The Queen's Devotion: The Story of Queen Mary II by Jean Plaidy Page A

courting her he will have to give up his philandering ways. Did you know, they say our uncle sent him to Tangiers because Barbara Castlemaine liked him too much. And now he is chasing Sarah.”
    I had rarely known Anne speak so much. She was not usually given to conversation and liked to sit contentedly listening while others conversed, avoiding all unnecessary effort.
    But now she was really moved. I warmed toward her and the tragedy of having to say good-bye seemed greater than ever. How I should miss my dear sister. How could they take me away from everything that had made up my happy life? What a silly question! They could and would do it—by marrying me to the Prince of Orange.
    Anne went on: “Of course, John Churchill’s family doesn’t think Sarah is good enough to marry him.”
    I could not help saying: “I am sure Sarah does not agree with that.”
    â€œNo. She is furious about it. That is why she keeps him uncertain, and he grows more and more eager to marry her every day. But she likes him, I know. That is what worries me. She must not marry him, for if she does she will go away. Suppose they want to send him abroad. I will not lose you
and
Sarah. Mary, you must not leave me.”
    There was nothing we could do but mourn together and my hope of release grew fainter every day.
    The marriage now seemed a certainty. There was an occasion when the Council came to congratulate me. My eyes were red with weeping and I must have looked really miserable.
    After that there followed more ceremonies . . . the Lord Mayor gave a banquet to celebrate the betrothal to which the whole court was invited. The people lined the river bank as our barges sailed along to Westminster Hall and the Prince and I were in the King’s barge with my father. The King had his hand on my shoulder and the Prince was on the other side of me. I did my best not to show the misery I felt.
    I was moving fast toward my marriage. I had to accept the fact that nothing could avert it now. I should have to marry this strange, silent man who seemed much older than I. Twelve years is a great deal when one is fifteen. It was only two weeks since I had heard the news which had robbed me of my content. It seemed like two years.
    The ceremony was to take place in my bedchamber. An altar had been set up there for the service which would be performed by Bishop Compton, who had taken charge of my education, the Archbishop of Canterbury having been taken ill suddenly.
    Early that morning Elizabeth Villiers came to me in some dismay and told me that her mother, Lady Frances, was ill—very ill indeed, and would not be present at the ceremony.
    She added: “The Lady Anne is also indisposed.”
    As soon as Elizabeth left, I went to Anne’s apartments. I remembered with concern how pale she had been looking of late.
    I was horrified, for when I opened her door and was about to enter, Dr. Lake suddenly appeared.
    â€œMy lady,” he said, “you cannot enter the Lady Anne’s apartments. Your father has strictly forbidden it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Dr. Lake? Am I not to see my sister?”
    â€œShe is ill . . . and needs rest.”
    I was astounded but Dr. Lake would say no more. So I was to be denied my sister’s company.
    I went back to my room, bewildered. I had never been so unhappy in my life.

    IT WAS NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING , and the ceremony was about to begin.
    The Prince, the King and Queen, my father and his heavily pregnant Duchess were there with the Bishop of London and those officials whose presence was considered necessary. Not a great number for such an occasion, but enough to fill the room.
    They had bathed my eyes and done their best to disguise their redness—the outward signs of my grief; they had dressed me as a bride. I was sure there had never been a more unhappy one.
    My father took me to the altar which had been set up, and as he did so I turned an imploring