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.’
Carlo
Ices, like revenge, are best served cold: but like revenge, too much cold will blunt the taste.
The Book of Ices
It seemed that nothing could stop her conquest of that court. By the end of the year, Arhngton had been removed from office. In January it was Buckingham’s turn to be impeached, tried by the very same Parliament which he had helped to make so powerful, and whose votes he had tried to sell to France. At the last minute he tried to curry favour with his accusers, declaring that the fault was not his but the king and his brother’s. ‘I can hunt the French hare with a pack of dogs, but not with a brace of lobsters,’ he told them: a foohsh remark, for it lost him the support of the only two people who now stood between him and the Tower. In desperation he then announced that he had seen the error of his ways. He banished his mistress Lady Shrewsbury to a convent, reconciled himself with his wife, donned a hair shirt, and adopted the dress and habits of a Puritan. It saved his hfe but not his pride, and from then on he was a man without influence.
Charles stood by, and did nothing to help him.
Nell Gwynne got one of her cronies, old Tom Killigrew, to dash into the king’s presence in full riding gear, complete with a cape and a horsewhip. When the king asked him where he was going in such a hurry, the man cried, ‘To hell, to fetch Master Cromwell back to govern us, for he could do no worse than this.’ Charles looked on stony faced: for once his good humour abandoned him, and he said curtly, ‘Politics does not suit you, Nell, any more than it suits your friend George Buckingham. You
would do well to leave these matters to those who understand them.’
It was only Louise who could advise him now, along with Osborne and the new ambassador, Ruvigny. On her he lavished gifts - not simply jewellery, but fiefs, pensions, revenues and lands. She was the acknowledged mistress of his palace, his unofficial first minister, and the unacknowledged queen: the woman through whom all requests must pass, whose opinions became state policy; who made decisions for a king who would rather make none.
Carlo
t
For a celebration: bombes, flags, fancies, layer-cakes, and other extravagant ices.
The Book of Ices
‘I intend to hold a ball,’ she told me, one day in early April. ‘Something special. Something they will still be talking about long after Nell Gwynne has been forgotten.’
‘What do you have in rnind.^’
‘A festival of ice,’ she said promptly. ‘A frost fair . . . but in summer. Perhaps at the beginning of June, to celebrate the king’s birthday. Is it possible?’
I considered. ‘It may be. If we take all the ice I collected for the year, and use it in one go.’
‘Can you make the Thames freeze over?’
I smiled. ‘That would be beyond even my resources. But we could lay ice blocks side by side on the grass, and seal them together with water to make a kind of skating pond.’
‘What about a building? A palace of ice?’ i
‘I don’t see why not. Buontalenti once made an ice grotto for the Medici in the midst of summer. He had the sculptors carve beasts out of ice, and trees for them to crouch amongst—’