“He should be brought more to the King’s notice, this Villiers,” said Lake. “I will buy him a place as cupbearer to the King. What think you of that?”
“Excellent!” cried Pembroke. “That shall be the next step. And very soon I shall approach Her Majesty—who knows of our plan—and ask her to beg the King to give young Villiers a place as one of his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber.”
The conspirators were now certain that the heyday of the reigning favorite was coming to an end; and they were very gay when they took their leave of Pembroke and rode back to Whitehall.
As they came through Fleet Street, they passed several stalls on which traders had set up their merchandise. On one of these a painter had displayed his work and prominent among it was a picture of Robert Carr.
The party paused to look at it. It was a good likeness.
One of them turned to his groom.
“Take up a handful of mud,” he said, “and throw it at that picture.”
The groom looked amazed. “Did you mean that, sir?”
“I meant it. Do it, man.”
With a grin, the groom obeyed.
The painter who had been hovering close by, watching the party of Court gentlemen and hoping for a sale, stared in astonishment when he saw his best picture ruined.
He dashed out and cried: “Gentlemen, this is a poor joke.”
“We like not your subject,” said the man who had ordered the groom to throw the mud.
“It is my lord Somerset!” protested the painter. “What better subject in the kingdom?”
“You paint too well, my friend” was the answer. “We recognized the fellow at first glance. ’Tis the first of much mud which will be thrown at that man.”
“Having spoiled the picture you must pay for it.”
But the men were already spurring their horses and galloping on.
The artist shouted after them. “Think not you will escape with this. I know who you are. I shall complain to my lord Somerset. You’ll be sorry.”
Robert listened to the artist and as he did so anger flamed within him. He was becoming angry quite frequently now; he was nervous; his relationship with James had changed, and he was surprised at how readily his temper flared up.
He had noticed George Villiers about the Court and it seemed to him that many were trying to bring that young man to the King’s notice. He guessed why. He had studied Villiers closely and noticed the fine clear skin, the handsome features, the flush of youth; and that sent him to his own mirror. He had aged since the divorce; perhaps he had begun to age since he had first known Frances and the fact that he and she were deceiving her husband had given him so many misgivings; but he saw now that as far as looks were concerned he could not compare with this fresh young man.
It was too humiliating, because his spies brought him reports that Pembroke and Lake were at the head of this youth’s supporters, and he well knew how Pembroke and Lake felt about himself. So it was clear what they were trying to do.
This knowledge was perhaps at the very root of his touchiness. He wanted to prove that his power over James had not changed; that was why he allowed himself to lose his temper so often.
He found himself wishing that Overbury was alive and they were good friends again so that he could talk this matter over with someone of discernment and sympathy.
“Mud!” he exclaimed. “They threw mud at my picture.”
“Yes, my lord. And ’twas not boys’ play either. They were gentlemen of the Court and one of them commanded his groom to do this. The others were all with him though. I shouted after them that it was the best of my pictures, which was so, my lord, being copied from one I have seen of your lordship.”
“They knew it was of myself?”
“They said so, my lord. They said they did not like the subject, and this would be the first of much mud that would be slung at your lordship.”
Robert controlled his rage, rewarded the artist and tried to shrug the matter aside. It was natural that he should have enemies.
When Frances heard what had happened she was furious. She too was aware of George Villiers. She was determined that her husband was going to remain in his present position; he was to be the first gentleman of the Court and she the first lady. It would be ironical if after all she had gone through to achieve her present position, she should lose it to that nobody, George Villiers.
Frances had discovered who the insulting men were. They were of the Pembroke party—those men who were supplying Villiers with new clothes, who had arranged for him to be the King’s cupbearer, who were bringing him to the King’s notice on every conceivable occasion.
“You cannot allow this insult to pass,” she stormed at Robert. “They must be shown that you are all-powerful. It would be the utmost folly to ignore this.”
“It is of no real importance to me, Frances.”
“Then it is to me,” she cried. “We must revenge ourselves, and in like manner, to let them know that we are aware who did this thing.”
“But how?”
“I have thought of a way. That young upstart will be at the royal table this very day. He will be mincing in the fine clothes which have been bought for him. Just as he is about to rise and serve the King’s wine, one of our men shall tip a dish of soup over him. It’s a just reward for what they did to your picture.”
“Well, that’s harmless enough,” agreed Robert.
Robert was seated on the right hand of the King and James seemed pleased because Robert was in a good humor. Though it was a sad thought that Robert should have become like other lads to whom he had given his affection—subject to tantrums.
The King’s eyes strayed to the young cupbearer who was seated some distance from him. A winsome lad, who might have been a model for the head of St. Stephen. His was a rare beauty, and it was difficult to keep one’s eyes from that face. But he must not anger Robert. Robert had become very observant and was apt to sulk if he looked too long at yonder lad.
He wanted to say: Look here, Robbie, it’s some years since you lay with a broken arm on the grass of the tiltyard and our friendship was born. There’ll never be another to take your place with me. But why, lad, cannot you be as you once were. Once there was not a sweeter tempered laddie in my kingdom. I want my lad Robbie back. If he will come I’d never as much as glance at yon boy if I thought it pained him.
James sensed that Robert too was very much aware of that young man who sat there nonchalantly, as though his beauty made him an equal of all men.
The accident happened suddenly. One of the King’s gentlemen, who had risen to serve him with soup, had to pass the spot where young Villiers was sitting. As he did so, he seemed to slip and tilting the dish forward slopped it over young Villiers’ coat and fine satin breeches.
Villiers stood up, his handsome face scarlet (none the less beautiful for that, James noticed) and did an alarming thing. He lifted his hand and boxed the ears of the gentleman server.
There were several seconds of silence. Robert was aware of Frances whose eyes had widened with delight. He knew what she was thinking. For any man to strike another in the presence of the King was a crime to be severely punished; and the punishment was that the right hand of the offender should be struck off.
Somerset stood up.
He knew that everyone was watching. The Queen, Pembroke, Lake and all those who supported this man believed that by one rash act he had ruined his chances—and their hopes—of supplanting Somerset.
“You young fool,” he said. “To behave thus in the presence of His Majesty will bring its own reward.”
Young Villiers had turned pale, now looking more like the statue of St. Stephen than ever. He knew what Somerset meant because there was not a man at Court who was unaware of the penalty for striking another in the presence of the King. Those watching saw his left hand close over his right as though he would protect it.