Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [40]
Riding Sorrel, he wondered whether the horse was aware of the change of masters. Did he ever remember the man who had once ridden him? Sorrel had belonged to Sir John Fenwick, whose goods William had confiscated when Fenwick had been executed for treason. The most precious item had been this Sorrel, who had become William’s favourite companion. Horses grew to know their masters; what did Sorrel think of the change? Whimsical thoughts rarely came to William; he was a man of sound common sense; yet on this day he was thoughtful.
Fenwick had been a Jacobite and a plotter, a man who was determined to make trouble; and he had made it. Marlborough’s name had been mentioned in connection with Fenwick, and William wondered how deeply the Earl had been involved. One could never be sure with Marlborough; there was a man whom he would never trust, but whom he dared not banish.
What an uneasy reign his had been! Far better, he sometimes thought, if he had remained in Holland. He remembered happier days there, when he had subdued Mary and taken his troubles to Elizabeth Villiers, and planned the building of his beautiful Dutch Palaces. The people of Holland had loved their Stadtholder; they had cheered him when he rode through their towns and compared him with his great ancestor William the Silent who had delivered them from the cruelty of the Spaniard.
“Why, Sorrel, was I not content with my own country?” he murmured. He often talked to Sorrel, imagining the horse sympathized with him. He would never have done so within the hearing of any living person; but he fancied there was a sympathy between Sorrel and himself. “Why did I have to come to this land and rule it? It was a desire in me, Sorrel, which I could not suppress. It was because the midwife saw those three crowns at my birth. Suppose she had not seen them, would I have schemed and plotted, would I have taken the crown from James? Mary had no wish to do so. How reluctantly she came! How she used to attempt to defend her father in those early days; and how angry she made me! If I had not believed that I was destined to possess three crowns should I be in Holland now; should I be happier than I have been?”
He was not sure. What was happiness? He had never believed it to be the right of human beings to possess it. Such a belief would be in opposition to his puritanical outlook.
“No, Sorrel,” he said. “It was predestined. It had to be. But is that the more comforting doctrine? What has to be, is. Then no blame attaches to the individual.”
Happiness, he thought. When have I ever been happy? With Elizabeth? But then there was always the guilt. With those dear friends Bentinck and Keppel? With Mary?
“No, I was never meant to be happy, Sorrel. I think that perhaps I am more contented on my lonely rides with you than at any other time.”
He turned towards the Palace. He could see it now—the magnificent walls to which he had given a flavour of Holland. Hampton grew more and more Dutch each day.
“Come, Sorrel,” he said.
Sorrel broke into a gallop; and William remembered nothing more until some time after. Then he learned that Sorrel had trodden on a molehill.
He was in great pain, and when his physician was brought to him it was discovered that his right collar bone was broken.
The King was dying. The King was recovering. He was at Hampton. He was at Kensington.
The Jacobites were rejoicing and drinking to the mole who had made the hill which had thrown William’s horse—a toast to the Gentleman in Black Velvet.
“He was riding Sorrel,” it was whispered. “Sir John Fenwick’s horse.” And they remembered the day when Sir John had been beheaded on Tower Hill.
William had sentenced Sir John to death and Sir John’s favourite horse had not forgotten. It seemed significant.
Many people were calling on the Princess Anne. Some, who had recently neglected her, now came to pay their respects. Sarah Churchill was with her; she could not bear to tear herself from her dear friend’s side. This