Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [66]
On the arm of her chaplain were white ribbons to which had been fixed the pieces of “angel” gold; these the Queen would place with her own hands about the necks of the sufferers.
The service was beginning and Anne, who was deeply religious, felt exalted. She believed then that the most important duty of all was to maintain the Church and this she would do no matter what opposition she had to face. There were some who had not been in favour of this Touching ceremony; but she had made them understand that it was her will.
One of the Chaplains was reading the Collect: “Prevent us, O Lord, with Thy most gracious favour, and further us with Thy continued help, that in all our works begun, continued and ending in Thee, we may glorify Thy holy name, and finally, by Thy mercy, attain everlasting life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
And then the reading:
“They shall lay their hands on the sick, and they shall recover.…”
Anne looked down at her beautiful hands—so smooth and white. How happy it made her to bestow this gift, and what greater gift was there than that of healing?
Now they were bringing forward the sick to be presented to her.
One by one they knelt before her and she stroked their arms and their faces; then she attached the ribbons with the angel gold to their arms while the chaplain murmured the words:
“God give a blessing to this work, and grant that those sick persons on whom the Queen lays her hands, may recover, through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
When the ceremony was over, and she retired to her private apartments, she sent for Abigail.
“I feel happier than I have since I lost my boy,” she told her.
“Your Majesty is so good,” replied Abigail with tears in her eyes.
“The service was beautiful, Hill.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I believe there are some in this realm who would seek to undermine the Church. They will never have my support.”
“Nor mine, Madam,” said Abigail quietly.
It was so pleasant afterwards to talk of the ceremony with Hill. The dear creature had such a way of listening which was very comforting and pleasant.
QUEEN’S BOUNTY
obert Harley, with his friend and disciple Henry St. John, stood on the edge of the crowd which was assembled near the pillory in Cornhill.
St. John knew that Harley was deeply disturbed, more so than he would admit; and the reason was this affair of Defoe.
Harley had said: “There is one of the greatest writers of our age. I want him to work for me.”
And before he could put that project into action here was Defoe—a prisoner during the Queen’s pleasure and sentenced to stand three times in the Pillory—at Cornhill, at Cheapside and at Temple Bar.
“I could have warned him,” muttered Harley. “I wish I had seen that pamphlet of his before it had been published.”
“It’s a brilliant pamphlet,” said St. John.
“Too brilliant. That’s the trouble, I’ve told you that the pen is a mighty weapon, St. John. It is because others are beginning to realize this that Defoe stands where he is today.”
“He’s coming now.…” warned St. John.
And there he was, the unrepentant scribe, the martyr to his cause, riding in the cart on his way to the pillory. This was usually the moment for which the crowd waited—when they would see the poor condemned wretch set in the wooden frame, his hands hanging before him, his neck and head in the holes provided for them, and himself helpless to face the scorn and fury of the mob. It was the custom to pelt the victim with rotten fruit and vegetables, stinking fish and any filth that could be found; many died of exposure to a cruel mob. And that this should be the fate of a man of great talent, perhaps genius—particularly a man who could be useful to him—filled Harley with indignation.
“He was a fool,” said St. John.
“He wrote nothing that was not true.”
“But this pamphlet of his The Shortest way with the Dissenters—why it gave pleasure to no one.”
“It gave pleasure to me, St. John, as all good writing must.”
“But the sentiments, Master, the sentiments.”
“All this conformity controversy in Parliament nowadays needs to be ridiculed, and