Courting Her Highness_ The Story of Queen Anne - Jean Plaidy [90]
Glorious days! thought Sarah. Letters from Marl telling of his plans and his love for her. “I would give up ambition, my hopes for future glory, for the sake of my dearest soul.” They were bound together again and there must be no more follies. She was certain that if by any chance there had been a little truth in the rumour Sunderland had reported to her, Marl had learned his lesson. He would never risk looking at another woman.
She had been down to look at the site for the new Palace. Woodstock was both delightful and romantic. There Henry II had dallied with the Fair Rosamond Clifford, and to avoid the jealousy of Queen Eleanor had had a bower built for her within a maze to which few had the clue. Eleanor determined to destroy her rival, arranged that a skein of silk be put in Rosamond’s pocket that it should be unravelled as she walked through the maze, and thus Eleanor, following the silken clue, was led to the bower where she offered Rosamond a choice between a dagger or a bowl of poison.
Rumour! thought Sarah mockingly, knowing how rumour could arise. But the fact remained that Rosamond died soon after her liaison with the King was made known and there seemed little doubt that Eleanor had had a hand in it.
Sarah could well sympathize with the Queen. I’d be ready with the dagger and the poisoned bowl for any woman Marl preferred to me! she thought. But how foolish! He preferred only her. Did she not carry a letter in her pocket in which he told her so with the utmost emphasis.
The romantic past of Woodstock made even her imaginative. Here the Black Prince had been born; here Elizabeth had been imprisoned; Charles I had sheltered here after the Battle of Edgehill; but now in place of Woodstock there would be Blenheim, and when people passed this way they would not think of Elizabeth or Charles or the Fair Rosamond—they would say: There is Blenheim which commemorates one of the greatest victories in English history made possible by England’s greatest soldier.
It was a beautiful spot; two thousand acres of parkland watered by the River Glyme. Sarah was impatient, and when she had viewed the site engaged Sir Christopher Wren to draw up plans.
Wren of course was getting old and perhaps it was wise to engage another architect to submit his ideas. She had heard that the Controller of Works was doing a very fine job for the Earl of Carlisle, rebuilding his mansion—Castle Howard. He was the rising architect; Wren was the waning one.
“Your Grace should certainly give John Vanbrugh a trial. He’s an amusing fellow besides being an excellent architect. He’s the man who writes those witty plays.”
“He can show me what he can do,” Sarah had said; and as a result the plans submitted by John Vanbrugh had been chosen in preference to those of Wren.
So far so good. But there were troubles in the family circle and again it was Mary. She was only sixteen and very beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of an extremely handsome family.
She was young, but Sarah had seen since that unfortunate affair at St. Albans that Mary was the sort who needed to be married young.
She had not talked to Marl about their daughter. He was far too indulgent where his daughters were concerned. In fact had he not been so devoted to her they might have joined forces against her. But Marl would never do that. Throughout her stormy relationships with her family John had always done everything in his power to bring her children back to her. “You must listen to your mother. Really she knows best.” And those bold girls of hers—Henrietta and Mary particularly—would fling their arms about his neck and say: “But Papa, you understand. We know you do!” There could have been conflict in the family but for Marl’s complete loyalty to her.