The French Connection

Louise de Kerouaille Duchess of Portsmouth

   

  I will never forget the first time I set foot in Palais-Royal, the home of Monsieur and Madam, the Duke and Duchess of Orléans as they were known to the rest of Europe. Though I would later go on to live in one of the grandest palaces in the World (Whitehall in London) and would have dozens of rooms dedicated to only to myself, in my mind there will never be a grander home then theirs.

     I was a shy, timid girl, little more than a child when my parents, near penniless but still overly proud of their noble heritage in Brittany, sent me to act as a maid in waiting for Princess Henrietta Anne, Duchess of Orléans and favored sister of the King of England. Brother of the French King Louis VIX, her husband Philippe was most notorious for his blatant homosexuality that he flaunted about the court for all to see. His male lovers were numerous  and only his kinship to the great Louis kept his head off the block and his soul safe in the bosom of the church for sodomy was a sin that neither the state nor god usually allowed. Looking back I wonder what my proud and most devout mother was thinking sending me to a household steeped in such sin. What future could she have hoped for me to carve out of the clay of opportunity that would be presented to me from such connections? It is little wonder I ended up where I am, nuzzled deep in the bed of King but without his name to give me honor as a wife.  

Henrietta Anne

     My years with Minette, as dear sweet Henrietta was known to those who loved her best, were turbulent. Monsieur was a cruel and spiteful man who delighted in tormenting his meek and frail wife. She had failed him for years in that she had yet to produce a male heir so in retaliation he housed his many lovers in their very home, forcing Minette to dine with these men whom she knew just hours before were servicing her husband in most intimate ways. Once a month his forced himself into her chambers, dismissing us ladies with a wave of his hand, and forced himself upon his wife, tearing her fine gowns and bruising her delicate skin while he planted his abominable seed in her womb. The servants gossiped that Philippe invited his lovers in to watch him rape his wife, even saying that he forced her to accept them into her bed as well. I hope for Minette’s sake that it was all just shameful gossip, but from the dead haunted look in her eyes after being visited by her husband I feared them to be all too true.

      I accidentally came upon Monsieur and one of his companions during the first weeks of my arrival in Paris. I had gotten lost in the large palace, taken a wrong turn on my way to the maid’s quarters and found myself in a usually uninhabited wing of the building. They were pressed together in a doorway, Monsieur’s mouth hanging open and loud moans and gasps rang through the corridor. I stood frozen in fear, my eyes traveling downward to see a young courtier kneeling at Monsieur’s feet, his head bobbing up and down and slurping sounds escaping his mouth. Philippe’s hands were twisted into this young man’s auburn hair, forcing his mouth down upon his privates. I let out an audible gasp, stumbling backwards in shock from this most unexpected scene. The courtier, intent upon his work must not have heard my exclamation however Philippe looked up. Upon seeing me, he grinned in a way that was neither polite nor welcoming. It was a smile of perverse satisfaction, of twisted anticipation. He redoubled his force, pushing his member deeper into the man’s throat, causing him to gag and splutter, all the while his eyes never left mine and his evil grin remained painted on his face. I stood there, locked eyed with Monsieur for no more than a few heartbeats (though at the time it felt like an eternity) then turned heel and fled in terror. I said nothing of what I had witnessed to anyone, not Madam, not my fellow ladies but that night as supper Philippe made sure to have a certain young courtier sit across from me at the table and every time I looked to the head of the table I found Monsieur’s eyes upon and the same evil grin on his face. I could not eat my food that night (cooked sausages of all things) and asked to be excused early, feigning illness.  I made sure never to get lost in Palais-Royal again.

     1670, the year I turned twenty one, I found myself still unmarried and unfavored  at the French Court. While I fancied myself beautiful, it was not in the fashionable way. My body was too slender, too willowy in a court where curves and large breasts where praised. My hair was a dark chestnut brown, curly and full however coupled with my fair skin, slight form, and youthful features I looked more a child then a woman ready for love. However events would soon be put in motion that would change my life forever.

     The French King, with the help of his English sister in law looked to forge a new alliance with Charles II of England. A secret treaty was drawn up with a most perilous clause included. Louis was insistent that England return to Roman Catholic faith if they wanted his aid in their future wars with the Dutch. Charles, having been raised by one of the most devout women in Christendom was favorable to this notion however England, having split from Rome during the reign of mad Henry VIII and his many wives, had not wish to put themselves back under the control of a foreign church, preferring to worship like heathens. The treaty was there for drafted in upmost secrecy with Charles promising to return England to the true faith once the country was ready for such a transition. Minette was dispatched to England, much to her delight and the anger of her husband, to meet with her royal brother and together sign the contract binding the French and the English together once more.

Charles II

     The sea crossing to Dover was perilous. The channel is a dangerous stretch of water, storms frequently brewing in the confined sea. At one point the captain sent all us ladies below deck because the waves were rocking the ship so fiercely that 2 sailors had gone overboard. But Madam refused to comply with the captains orders. She insisted on being on deck as the white cliffs came into view. She wanted to see with her own eyes the first hint of land, the first glimpse of her England that she was forced to leave so long ago. We made land at twilight, our battered ships pulling into the harbor and to my surprise the King himself was waiting for us. He had waited all day, pacing the docks, waiting for his beloved sister to arrive and when they threw down the gangplank the two siblings rushed to embrace, caring not who looked on in their private moment of reunion. At the time, having grown up in the stiffly formal French court, I was aghast at the breech of formality. In full view of everyone this giant of a king embraced and kissed his little sister, swung her up off her feet and twirled her around, nearly weeping with joy at being reunited after such a long separation. 

     This was my first glimpse of the man I would come to know better than any other. He was tall, much taller than any of the other men present, well over six feet. He was thin with curly black hair and a full curly black mustache to match. His eyes were a bright and vivid green and unlike most of the nobility I had met over the years he exuded an air of boyish mischief and jubilation. His clothes, while of a fine cut, were simple. Here was a man who did not need jewels and adornments to announce to the world his rank. Everything about him portrayed power and authority. No one could doubt even for a moment that this man was King.

     At once our little court was taken to the household Charles had set up for the reunion. We were shown to our rooms in the castle, set high up on the cliffs, so that out my bedroom window I had a breathtaking view of the channel and waves as they broke upon the rocky shore. Quickly we readied ourselves and Madam in our finest gowns. Charles was throwing a ball that very night to celebrate our arrival. Never before had I ever seen Minette as full of happiness as she was at that moment. She was free from her horrid husband, she was adored by the people of England, she was released from the chains of pomp and ceremony, but most of all she was home.

     The celebrations continued long into the night. Charles and Henrietta danced together set after set, Madam tossing her heels off like a common maid when her feet began to hurt. The court laughed and drank and made merry until so over encumbered on wine they had trouble finding their beds. Surprisingly the King and Minette were both up early the next morning despite the late night to commence with the treaty negotiations. Secretly they met in one of the drafty tower rooms of the old castle as not to alert the people of England to their secret dealings. For 4 days they met in secret before an acceptable arrangement could be met on both sides. Everyday Minette had me accompany her to the meeting, as it was only proper for her to constantly have a lady in attendance and she trusted me more than the others who were in the employ of either her husband or the French King.

     I sat quietly in an old wooded chair by the window while they argued over the finer points of the treaty. I pretended to not pay any heed to their words, playing into the men’s perception of what a female should and should not be but inwardly I was engrossed and fascinated by their discussion. In my attempts to remain unnoticeable I could not help by see that with each passing day, one man at the table was noticing me more and more. Often I would see out of the corner of my eye the King watching me while the councilors bickered back and forth. This caused me to blush deeply and fidget in my seat, bring more attention upon myself. I had not had even the most innocent of romantic encounters at home in France. Being poor and unconnected made me undesirable as a wife and my fierce refusal to debase myself as a wanton lover made me undesirable as a mistress. I knew not what to make of this most unexpected attention. And it did not escape the notice of my mistress either. Her keen eyes took in all the glances that passed between the King and me and though she did not say anything, the tightening of her eyes and the purse in her lips spoke volumes to those who knew how to read her.

     In due course the treaty was signed, Charles promising the impossible to Louis for his protestant country would never concede to return to Rome. Our final night in England there was another great ball to send us off. Minette was quiet up at the head table, far less exuberant then she was on our first night. I knew her thoughts were dwelling on the life she must return to, the husband who hated her and the court that was more a prison then a home. Towards the end of the evening, drunk from the wine, Minette announced that she wanted to give her dear brother a present and sent me to fetch her jewelry box from our rooms. Returning, I found that the attention of the entire court was on me as I marched up to the head table, the intricate boxes in my shaking hands. Kneeling to the King, I set the box at his feet and open the lid, revealing the treasures inside. Ropes of pearls, diamond rings, sapphire earrings, emerald broaches: Madam’s jewels were envied throughout France and with a wave of her hand she offered Charles his pick of her jewels, a token she called it of her sisterly affection.

     Charles surveyed the jewels, no doubt mentally calculating the wealth they represented. After a long pause, he bent down and closed the lid of the jewelry box and took my hands in his, raising me up from my reverent kneel and said clearly for all to hear, “This sister is the jewel you posses that I would like most to have for my own.”

     I flushed deepest scarlet, a nervous prattle breaking out in the crowds. I could not conceal my shock and yes my horror at his words. I well knew, like everyone else in Europe, the reputation of this lusty king. He kept a harem of mistresses in his many castles to satiate his never ending appetite for sex. I was a maid, pure and innocent, but no matter what my personal vows of chastity, if this powerful lord wanted to have me then no one, not even I, could stop him. 

     Madame laughed drunkenly. “Charles, I would not dare leave such an innocent in your hands. Your harem of whores would eat her alive and her parent’s would never forgive me. No, no, the girl must come home to France.”

     And come home to France we did. The Channel crossing was much calmer, the seas flat and smooth as glass. I tried my hardest not to think of the powerful handsome King who had asked for me to grace his bed. As a woman of no fortune and no prospects, the offer was enticing. But I had to hold myself to a higher standard if I ever hoped to have a family and children of my own.

How could I have known that in mere months I would find myself back in England while Madame lay sleeping in the ground?

*      *      *

     The maids awoke me crying the bleak June morning. We had been home from England barely a week and every day since our landing Monsieur had tormented poor Minette. How he hated that she had gotten her way and was allowed to return to England. Anything that brought her happiness he hated for the simple fact that it brought her joy. Last night at dinner, Henrietta had drank a glass of chicory water, clutched at her side and proclaimed that she had been poisoned. At first, no one took great heed in her statement but as the hours passed and her health deteriorated a physician and the Royal Family was called. Eventually Bishop Bossuet was called to administer last rights to the fading Madame. Somehow, as I passed out on my trundle bed at midnight, I convinced myself that she would pull through, that she would fight off this poison but when I was awoken with tears I knew she had lost the battle and sweet, beautiful, caring Henrietta was gone from this world forever. 

Louis XVI

     The follow weeks were hectic. The funeral, the disestablishment of Madame’s household. I had failed in my parents’ aspirations that would find a husband from my connection to the French court. I now had no mistress to serve, no purpose in Paris, and no money to find my way back to the home of my parents. I had just begun to wonder what I would do with myself when I received a summons from King Louis’s private secretary.

     It turns out that I had been given a place in the household of Queen Catherine of Braganza, the wife of King Charles II. King Louis wished for me to wait on this foreign Queen and gave me a gift of gold to supplement my wardrobe. I was not fooled.  He wished me to become the mistress of Charles, the French whisper in his ear. Knowing that I had no other prospects and having been ordered and summoned by the two most powerful kings in Christendom I knew I had no choice but to obey.

      After my arrival in England, I was immediately taken to see the King in London. We were reintroduced in a very private setting, left alone to privately mourn together our mutual loss of his sweet sister. Charles knew from our time in Dover that I had loved his sister like a mother and we found solace in telling stories of our time with Minette. 

     Surprisingly, Charles did not pressure me right into bed as I at first assumed he would. He was kind and gentle, endlessly patient with my fears. It was almost a year before I surrendered my virginity to this lusty King, no mean feat in this lascivious court of his. I timed the surrender just right. We were alone together with a small congregation of his friends, away from the bustle of the full court and most importantly away from the whore Nell.  The whole ordeal was staged as a mock wedding for the two of us, complete with a mock ceremony, and a mock bedding by his dunking friends. They marched us up to Charles’s chambers, insisted that I strip to my undergarments, and put us to bed together as if we were Newlyweds. 

     However mock the rest of the evening might have been his cock most certainly was not. He was such a large powerful man in every sense. At first he hurt me, pushing deeper into my sex. I could not for the life of me understand how something so painful, so embarrassing could be enjoyed. But enjoyed it he did. He had me several time that night and the morning light revealed the blood stains on the bed sheets and virginity (and thus any prospects for a good and honorable match) were gone. 

     Nine months later I gave birth to a squalling, beautiful baby boy. Like others before me I named my boy Charles for his royal father. But our boy was special. Charles and I had a connection, a deep loved rooted in our mutual love and loss of Madame. He may have a dozen other children but I knew our little boy held a special place in his heart.

Charles Lennox, son of Louia & Charles II

     I never felt at ease in England. France would always be my home and the antics of Nell Gwynn did nothing to ease my stay in the courts. Nell was just so…common. Not a fit woman to be gracing the bed of a King. While I may have grown up near penniless at least I had the dignity and good breeding of a Nobel. She was full of jokes and bawdy humor, while I was cool, distant and refined. I do not pretend to know what Charles saw in her but it was not my place to rebuke him for his bedfellow no matter how I felt it debased him (and me) by rutting with her.

     One night we were at supper together in my rooms (Charles insisted that I invited the hag). I was always jealous of the way Nell could capture the King’s attention with her sharp wit so I decided to have a try.
“Look my lord, we have three chickens,” I said when they placed but two before us. “That there is one, and that one is two, and two and one make three”. Nell scooped up the serving spoons and plopped one of the bids on her plate, one on the Kings, then told me to eat the third. The nerve, the cheek of that woman in my own rooms!

     Another time I was walking the halls of Whitehall when I heard the drone, nasal voice of that woman ahead in the hall accompanied by none other than Colbert de Croissy the French ambassador to England, and a new girl at court, Hortense Mancini. I cowered behind a tapestry to hear their conversation, ever on the lookout for the French King to favor another of Charles’s mistresses.

     “Why, ambassador do you favor Madam Kerouaille? She does not hold a tenth of the sway that I do with his majesty. I think he beds her not once a week and yet he finds his way to my chambers nearly every night! I feel your gold is wasted on Madame Squintabella!”

    

 “That is true,” the brown headed Hortense chimed in with her graceful childlike voice, “In fact dear Nell I was going to ask you for the name of your seamstress. It is widely known that your undergarments are the finest in the court. It is no wonder the King goes so often to see them.” To my everlasting horror, Nell lifted her skirts right there for the ambassador and all to see the fine stitches on her undergarments not to mention her exposed sex.  I wish I could say I felt better seeing Nelly exposed like that but the stitching and her toned dancer legs were both very fine. 

     Early in 1674 I was struck down with the pox. To my shame, doctor after doctor was paraded through my bedchamber to over one treatment suggestion after another to alleviate my suffering. Charles sat dutifully by my side, out of compassion maybe, but more likely out of guilt. You see, unlike his other women I alone had remained faithful to him. It was he who had given me the pox, no doubt drug it to my bed from the whore house he frequented or maybe from the whore Nell. I was ruined, my face and body speckled with the awful sores that oozed puss and foul odors. I retreated from court for an entire season, locked up in a manor house in the country while my body and my heart healed from the betrayal. Just in time for Yuletide, I returned to court and to Charles. On my throat as a diamond necklace so fine it outshined any that the Queen herself owned. Those who had predicted my downfall were forced to recant. I was very much returned to favor and back by Charles’s side where I belonged. 

     In time I was ennobled, given the title of Baroness Petersfield, Countess of Fareham and Duchess of Portsmouth and with these titles came great wealth and land holding.  Late in 1675 the thing I had most wanted was finally delivered to me, the ennoblement of my precious son. It was important that his parentage and rights were recognized by the court (A bastard so he might be, but a bastard son of a King is no small thing to be). He was to be Charles Lennox, Duke of Richmond. 

     The only dissatisfaction with his ennoblement was that Charles’s son with Barbara Palmer was also ennobled with the same bill. Always looking out for my son’s best interest, I slipped from my bed in the dead of night to call on Lord Treasurer Danby to have my son’s warrant signed. Sluggish, lazy Barbara would surly wait until morning to do the same but the laws of precedent were absolute. As my son’s warrant was signed before her son’s, my Charles would always outrank her even though they held the same title. While Danby signed the parchment with a flourish I could not help but feel a giddish satisfaction that I had at last bested the detestable Barbara at something. 

    The years flew by quickly and while I may not have graced his bed often (sexual intercourse became detestable to me after being stuck down with the pox outbreak) I was still very much cherished and loved by the King. I became his great confidant in matters of state. It made me very unpopular with people of England as (naturally) I encouraged him to promote and support French ambitions at court.  In the thick of the popish plot there was a time when I was sure Charles would be forced to dismiss me as the public outcry against him having a foreign Catholic mistress seem insurmountable. But somehow I survived. I survived to Charles’s obsession with the childish Hortense. There was a season where all he cared for was the silly vain girl but his appetite for her was soured when she took his own daughter for a lover.

     The year 1685 dawned like any other and the King seemed to be in good health, however late in the second month he fell ill and the palace was put on lockdown to try and control the outbreak of rumors. Nell was evicted from Whitehall but as a Duchess I was allowed to stay. I positioned myself like a sentry outside his door, unpermitted to enter but needing to be as close as possible to my lover. I left my position only once, when he wife Catherine came to say farewell. That poor woman had been taunted and tormented by the many lovers Charles had taken during his reign. She did not need that reminder now in their final moments together. 

     A thought over took me then, as I sat primly on my stool outside his door while he lay dying. I knew from my time with him in Dover when the secret treaty was signed where his true religious devotion lay. He would die soon and without a proper catholic confession his soul would be doomed to hell. My only thought for his salvation, I returned to my rooms and wrote horridly to King’s brother, James, who would soon be King and who also shared my Catholic faith. My pen shook as I wrote leaving blotches of ink on the paper. “I implore you my Lord, to consider what can be done to save the King, your brother’s soul.”

     If I can do nothing else, if my years with him mean nothing, if my son grows to accomplish nothing, at least I will have been able to do this, to save his soul from damnation. He lived his life the King of the most protestant country while his heart remained in Rome. He deserved his absolution and I would make sure he would have it.”

The Protestant Whore

Nell Gwyn

I am huddled in my bedroom crying, weeping in despair, fist pushed hard into my mouth to stifle the sobs so my servants will not hear them. They won’t let me in to see him. They won’t allow me to say goodbye. My Charles is dying, slipping away, up the street at Whitehall, less than a mile away from my home here at Pall Mall but thick and sturdy stone, heavy bolted wooden doors, and the pretentious opinion of old men have separated me forever from the only man I have ever truly loved as he lays dying upon his stately bed.  Less than a week ago I was laying in that same bed, naked, making love to my King. Though advanced in years (54 of them to my 35) we still enjoyed at least a daily lusty romp in the sack. And since that prude Portsmouth refuses to oblige due to her “delicate condition” the wondrous task falls to me (and a rotation of brothel whores if I am honest).  Aye, Charles is a randy old man who enjoys his whores on every level. From maid to Duchess, if they are willing to spread then he is willing to oblige.  I fancy I can still smell the scent of his sweat on my skin, built up for the exertion spent performing his preferred position of entering a woman from behind, mounting like a common steed in the stable. How could it have all gone so wrong so quickly? To think that I will never hold him again, never feel his kiss on my lips, nor the power of his urgency between my thighs. Renewed sobs chock me as the smallest of moans escape my fingers. I will die of this grief. If he leaves there will be nothing left for me in this world.
  

                                       *   *   *

     Speculations of my origins would be wide spread by the height of my tenure as mistress of the King of England. The stories ranged from ludicrous to downright comical and overwhelmingly shameful. Sadly (though I refused to ever speak of it) my childhood was blanketed in shame and the worst of the speculations were closer to the truth then I cared to admit.

      My mother, Old Madam as even I was forced to call her, ran a brothel in London just off Drury Lane. A step up in life for sure as she had spent her years whoring herself out to soldiers fighting in the English Civil War. Roundhead or Cavalier, she cared not as long as their gold and their cocks were ready. She said my father was a Captain in the Royalist army, though how a woman of such a profession could know if beyond me. Old Madam was a hard woman, driven only by her love of gold and drink. Once my sister Rose and I were of what she considered a reasonable age (in my case 7 years old) we were turned out to service her clients. We had to earn our keep as well as the other whore. My childhood was lost in the never ending parade of drunken, smelly men who used me in ways I will not describe here then deposited little more the a pence into my mother’s coffers (Such a small price to pay for stealing my innocence in my humble opinion. )

I was ten years old the year Charles returned to England to claim the throne that was rightfully his. I escaped my mother’s home long enough that day to watch his triumphant march through London, back to the seat of his power. A townsman took pity on me as I strained up on my tip toes in an effort to see just a

King Charles II of England

glimpse of the royal parade and swept me up onto his shoulder so I could see above the heads of all the Londoners who had packed the street to welcome home their lost King. That was the first time I saw Charles, triumphant in his restoration, smiling at the exuberant greeting of his people from atop his brilliantly white steed while his newly formed court followed in his wake. He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, tall (he must have towered at least a foot over the rest of the men surrounding him, finely dressed in cloth of gold that clung to his obviously muscled form. His hair was a vibrant black and fell past his shoulder blades, rivaled in thickness though by his glossy black mustache that curled around full pouty lips. Even I, a girl that had yet to understand the true pleasure a man could bring, could not help but sigh in benevolent contentment at such a fine display of masculine beauty. 

Years passed and Charles kept himself busy reinstating a Royalist Government during the day and begetting children on his beautiful mistress Mrs. Palmer by night. One of his first orders of business was to reopen the play houses that had been boarded shut during the rebellion. This King loved to be entertained and gave special commissions to help the theaters of London reinvent themselves. Little did he or I know that his insistence for theatrical amusement would be the key in bringing us together in the future. News of the scandal his mistress incited with his new Queen, Catherine of Braganza, over her insistence at being appointed to Lady of the Bedchamber (thus waiting on the woman whose husband she daily and most publicly copulated with) reached the ears of even my lowly home on Drury Lane.

 Eager to escape my mother’s iron grip, I accepted the advances of a married man who frequented our brothel, a Mr. Duncan. At the age of twelve I became a mistress for the first but certainly not the last time. My time being “kept” by him (if you could even call a dingy tiny room at a tavern in Maypole Alley and a few pounds a week being kept) was a rather unhappy time and I lounged for a better life than the one I had.

The year I turned 13, Mary Meggs (a former “employee” of my mother) offered me a job as an orange girl in the local theater on Bridges Street and I jumped at the opportunity, bidding farewell to Duncan. Our job was simple: We wore low cut gowns and tightly fitted corsets and used our ample cleavage and flirtatious nature to peddle sweet china oranges, lemons, and sweetmeats to the patrons of the theater during a performance. Mary of course had a side business acting as a go between for the noble men of court and the actresses back stage, arranging illicit sexual liaisons, and pocketing a few pence for her services. It turns out she learned a thing or two from Old Madam after all. The King often attended performances and I would seehim high up in his top box, often accompanies by Mrs. Palmer (by now promoted to the Duchess of Cleveland for her…services…to the crown) and think wistfully of that sunny day three years previous when he marched triumphant into London. 

Less than a year after I came to work for Meggs, the theater director offered me a part acting in the troupe.  Along with restoring the theaters, Charles had paved the way to finally allow women to be able to perform on stage, something unheard of before in England. Transitioning from orange peddler to actress was difficult. My mother, believing my only asset lay between my legs, had never bothered to teach me to read or write thus memorizing lines was extremely difficult. I had to rely on the mercy of the other actors to help me including the help of the most well-known actor at our little theater, Charles Hart, who was soon rehearsing lines with me from the confines of my bed. Despite this short coming I shined on stage. My first performance I played Cydaria, the exotic daughter of Montezuma in the play “The Indian Emperor). Hart conveniently enough played my lover (Cortez) in this performance. A role that he played to perfection. Drama it turns out was not my calling.  Comedy was where I shined. In time I became well known for my comedic portrayal of a man, playing actually the homosexual lover of my very heterosexual lover Hart. The audience greatly enjoyed these Breeches roles, though probably more so because they got a fair view of my shapely legs when I dressed up in a man’s costume verses the long dresses we were normally confined to on stage. 

     The years flew by with speed, caught up as I was with fulfilling my many different parts. Shows changed often at the theaters as our clientele was almost always the same rather limited group of people who bored easily (going to a play was a rich man’s distraction).  During the great Plague of London, all theaters and

Lord Buckhurst, Lover of Nell Gwyn

common places were shut down for over a year to stop the spread of the disease. In 1667 I was kept briefly by Lord Buchhurst, a cultured and witty man (a good match for my comedic and jubilantly amusing personality) however our sexual Soirée ended after a few short months. I just could not commit to being a kept woman like so many of the other actresses had. My calling was to the stage. By this time I was all but famous all over London for performances and I was not willing to give up my fame for anything and certainly not any man.

     Later that same year I was approached by a representative of the Duke of Buckingham (how’s that for moving up the social ladder?!!) with the intention of making me an official mistress of the King! Now I know I said I refused to give up my career to be kept but come now, this was the King of England, the most powerful monarch in the world. I was not naive of his scandalous reputation. His appetite for female flesh was renowned across Europe but then again I was certainly no virgin myself. They asked me for my conditions and I set what I felt was a very reasonable sum for such a King, however that stick in the mud Duke took offense to my asking and instead slipped my main rival on the stage, that mousy haired twig of a girl Moll Davis into the royal bed.  In my anger at being circumvented and yes a kind of sickening jealousy as well, I sought to sabotage Moll’s time with our Lord. Bribing her maid, I frequently had an herbal laxative slipped into her food. If I could not be with Charles, I at least took heart in the knowledge that Moll was firmly astride her chamber pot and not the King.

     As luck would have it, I got a second chance at being the lover of a monarch. In April of 1668, I was attending a play instead of acting in one for once and by chance my box was situated just next to that of the King (with the help of a generous tip to the theater’s director naturally). I took heart to dress my finest that night and my charms and bodily allures did the trick. All during the performances I could feel the King’s eyes on me and after the play had ended I received an official invite to join him at supper. Miraculously this night Charles was without female accompaniment. Just his brother, James the Duke of York joined us for our meal

Nell Gwyn as Cupid by Richard Thomso   

 We had a lively time. I enchanted the King with my lively banter, saucy jokes, and well displayed bosom. We drank well into the night but when the time came to leave the King and the Duke both found themselves without funds. How the two most important men in the kingdom could find themselves without two pounds to rub together, I do not know, but I was all too willing to oblige by footing the bill. I knew in due time I would be paid back one way or another. Pulling out gold from my purse, I slapped the tall brawny Charles on the knee with my palm.

            
 “Well I must say this is the poorest company I have ever kept,” I exclaimed with wink as I threw some gold down on the table.

     Less than a week later I was in his bed.

     Oh the naysayers, they predicted I would be gone in less than a fortnight. Not being a traditional beauty, some could honestly not see what the King was attracted to. However they miscalculated the importance of a lively wit and playful spirit, something sorely lacking in this most frigid court. I continued to act for the first years as his mistress. My notoriety as a King’s whore brought even more people out to the playhouses. Something titillating I suppose at having the woman who serviced the king performs for their pleasure on stage. The first few months with Charles were the happiest in my life. It seemed that I could have the best of both worlds: a handsome, wealthy, man in my bed and my spectacular career on stage at the same time. 

     I feel pregnant quickly, as all the women who shared his bed seemed to (except of course the Queen). My son, Charles, was born on May 8^th of 1670. Unfortunately my bliss at becoming the mother of the son of a King was marred by the arrival of “Squintabellla” from France. The French whore, sent over by King Louie of France to warm the King’s bed was everything I was proud not to be: frail, delicate, weepy, and a virgin.  Over the years we would have a bitter rivalry for Charles’ affection and honors for our children. Old Barbara, now Countess Castlemaine and Baranoss Nonsuch thanks to her abilities in the bedroom, was well on her way out of the King’s affections by this time. He kept her around I believe to have easy access to their brood of Children (Charles was nothing if not a doting father) She took particular insult to being compared to me, high and mighty lady that she thought she was. She did not take it well when I pointed out to her that we were “All the King’s whores just the same”.

     In retaliation she spent the next week purposefully driving her fancy carriage past my home on Pall Mall (leased to me by the crown) to show off the extravagant wealth she had accumulated  over the years while I had little to show for my time as mistress. Soon after I rented a broken down cart and six smelly oxen to pull me down the street to her house while I stood on the back, ringing a bell, and screeching “WHORES TO MARKET, HO!” She never did have a good sense of humor that Duchess. Ah well, she retired to France not long after. Finally admitting defeat at the hands of me and Portsmouth (newly minted a duchess that French whore was. The indignity of the class discrimination still rankles to this day!)

     Louise of course was no better at jesting. When she received her ennoblement (damn you Charles for that!) she came looking for me. I remember the painted sneer on her face, not a good look with her pale coloring and wide set frog eyes. “Why Nelly!  By the look of your dress it seems you have grown rich. You look fine enough to be a Queen,” she jeered.

    “You are entirely right madam. AND I am whore enough be a duchess as well,” I snapped back without a moment’s pause causing the poor thing to burst out into a fit of tears. Poor old Froggy face! I almost for a moment felt bad. I know not why the others had such issue claiming their role as royal whore. They shrouded themselves in indignation whenever the truth was pointed out. No matter how they tried to fool themselves, everyone knew the truth, especially the common folk of London. Once I had my carriage chased down a street by an angry mob of citizens, screaming for the death of the French mistress. To the horror of my carriage mates, I stuck my head from the window and shouted, “Good people! You are mistaken; I am the Protestant whore!”

     I for one was not ashamed to call it as it was.

     While I may have remained title-less, I was determined to creating a lasting legacy for my boys. Oh yes, I forgot, I gave his majesty a second son James by this time and had finally left the theater all together. One fine spring day Charles came to visit our boys. After embracing me in the parlor I called for Charles and James to be brought to see their father. “Come here you little bastards,” I snapped sharply. “And say hello to your father.” Charles was aghast that I addressed the boys such and reprimanded me harshly.

Charles Beauclerk, 1st Duke of St Albans
Son of Charles II and Nell Gwyn

     “Well you majesty has given me no other name by which to call them.” I reminded with a pointed look. The bill for their ennoblement came within the month. In 1677 news came from his school in France that my little James had died in a school yard accident. The grief over whelmed me but at the same time brought me closer to Charles. Our agony at our loss was palpable to the whole court and it was more than a year after before I could bring myself to laugh again.

     In 1684 my little Charles was granted another title, Duke of St. Albans, and an allowance of 1,000 pounds a year from the crown. It was the proudest moment of my life. I, who had been born in the gutter, had lived to see my son ennobled as one of the greatest lords of the land.  

   But my joy was short lived. The next year in February Charles suffered an apoplectic fit. He was rushed to his bed and the castle locked down. As a title-less woman I was banished from the castle left to despair at what was happening behind the stone fortress. The twist in the knife of my heart was the French whore was allowed to stay at his side, being the Duchess she was by the grace of my lord.

     So here I find myself, in a ball on the floor of my London home. Waiting for news, waiting for answers. All my letters sent to Whitehall have been returned unopened. I know not if my Charles is alive or dead. With the monarch nearing death, no one cares anymore for the women who once graced his bed.

     He must pull through, he must. I cannot imagine an England without my Charles. His heir and brother James will rip this country apart with his papist beliefs.  Nothing of what Charles loves of will survive the tragedy of a catholic heir. 

     No. He will be fine. 

     Perhaps just an extended rest is needed from his over exertion. Yes. He tires himself out so; denying his age for vanity. He needs rest and relaxation. No more stress. I will stop bickering with Louisa so publicly. I know how that strains him so to see us at war. 

     Yes. He will live.

     He must live.

     For England… for me.

     How could a man like him ever die?

__________________________________

Charles II, King of England Ireland and Scotland died on February 6^th, 1685, four days after he suffered a severe stroke most likely due to complications brought on my his life long struggle with syphilis. Some of his last words were, “be well to Portsmouth, and let not poor Nelly starve”.  With the aid of Louis it is believed that Charles converted back to Catholicism on his death bed. His brother, James II took the throne upon Charles’ death but was deposed in favor of his daughter Mary in less than three years due to his extreme religious views. 

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Queen of the Royal Bedroom

Barbara Palmer Duchess of Cleveland 

  I meet my delicious Charles before he ever became king.  So for what it’s worth, I think that proves that I love him much more than any of those other whores he keeps. I did not have the powerful lure of a crown and the enticement of a treasury full of gold and precious jewels to prompt me to lift my silk petticoats to him. I did it for...well if I am truthful it certainly was not for love. I knew him nary 2 days before we were rolling around in the sack. I suppose it was for sheer lust, excitement. I have always had a deep hunger inside of me, an aching desire to possess and be possessed. In my years I had yet to find another who truly understood that, much less matched it but my Charles…we were two of a kind.

     My husband Roger Palmer, god bless his naive little soul, sent me abroad to Holland, to the Hague where Charles was living, exiled and penniless, waiting for the tide of English opinion to turn in his favor once again. He fled England in 1651 after being defeated by the usurper Cromwell on the battle field. He wandered around Europe for years, the guest of his royal cousins as he made his way from one foreign royal court to another. After the death of Cromwell and the destabilization of his government, everyone knew it would only be a matter of time before Charles reclaimed what was his by right of God. Roger, like everyone else, was eager to show our soon to come King, that his family was loyal to the royalists cause with a generation donation of gold. And that is how I came to find myself disembarking from a ship in The Hague, my dress purposefully plain as our gift of coin was sewn into the seams. Mr. Palmer would have loved to come himself but fortunately for me it was becoming increasingly difficult for noble men to travel abroad as the government was on the lookout for traitors offering aid to Charles. Women you see, especially wives, were able to travel much easier, evading detection because of the seeming unimportance in the world political intrigue.

     

The Hauge

     I was presented to his majesty in my travel worn clothes the next day. Poor man, you would never know that this poor and scraggly man was to be the greatest King of Europe. His clothes, like mine, were plain, patched and frayed. His boots were scuffed and worn, his black hair un-styled and uncovered by the elaborate wigs that were the fashion of the courts. Here was a man who had endured strife and tribulation. A man who was unable to save his father from traitors and lived with the knowledge he marched to the guillotine to have his head cut from his body for no other crime then having royal blood. The Roundhead’s would have done the same to the young prince if only they could have gotten their blood stained hands upon him. Fortunately for Charles, England was littered with those still loyal to the Royalist’s cause and he was smuggled to France before they could have his head on a spike as well. 

      I was greeted kindly enough by his little retinue of companies he kept about him. All men: scholars and politicians who were there to aid him on his re-ascendance to his throne. The specifics of the words and actions taken at that most formal of introductions is lost to me over the years but one thing stands out like a burning flame in my mind. The way his eyes drank in my face, my breasts, my hips. It made even me, a woman of no good reputation, blush with the blatant sexual lounging that was painted over his visage. Good Charles, he was never one to set much store in fancy dresses or expensive jewels. He appreciated the true beauty and lush delectableness of the female form without the benefit of outward adornment. It was if he had stripped me bare there before everyone and made love to me with his eyes. Needless to say I was not surprised, and over joyed, when a summons came for me that very night asking me to come to his rooms. Though formal in it wording, there was little doubt in my mind what he was summoning me for. Not a single word passed between us once I was shown into his pitiful excuse for bed chamber. Nothing needed to be said. He pulled me to him, over powering me with his brute force, and had his way with me, several times and long into the morning hours. 

Charles II

     Charles was a strange mix of promiscuous and devoted. The next morning as I attempted to detangle myself from the bedcovers while I thought he was still asleep, he pulled my back into his embrace, smelling the lingering scent of perfume in my tangle of auburn hair, pleading “Stay with me Barbara”. I remember chocking back a laugh as I was sure he did not even remember my name from the informal introduction that morning. I would have loved nothing better than to stay there with him, away from England; away from my bore of a husband and his insistent attempts to impregnate me (thankfully I knew several “whores tricks” as they were called to prevent conception). But alas I knew I had to return to England, to my husband. My condolence was that I knew it would not be long before Charles was to return and I planned to grace his bed every night in London and not just a few in Holland.

      Charles’s triumphant return to England came on May 25^th 1660, the thirtieth anniversary of his birth. He rode into London followed by a jubilant procession. My accursed husband forced me to stay in our townhouse for the celebrations stating it was unseemly for a wife to be seen among the throngs of commoners who had crowded the streets to welcome their King home. Honestly I believe rumor of our tryst had reached his ear and he felt keeping me out of sight would keep me out of mind. Roger however misjudged Charles and before the parade was even finished I had a summons delivered by a royal page, commanding my presence at Whitehall Palace that very night. His first night back in England and he wanted to spend it with me!

Whitehall Palace

     The next few months speed by in a blur of good wine, find food, and silken sheets. My Charles taught me things I never before knew, realms of sexual fulfillment that numerous lovers before him never managed to awaken. I am no fool. I know he had other women. Often he would leave me sleeping on his bed to go visit the brothels of London, taking his pleasure again from the numerous whores that worked them. But for that time I was his only love. As in Holland he continued to surprise me with his dual nature. He would use my body over and over until it screaming out in exhaustion then curl himself against me, murmuring sweet nothing in my ear until I drifted off the sleep. He gave me beautiful dresses and jewels so that the court would see and acknowledge his favor. Without a Queen, I ruled the court in her stead. Ambassadors and minsters bowed to me as low as if I were the Queen and slipped gold and silver in my pocket to persuade me to just mention one idea or another to the king during our time together. Looking back, that was the happiest time of my life, and the very first time I ever really fell in love. There had been many lovers before Charles and there would be many after, but he and only he held the keys to my heart. 

Anne Fitzroy

     I gave birth to my daughter Anne in February of 1661. I believe in my heart we conceived her on the glorious night of his return to London.  Upon first realizing I was with child I despaired. Many mistresses found the downfall in breeding. How does a woman hold a man’s attention when she grew big and round with child? But again Charles surprised me. He was over joyed in the news that our love had begotten a child. He lovingly caressed my stomach as it grew, laying his palms against my bare skin as we languished in his bed waiting for his child to kick. Contrary to the physician’s advice we continued to couple well into my eighth month until it came time for my confinement. My swollen form seemed to excite Charles more rather than disgust him. I believe the idea of the potency of his seed take hold a womb bolstered his manly confidence. I did not see much of my husband Roger during the months of my pregnancy. This child would bare this name but surely he, like the rest of the court knew that he was not the true father. I realize now, years later, the pain it must have caused him. Roger always wanted to be a father, a role I had denied him, and to know that another man’s seed grew in his wife, transforming into a child that was his but not his, must have been unbearable. 

Barbara and Charles Fitzroy

     In rapid succession I gave Charles four more children. Little Charles was born in 1662, Henry is 1663, Charlotte in 1664, and George in 1665. Many things changed in those subsequent years. Charles married Catherine of Braganza in 1662, a squat and fat little thing that presided over the court I had once ruled. She threw such a fit when Charles forced her to welcome me to her court and allow me to serve her, the only natural position for an official mistress of the King. She hated me for my beauty, for the Kings loyalty to me, but mostly I think for my fertile womb for while I produced one bonny babe after another for Charles, hers produced nothing but miscarriages and dead children. I should not revel in her misfortune, for it denied my love the legal and legitimate heir her lounged for and needed to stabilize the once again restless realm. But it heartened me to know that at least in one hand in life I won where as she was left empty handed. Charles was a loving and devoted father to our children. My husband Roger retreated to France, unable to stomach the life of a Cuckold.  Anne was the only of my children to bear his name, for the other’s Charles resurrected the name Fitzroy, son of a King, and their prospects in life were considerable raised from his public recognition of their status.

      Though my body was thickened from continuous pregnancies, my looks fading as my age progressed; Charles remained devoted to me for many years. He elevated me to the peerage by making me Duchess of Cleveland then later Baroness Nonsuch, providing a lasting inheritance for our children. We both had our dalliances on the side, he with the ladies of the court and lord knows how many prostitutes, me with minor lords and even a few door men and stable boys if the fancy over took me. But we always came back to each other to quench the never ending thirst of lust. In 1663 I converted from my Anglican faith to Roman Catholic, a move that would have seen me imprisoned had I been a commoner. To be truthful I cared nothing one way or another. By God’s law I was damned regardless but my conversion tied me even closer to Charles. You see a woman does not share a man’s bed for that many years without discovering his secrets and Charles’s secret devotion to the old faith was his most damning secret of all in a country that was firm in its insistence to be anything but catholic.

Frances Stewart

     I, as a woman of considerable temper when provoked, went to considerable means to undermine my competition for the King’s affections. In my tenure of head mistress there was truthfully only one true threat. By the time old Nell and the French whore sunk their talons in my romance with Charles had pretty much run its course. But Frances Stewart, she could have taken it all from me. Silly vapid child that she was, put right under the King’s nose to pull his loyalties away from me put there by my rivals, the men of power who would love nothing more than to see me fall from grace. She was beautiful no doubt and young. Youth and vitality is a powerful aphrodisiac to men as they grow older, an attempt to reclaim what they themselves have lost to time. But stupid girl ruined her own chances by pulling old Anne Boleyn’s trick; refusing to submit her supposed virginity outside of marriage. Perhaps she thought she would snag herself a crown but Charles was fiercely loyal to Catherine despite her failure to produce him an heir. A virgin she might have been in name, but I set out to destroy her good name. Such a wispy naive little thing. I would get her drunk on wine then persuade her to join me in my chambers and let me explore her body for myself( Such novel distractions were common place among the ladies of this most scandalous court) I teased Charles mercilessly, that I had been allowed where he was denied. One night I even let him watch from the corner, poor Frances did not even notice his presence she was so far gone on the wine. He watched intently while I used my mouth and fingers to pleasure her until she sank into a deep sleep of satisfaction. Though he wanted to, I would not allow him to lay a hand on the girl as she slept peacefully. As much for her sake as mine I think. I could not bear the thought of watching him with another woman. I did allow him to take me on the bed next to her sleeping frame, allowed him to lick my fingers and taste her on them and he ravished my body, no doubt imaging that it was her depths he explored instead of mine. But I closed my eyes to that thought and just enjoyed his lovemaking once again.  I do not believe he actually ever really had Frances. She eloped with the Duke of Richmond, much to the king’s displeasure as they did so without his permission.

      Old Nell took his fancy in 1668. A lowborn actress of all things! I remember clearly the first time I saw her, a mere orange girl at the play house. A nothing, a nobody, but Charles never discriminated by class when he found a cunt he which to possess. Our affair was waning and while I still graced his bed from time to time, we both knew I had become more of a habit then a pursuit. Then the French Whore came over in 1671 (a vapid and pompous creature that he had taken a fancy to when they meet at Dover the year before. A member of his sister’s household in France, a woman of little connection.) That same year I found myself very unexpectedly pregnant once again but by John Churchill, not Charles. John was my second cousin, an up and comer at court to be sure but after informing him of our impending child, he disappeared from my life. Charles, taking mercy on me or perhaps my poor fatherless child, claimed little Barbara as his own and gave her the name Fitzroy.

      By 1672 it was plain that our time was over and rather than be ousted kicking and screaming, I decided to make a graceful exit. I left before he could ask me, retreated to France to live out my life as an object of distant fascination and scrutiny. I am sure in the years to come I will return to England to see my children come of age and be married (no doubt into the wealthiest and most influential families in the country. Royal blood, even on the wrong side of towel, is highly sought after) When I do, I hope not to be subjected to the sight of whatever new favorite has taken the place that once was mine. But no woman will ever make the impact I did on his heart and his life. I will be remembered forever as the most beautiful, most influential, most scandalous mistress Charles ever had.