under her wing. She believed that, if she had not, the King might have been found supping where Frances was and Barbara was not. She made Frances her little friend; she even had her sleep in her bed.
She knew, of course, that the King had made the usual advances to the girl—the languishing looks, the pressing of hands, the stolen kisses, the gifts. All these she had received with wide-eyed pleasure as though the insinuation which accompanied them was quite beyond her understanding.
So Barbara played those games which Frances loved, childish games which made the simple little creature shriek with pleasure. They played “marriage”—with Barbara the husband and Frances the wife, and they were put to bed with a sack posset and the stocking was flung. Unfortunately the King had come in while that game was in progress and had declared that it was a shame poor Frances had been married to one of her own sex. He was sure she would have preferred a man for her husband; he therefore would relieve Barbara of conjugal responsibilities and take them on himself. What shrieks of laughter from sly Mrs. Stuart! What nudging and whispering of those participating in the game! Had the bride been anyone else, Barbara knew full well that the frolic of that night would not have ended as it did. But sly, virtuous Mrs. Stuart knew when to draw back; and Barbara, with murder in her heart, believed the sly creature was contemplating very high stakes indeed.
So the dearest wish of Barbara’s heart was to see Mrs. Stuart exposed in the eyes of the King as a wanton. She knew that he was growing more and more tender towards the girl, that he believed in all that innocence, and that it was having a devastating effect which might prove disastrous to Barbara. Dearly as she wished to see the fall of Clarendon she wished even more to see the fall of Mrs. Stuart.
It was in the Cockpit that she conferred with her friends.
“It should not be difficult now,” she said, “for you gentlemen to assure the King of how this man works against him.”
“The King is too easy-going,” growled Bennet.
“Yet,” said Buckingham, “his opposition to the Declaration of Liberty for Tender Consciences has, I am certain, incensed the King.”
“I have assured him,” said Barbara, “that Clarendon opposed the Declaration, not because he believed it to be wrong, but because of his hatred towards those who promoted it.”
“And what said he to that?”
Barbara shrugged her shoulders. “He said that Clarendon was a man of deep conscience. He had reason to know it, for he knew the man well.” “Still he was displeased with Clarendon.”
“Indeed he was,” said Bristol, “and it was solely because of his need for money that he agreed to those laws which deal harshly with all who differ from the Act of Uniformity.”
“And now,” said Buckingham, “he has been forced to proclaim that Papists and Jesuits will be banished from the kingdom, although I have good reason to believe that he will do everything in his power to oppose the banishing. You know his great wish for tolerance, and it is solely because he needs money so badly that he is forced to fall in with the Parliament’s wishes.”
“But he loves them all a little less for forcing him to agree,” said Barbara. “And he knows that it is Clarendon who has led those against him.”
“So,” cried Bristol, “now is the time to impeach the fellow. If the King fails to support him as he failed to support the King, all those who feign friendship towards him will drop away like leaves in an autumn gale.”
“Yes,” said Barbara, “now is the time.”
“There is another matter,” said Bristol. “I am a Catholic and I know how friendly the King has been to Catholics. There are rumors—and always have been—that one who can be so lenient towards Papists must surely be of their Faith.”
“It is nonsense,” said Barbara. “He is often more lenient when he does not agree. It is due to some notion he has of suspecting all points of view.”
“Clarendon deplores his tolerance,” said Buckingham. “I have it! Someone has been spreading reports of the King’s devotion to the Catholic cause. It might well be Clarendon.”
“It shall be Clarendon!” said Barbara.
“Moreover,” said Bristol, “I have heard that a correspondence has taken place between the Queen and the Pope. His Majesty is weary of the Queen; that much is certain. There is no sign of a child. Doubtless the woman is unfruitful; princesses often are. And the King has proved his ability—nay his great good fortune—in getting children elsewhere. It may be that he would wish to rid himself of the Queen.”
Barbara’s eyes were narrowed. Could it be that these friends of hers were concocting some plot of which she was not acquainted? Had Bristol betrayed it; and could it by any chance concern Frances Stuart?
“Nay,” she said quickly, “I warn you. If you should try to turn the King against the Queen you would be greatly mistaken.”
Better, thought Barbara, a plain little Portuguese Catherine as Queen than beautiful Frances Stuart.
“Barbara is right in that,” said Buckingham. “Let us not take the plot too far as yet. Let us settle this one matter first, and we will deal with others afterwards. Let us rid ourselves of the Chancellor; let us set up a new Chancellor in his place….” Buckingham looked at Bristol, and Bristol looked at the ceiling. Why not Buckingham? thought Buckingham. Why not Bristol? thought Bristol. Bennet was smugly content as Secretary of State.
They parted soon afterwards. Barbara was hoping the King would call upon her.
A few days later she had an opportunity of speaking to Buckingham alone.
She immediately began to discuss Frances.
“Do you believe she is as virtuous as she feigns to be?”