A Health Unto His Majesty

SEVEN

It was sixteen years since Catherine had come to England, and in those years, during which she had lived through many fears, a little happiness and much heartbreak, she had never ceased to love her husband and to hope that one day he would turn, from those brilliant women who so enchanted him, to the plain little wife who adored him.

She had little hope now of bearing a child; and she knew that there were many of her husband’s most important ministers who sought to ruin her. If they could have brought some charge against her, how readily would they have done so! But it seemed that, in the profligate Court, there was one virtuous woman, and she was the Queen. There was one matter which they held against her, and this was her religion. There was a growing feeling in the country against Papists and, whenever there was any trouble in this connection, there was always someone to remind the company that the Queen was a Papist.

Since the Duke of York had announced his conversion to the Catholic Faith there had been a strong and growing faction working against him, and these men never ceased to urge the King to rid himself of the Queen.

The chief of these was Ashley, who had now become Lord Shaftesbury. His principal enemy was the Duke of York, and his enmity towards him had increased since the Duke’s marriage, on the death of Anne Hyde, to the Catholic Princess of Modena. The one aim of Shaftesbury’s party was to prevent the Duke’s becoming King and, since the Queen was barren, they could only hope to do this either through divorce or, as the only other alternative, by the acknowledgment of Monmouth as the heir to the throne.

They were certain that, but for the King’s softheartedness, they could achieve this, and they had never ceased, over the last ten years, to work for it.

Catherine must therefore live in continual dread that one day they would succeed in their plans.

She was no longer plagued by Barbara, for Barbara was out of favor. It was true that the King had never dismissed her from the Court. It was beyond his nature to do that. Some said that he feared Barbara’s threat to print his letters, but what harm would such an act do to him? All knew of his infatuation for her; all knew that she had behaved abominably to him and had not even pretended to be faithful. No, Catherine often thought, it is his sheer kindness of heart and his desire to live easily and comfortably without troublesome quarrels which have made him give no direct rebuff to Barbara, just as they compel him to keep me as his wife. To rid himself of either of us would make trouble. Therefore he says: Let Barbara stay at Court; let Catherine remain my wife. What matters it? I have many charming companions with whom to beguile my hours.

So that woman, Louise de Kéroualle, who had taken Barbara’s place, was the Queen of England in all but name. It was she—now Duchess of Portsmouth—who lived as the Queen in Whitehall while Catherine retired to the Dower Palace of Somerset House.

She made excuses for him. He was half French; his mistress wholly so; and in France the King’s mistress had invariably ruled in place of the King’s wife.

It was true that his neglect of her, and the fact that—now that he no longer hoped that she would give him a child—he rarely visited her, meant that the hopes of her enemies were high; and they continued most energetically to plot for a divorce.

Barbara had gone to France, where she had indulged in a love affair with Ralph Montague, the King’s ambassador. But now it seemed he had offended her and she was writing frequently to the King complaining of her ex-lover’s conduct of English affairs.

Barbara had, after the installation of Louise de Kéroualle as the King’s favorite, continued to amuse London with her many love affairs. She had turned again to the theater and had found one of the handsomest men in London, William Wycherley, the playwright, who dedicated his Love in a Wood to her.

But in spite of her numerous lovers she had found it insupportable to see another take her place with the King. The play-actress she accepted, but she could not tolerate the French woman. In vain did she call the woman a spy, and the King a fool. No one stopped her; they merely ignored her. That was why she had gone to France.

So, as Catherine looked out on the river from her apartments in Somerset House and her wistful gaze wandered in the direction of Whitehall, she told herself that she must be resigned to her position as wife of the King, the wife to whom he was so kind because he could not love her.

It was a hot August day, and the King was shortly to ride to Windsor. He was leased at the prospect. Windsor was a favorite resort of his, and he was looking forward to a little holiday from state affairs. He had decided to take Louise and Nelly—those two whom he never greatly cared to be without—and set off as early as this could be arranged. He was eager to assure himself that his instructions were being carried out regarding the alterations he was having made there, and to see how Verrio’s work on the fresco paintings was progressing.

He was about to take his quick morning walk through St. James’ Park, with which he always liked to begin the day. With him were a few of his friends, and his dogs followed at his heels, barking their delight at the prospect of the walk.

But before he had taken more than a dozen steps a young man, whom he recognized as one who worked in his laboratories, came running towards him.

“Your Majesty,” he cried, falling to his knees, “I beg of you, allow me to speak a few words to you.”

“Do so,” said the King in some astonishment.

“It would be well if, when walking in the Park, Your Majesty did not stray from your companions.”

“Why so?” said Charles. He was faintly amused by the man’s earnest looks. It was rarely that the King walked abroad and was not asked for something. That he should be asked to keep with his companions was a strange request.

“Your Majesty’s life is in danger,” whispered the young man.

Charles was not easily alarmed. He stood surveying the young man, who he now remembered was Christopher Kirby, a merchant who had failed in business and had begged the Lord Treasurer, the Earl of Danby, to employ him as a tax collector; as he had some skill as a chemist, he had been given work to do in Charles’ laboratory; and it was in that capacity that the King on one or two occasions had come into contact with him.

“What is this talk?” asked Charles.

“Your Majesty may at any moment be shot at.”

“You had better tell me all you know,” said the King.

“Your Majesty, I can give you a full account…. I can give you many details, but to do so I must ask for a private interview.”

“Go back to the Palace,” said Charles, “and wait there in my private closet for my return. If any ask why you do so, tell them it is at my command.”

The man came closer to the King. “Your Majesty, on no account leave your companions. Remember … men may at this moment be lurking among the trees.”

With that, Kirby bowed and retired.

The King turned to his companions.

“Will Your Majesty continue the walk?” asked one.

The King laughed. “Ever since the gunpowder plot, in my grandfather’s reign, there have always been plots which are purported to threaten the life of the King. Come! Let us enjoy the morning air and forget our chemist. I’ll warrant this is nothing more than a dream he has had. He had an air of madness, to my mind.”

The King called to his dogs who came running round him joyfully. He threw a stone and watched them race for it, each striving for the honor of bringing it back to him.

Then he continued his walk, and it was an hour later before he again saw Kirby.

When the King returned to his closet, the chemist was waiting for him there.

The King listened to his story as patiently as he could, without believing a word of it.

Two men, according to Kirby, were lurking in the Park waiting for an opportunity of shooting the King.

“Why should they do this?” asked Charles.

“It is for the Jesuits, Your Majesty,” replied Kirby. “Their plan is to murder you and set your brother on the throne.”

Poor James! thought Charles. He has many enemies. Now these people would seek to add me to their number.

“How did you learn of these matters?” he asked, scarcely able to suppress a yawn.

“It was through a Dr. Tonge, Your Majesty. He is the rector of St. Michael’s in Wood Street, and he has discovered much in the interests of Your Majesty. If Your Majesty would but grant him an interview he could tell you more than I can.”

“Then I daresay we should see your Dr. Tonge.”

“Have I Your Majesty’s permission to bring him to the Palace?”

“You may bring him here between nine and ten this evening,” said the King.

When Kirby had left, the King summoned the Earl of Danby and told him of all that had passed.

They laughed together. “The fellow is clearly deranged,” said the King. “Let us hope this fellow Tonge is not equally so. Yet he was so earnest I had not the heart to deny him the interview. In the meantime keep the matter secret. I would not have the idea of murdering me put into the heads of people who previously have not given the matter a thought.”

At the appointed time Kirby arrived with Dr. Tonge, a clergyman and schoolmaster of Yorkshire; he was, he told the King, rector of the parishes of St. Mary Stayning and St. Michael’s Wood, and because he had long known the wickedness to which the Jesuits would stoop—even to the murder of their King—he had made it his business to study their ways.

He then began to enumerate the many crimes he had uncovered, until the King, growing weary, bade him proceed with the business which had brought him there.

There were, said Dr. Tonge, Jesuits living close to the King, who had plotted his murder.

“Who are these men?” demanded the King.

Dr. Tonge thereupon produced a wad of papers and told the King that if he would read these he would find therein that which would shock and enrage him.

“How came you by these papers?” asked the King. “Sire, they were pushed under my door.”

“By whom?”

“By one who doubtless wished Your Majesty well and trusted that I would be the man to save Your Majesty’s life and see justice done.”

The King handed the papers to Danby.

“So you do not know the man who thrust these papers beneath your door?”

“I have a suspicion, Your Majesty, that he is one who has spoken to me of such matters.”

“We may need to see him. Can he be found?”

“I have seen him lately, Your Majesty, walking in the streets.”

The King turned to Danby. He was wishing to be done with the tiresome business, and had no intention of postponing the trip to Windsor because of another Papist scare.

“You will look into these matters, my lord,” he said.

And with that he left.

The Earl of Danby was a most unhappy man. He had many enemies, and he knew that a fate similar to that which had befallen Clarendon was being prepared for him. He was in danger of being impeached for high treason when Parliament met, and he was terrified that if there were an investigation of his conduct of affairs he might even lose his life.

He was fully aware that powerful men such as Buckingham and Shaftesbury would welcome a Popish plot. Since the Duke of York had openly avowed his conversion to the Catholic Faith there had been an almost fanatical resentment towards Catholics throughout the country. The Duke of York was heir to the throne, and there was a great body of Englishmen who had vowed never to allow a Catholic monarch to sit again on the throne of England.

Already the slogan “No Popery” had come into being; and it seemed to Danby that, by creating a great scare at this time, he could turn attention from himself to the instigators of the plot. The people were ready to be roused to fury at the thought of Catholic schemes to overthrow the King; some of the most important of the King’s ministers would be ready to devote their great energy exclusively to discrediting the Duke of York and arranging a divorce for the King; and mayhap arranging for the legitimization of the Duke of Monmouth, thus providing a Protestant King to follow Charles.

The papers which he studied seemed to contain highly improbable accusations; but Danby was a desperate man.

He sent for Tonge.

“It is very necessary,” he told him, “for you to produce the man who thrust these papers under your door. Can you do that?”

“I believe I can, my lord.”

“Then do so; and bring him here that he may state his case before the King.”

“I will do my utmost, sir.”

“What is his name?”

“My lord, it is Titus Oates.”

Titus Oates was a man of purpose. When he heard that he was to appear before the King he was delighted. He saw immense possibilities before him, and he began to bless the day when Fate threw him in the way of Dr. Tonge.

Titus was the son of Samuel Oates, rector of Markham in Norfolk. Titus had been an extremely unprepossessing child, and it had seemed to him from his earliest days that he had been born to misfortune. As a child he had been subject to convulsive fits, and his father had hated the shuffling, delicate child with a face so ugly that it was almost grotesque. His neck was so short that his head seemed to rest on his shoulders; he was ungainly in body, one leg being shorter than the other; but his face, which was purple in color, was quite repulsive, for his chin was so large that his mouth was in the center of his face; he suffered from a continuous cold so that he snuffled perpetually; he had an unsightly wart over one eyebrow; and his eyes were small and cunning from the days when he had found it necessary to dodge his father’s blows. His mother, though, had lavished great affection on him. He had none for her. Rather he admired his father whose career he soon discovered to have been quite extraordinary. Samuel, feigning to be a very pious man, had, before he settled in Norfolk, wandered the country preaching his own particular brand of the gospels which entailed baptism by immersion of the naked body in lakes and rivers of the districts he visited. Samuel went from village to village; he liked best to dip young women, the more comely the better; and for this purpose he advised them to leave their homes at midnight, without the knowledge of their parents, that they might be baptized and saved. The ceremony of baptism was so complicated that many of the girls found that they gave birth to children as a result of it. But, in view of these results, dipping had eventually become too dangerous a procedure, and Samuel, after some vicissitudes, had settled down as rector of Hastings.

Meanwhile Titus pursued his own not unexciting career.

He went to the Merchant Taylor’s School, where he was found to be such a liar and cheat that he was expelled during his first year there; afterwards he was sent as a poor scholar to a school near Hastings where he managed to hide his greater villainies; and eventually, having taken Holy Orders, he became a curate to his father.

The curate of All Saints, Hastings, quickly became the most unpopular man in the district. The rector was heartily disliked, and the people of Hastings would not have believed it was possible to find a man more detestable until they met his son. Titus seemed to delight in circulating scandal concerning those who lived about him. If he could discover some little peccadillo which might be magnified, he was greatly delighted; if he could discover nothing, he used his amazing imagination and an invention which amounted almost to genius.

Samuel hated his son more than ever and wished he had never allowed him to become his curate; therefore, there arose the problem of how to remove Titus. Titus had his living to earn; and it seemed that, if he remained in Hastings, not only the curate but the rector would be asked to leave. A schoolmaster’s post would be ideal, decided Samuel; there was one in a local school, but unfortunately it was filled by a certain William Parker, so popular and of such good reputation that it seemed unlikely he could be dismissed to make way for Titus.

Father and son were not the sort to allow any man’s virtues to stand in their way.

Titus therefore presented himself to the Mayor and told him that he had seen William Parker in the church porch committing an unnatural offense with a very young boy.

The Mayor was horrified. He declared he could not believe this of William Parker, who had always seemed to him such an honest and honorable man; but Titus, who was a lover of details and had worked on the plan with great thoroughness, managed to convince him that there was truth in the story.

William Parker was sent to jail and Titus, swearing on oath that he was speaking the truth, gave in detail all he alleged he had seen in the church porch.

Titus was eloquent and would have been completely convincing; but he was not yet an adept at the art of perjury, and he had forgotten that truth has an uncomfortable way of tripping up the liar.

Parker was able to prove that he was nowhere near the porch when the offense was alleged to have taken place; the tables were turned; Titus was in danger of imprisonment, and so he ran away to sea.

It was not difficult to get to sea, for His Majesty’s Navy was in constant need of men and did not ask many questions. Titus became ship’s chaplain, in which role he had opportunities of practicing that very offense of which he had accused Parker, and became loathed by all who came into contact with him; and after a while the Navy refused to employ him.

Samuel had been forced to leave Hastings after the Parker affair and was in London, where Titus joined him; but it was soon discovered that Titus was wanted by the law; he was captured and sent to prison, from which he escaped, only to find himself penniless once more. He joined a club in Holborn, where he made the acquaintance of several Catholics, and it was through their influence that he obtained a post of Protestant chaplain in the household of that staunch Catholic, the Duke of Norfolk.

It was at this time that the Catholic scare was beginning to be felt in England, and it had occurred to Titus that there might be some profit in exposing, in the right quarters, the secrets of Catholics. He thereupon set himself out to be as pleasant as he could to Catholics, in the hope of learning their secrets, and obtaining an authentic background for his imagination.

Dismissed from the service of the Duke of Norfolk, he was again in London where he made the acquaintance of Dr. Israel Tonge.

Dr. Tonge was a fanatic who was prepared to dedicate his life to the persecution of Jesuits. He had written tracts and pamphlets about their wickedness but, as so many had done the like since the conversion of the Duke of York, there was no sale for those of Dr. Tonge. This made him bitter; not against those who refused to buy them, but against the Papists. He was more determined than ever to destroy them; and when he renewed his acquaintance with Oates, he saw in him a man who could be made to work for him in the cause so near his heart.

Titus was at the point of starvation and ready enough to do all that was required of him.

The two men met often and began to plot.

Oates was to mingle with the Catholics who congregated in the Pheasant Coffee House in Holborn; Tonge had heard that certain Catholic servants of the Queen frequented the place. There Titus would meet Whitbread and Pickering, and other priests who came from Somerset House, where Catherine worshipped, in accordance with her Faith, in her private chapel.

There was one person whom those two plotters mentioned often; the condemnation of that person could bring them greater satisfaction than that of any other, for to prove the Queen of England a Papist murderer would enrage the country beyond all their hopes. If they could prove that the Queen was plotting to murder the King, then surely there was not a Jesuit in England who would not be brought to torture and death.

“The King is a lecher,” said Oates, licking his lips. “He will wish to be rid of the Queen.”

Dr. Tonge listened to the affected voice of his accomplice and laid a hand on his shoulder. He knew the story of William Parker and Titus’ tendency to be carried away by his imagination.

He warned him: “This is no plot against a village schoolmaster. This is a charge of High Treason against the Queen. ’Tis true the King is a lecher, but he is soft with women, including his wife. We shall have to build up our case carefully. This is not a matter over which we can hurry. It may take us years to collect the information we need, and we shall accuse and prove guilty many before we reach the climax of our discovery which shall be the villainy of the Queen.”

Tonge’s eyes burned with fanaticism. He believed that the Queen must wish to murder the King; he believed in the villainy of all Catholics, and the Queen was devoutly Catholic.

Titus’ sunken eyes were almost closed. He was not concerned with the truth of any accusations they would bring. All he cared for was that he should have bread to eat, a roof to shelter him and a chance to indulge that imagination of his which was never content unless it was building up a case against others.

Dr. Tonge’s plan was long and involved. Titus should mix with Catholics; he should become a Catholic, for only thus could he discover all they would need to build the plot which should bring fame and fortune to them both, and win the eternal gratitude of the King and those ministers of his who desired above all things to see the Queen and the Duke of York dismissed from the Court.

Titus “became” a Catholic and went to study at a college in Valladolid. When he returned, expelled from the college, he brought with him little knowledge, but a fair understanding of the life lived by Jesuit priests; and he and Dr. Tonge, impatient to get on with their work, set about fabricating the great Popish plot.

They would begin by warning the King that two Jesuits, Grove and Pickering—men whom Titus had met at the coffee house in Fleet Street—were to be paid £1,500 to shoot the King while he walked in the park. The death of the King was to be followed by that of certain of his ministers; the French would then invade Ireland and a new King would be set up. This was to be the Duke of York, who would then establish a Jesuit Parliament.

That was the first plot. Others would follow; and when the people were fully aroused, and the King fully alarmed, they would bring forth evidence of the Queen’s complicity.

Titus was excited. He saw here a chance to win honors such as had never before come his way.

So when Dr. Tonge returned to his lodgings and told Titus that the man who had uncovered the hellish Popish plot and had thrust the papers concerning it under the door of Dr. Tonge was ordered to appear before the King, Titus was eager to tell his story.

Charles looked at Titus Oates and disliked him on sight.

Oates knew this but was unperturbed; he was accustomed to looks of disgust. He cared for nothing; he had a tale to tell, and he felt himself to be master of his facts.

He was glad now of the affair of William Parker as it had taught him such a lesson.

Beside the King was the Duke of York, for Charles had said he must be present since this matter of plots and counterplots concerned him as much as Charles himself.

“A preposterous tale,” said Charles when he had read the papers. “False from beginning to end.”

His eyes were cold. He hated trouble, and these men were determined to make it.

“So you have studied in Valladolid?” he asked Titus.”

It is true, Your Majesty.”

“And you became a Jesuit, that you might mingle with them and discover their secrets?”

“That is so, Your Majesty.”

“What zeal!” commented the King.

“’Twas all in the service of Your Most Gracious Majesty.”

“And when you were in Madrid you conferred with Don John of Austria, you say in these papers.”

“’Tis true, Your Majesty.”

“Pray, describe him to me.”

“He is a tall, spare and swarthy man, if it please Your Majesty.”

“It does not please me,” said Charles with a sardonic smile. “But doubtless it would please him, for he is a little, fat, fair man, and I believe would desire to appear taller than he is.”

“Your Majesty, it may be that I have made a mistake in the description of this man. I have met so many.”

“So many of the importance of Don John? Ah, Mr. Oates, I see you are a man much given to good company.”

Titus stood his ground. Be could see that if the King did not believe him, others were ready to do so. The difference was that they wanted to, whereas the King did not.

“You say,” went on the King, “that the Jesuits will kill not only me but my brother, if he should be unwilling to join them against me, and that they received from Père la Chaise, who is Confessor to Louis Quatorze, a donation of £10,000.”

“That is so, Your Majesty.”

Those about the King seemed impressed. It was true that Père La Chaise was Confessor to the French King.

“And that there was a promise of a similar sum from another gentleman?”

“From De Corduba of Castile, Your Majesty.”

Again Titus was aware of his success. He made sure of facts. The visit to Spain had been well worthwhile. What if he had made a mistake in his description of a man; those about the King did not consider that to be of any great importance.

“So La Chaise paid down £10,000 did he? Where did he do this, and were you there?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. It was in the house of the Jesuits, close to the Louvre.”

“Man!” cried the King. “The Jesuits have no house within a mile of the Louvre!”

“I doubt not,” said Titus slyly, “that Your Majesty during your stay in Paris was too good a Protestant to know all the secret places of the Jesuits.”

“The meeting is over,” said Charles. “I will hear no more.”

And, putting his arm through that of his brother, the King led James away, murmuring: “The man is a lying rogue. I am certain of it.”

But the news of the great Popish plot was spreading through the streets of London. The citizens stood about in groups discussing it. They talked of the Gunpowder Plot; they recalled the days of Bloody Mary, when the fires of Smithfield had blackened the sky and a page of English history.

“No Popery!” they shouted. Nor were they willing to wait for trials. They formed themselves into mobs and set about routing out the Catholics.

Coleman, who had been secretary to the Catholic Duchess of York, and one of the suspects at whom Titus had pointed, was found to be in possession of documents sent him by that very Père la Chaise, for Coleman was in truth a spy for France.

All the King’s skepticism could do nothing to quiet rumor. The people’s blood was up. They believed in the authenticity of the plot. The Jesuits were rogues who must be tracked down to their deaths; Titus Oates was a hero who had saved the King’s life and the country from the Papists.

Oates was given lodgings in Whitehall. He was heard in royal palaces talking of Popery in his high nasal and affected voice interspersed with the coarsest of oaths; he was at the summit of delight; he had longed for fame such as this; he was no longer a poor despised outcast; he was admired by all. He was Titus Oates, exposer of Jesuits, the man of the moment.

The King, still declaring the man to be a fake, went off to Newmarket, leaving his ministers to do what they would.

And Titus, determined to hold what he had at last achieved, concocted fresh plots and looked for new victims.

Catherine was afraid.

In her apartments at Somerset House she sensed approaching doom. She felt she had few friends and owed much to the Count of Castelmelhor, a Portuguese nobleman, who had been loyal to Alphonso and had found it necessary to leave the country when Pedro was in control. He had come to Catherine for shelter and had brought great comfort to her during those terrible weeks.

Her servants brought her news of what was happening, and from her stronghold she would often hear the sound of shouting in the streets. She would hear screams and protests as some poor man or woman was set upon; she would hear wild rumors of how this person, whom she had known, and that person, for whom she had a great respect, was being taken up for questioning. “No Popery! No slavery!” was the continual cry. And Titus Oates and Dr. Tonge with their supporters were banded together to corroborate each other’s stories and fabricate wilder and still wilder plots in order to implicate those they wished to destroy.

The King, disgusted with the whole affair and certain that Titus was a liar, was quick to sense the state of the country. He had to be careful. His brother was a confessed Catholic. It might be that that clause in the secret treaty of Dover was known to too many, and that he himself might be suspect; he was afraid to show too much leniency to Catholics. He was shrewd, and the tragic events of his life had made him cautious. He remembered—although he had been but a boy at the time—the feeling of the country in those days before the Civil War, which had ended in the defeat of his father, had broken out. He sensed a similar atmosphere. He knew that Shaftesbury and Buckingham with other powerful men were seeking to remove the Duke of York; he knew too that they plotted against Catherine and were determined either to see him divorced and married to a Queen who could provide a Protestant heir, or to see Monmouth legitimized.

He must walk very carefully. He must temporize by giving the people their head; he must not make the mistakes his father had made. He must allow those accused by the odious Titus Oates to be arrested, questioned and, if found guilty, to suffer the horrible death accorded to traitors.

He was grieved, and the whole affair made him very melancholy. He would have liked to have put Titus Oates and his friends in an open boat and sent them out to sea, that they might go anywhere so long as they did not stay in England.

But he dared not go against the people’s wishes. They wanted Catholic scapegoats, and they were calling Oates the Savior of England for providing them. They must be humored, for their King was determined to go no more a-wandering in exile. So he went to Windsor and spent a great deal of time fishing, while he indulged in melancholy thought; and Titus Oates lived in style at Whitehall Palace, ate from the King’s plate and was protected by guards when he walked abroad. All tried not to meet his eye, and if they were forced to do so, responded with obsequious and admiring smiles, for Titus had but to point the finger and pretend to remember an occasion when a man or woman had plotted against the King’s life, and that man or woman would be thrown into jail.

Titus was content; for all those powerful men who had for ten years been seeking to bring about a divorce between the King and Queen saw Titus as a means of perfecting their plans, and to Titus they gave their support.

Catherine knew this.

She longed for the King to come and see her, but she heard that he was at Windsor. There was no one to whom she could turn for advice except those immediately about her, and they were mostly Catholics who feared for their own lives.

She began to realize that the trap into which many of her servants were in danger of falling was in reality being prepared for herself.

There came news that a certain magistrate of the City, Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey, had been murdered. He it was who had taken Titus’ affidavit concerning the Popish Plot. He was known as a Protestant although he had Catholic friends, and the manner of his meeting his death was very mysterious. Titus accused the Papists of murdering him, and the magistrate’s funeral was conducted with great ceremony while Titus and his friends did everything they could to incite the citizens to fury against his murderers, declared by Titus to be Catholics.

Charles had offered £500 reward for anyone bringing the murderer of Godfrey to justice, although he half suspected that the man had been murdered by Titus’ agents for the purpose of rousing the mob to fresh fury, for it seemed that whenever this showed signs of lagging, some such incident would take place, some new plot would be discovered.

It was then that William Bedloe made himself known and came before the Council with a terrible tale to tell.

Bedloe was a convict, and he had met Titus when they were both in Spain. At that time Bedloe had been living on his wits and posing as an English nobleman, with his brother James acting as his manservant. He was handsome and plausible, and had managed during his free life to live at the expense of others, but he had served many sentences in Newgate and had just been released from that prison.

He was attracted by the King’s promised reward of £500 and by the fact that his old friend Titus, whom he had last known as a very poor scholar of dubious reputation in Valladolid, was now fêted and honored with three servants at his beck and call and several gentlemen to help him dress and hold his basin whilst he washed.

Bedloe did not see why he should not share in his friend’s good fortune, so he came forward to offer his services.

It seemed to Catherine that she was always waiting for something to happen; she was afraid when she heard a movement outside her door. She believed that these men were preparing to strike at her, and she was not sure when and how the blow would fall.

It was dusk, and she had come from her chapel to that small chamber in which her solitary meal would be served. And as she was about to sit at her table, the door was thrown open and two of her priests came in to throw themselves at her feet.

“Madam, Madam!” they cried. “Protect us. For the love of God and all the Saints, protect us.”

They were kneeling, clutching at her skirts, when she lifted her eyes and saw that guards had entered the chamber.

“What do you want of these men?” she asked.

“We come to take them for questioning, Madam,” was the answer.

“Questioning? On what matter?”

“On the matter of murder, Madam.”

“I do not understand.”

“They are accused of being concerned in the murder of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey.”

“But this is not true. It is quite ridiculous.”

“Madam, information has been laid with the Council that may prove them guilty.”

“You shall not take them,” cried Catherine. “They are my servants.”

“Madam,” said the guard who was spokesman, “we come in the name of the King.”

Her hands fell helplessly to her side.

When they had taken the two priests away, she went into her chapel and prayed for them.

Oh, these terrible times! she mused. What will happen next? What will happen to those two servants of mine? What have they done—those two good men—what have they done to deserve punishment, except to think differently, to belong to a Faith other than that of Titus Oates?

She was on her knees for a long time, and when she went back to her apartment she was conscious of the tension throughout her household.

She was aware of strained and anxious faces.

Walsh and le Fevre today. Who next? That was what all were asking themselves. And every man and woman in her service knew that if they were taken it would be because, through them, it might be possible to strike at the Queen.

They trembled. They were fond of their mistress; it would be the greatest tragedy in their lives if they should betray her in some way. But who could say what might be divulged if the questioners should become too cruelly determined to prise falsehood from unwilling lips!

“There is nothing to fear,” said Catherine, trying to smile. “We are all innocent here. I know it. These cruel men, who seek to torture and destroy those of our Faith, cannot do so for long. The King will not allow it. The King will see justice done. They cannot deceive him.”

No! It was true that they could not deceive him; but he was a man who loved peace; he was a man who had wandered across Europe for many years, an exiled Prince; he was a man whose own father had been murdered by his own countrymen.

The King might be shrewd; he might be kind; but he longed for peace, and how could they be sure whether he would bestir himself to see justice done?

And at the back of Catherine’s mind was a terrible fear.

She was no longer young; she had never been beautiful. What if the temptation to put her from him was too great; what if the wife they offered him was as beautiful as Frances Stuart had been in the days before her disfigurement?

Who could tell what would happen?

The Queen of England was a frightened woman during those days of conspiracy.

The Duchess of Buckingham brought her the news. She and Mary Fairfax had always been great friends, for there was much sympathy between them. They were both plain women and, if one had been married to the most charming man in England, the other had been married to one of the most handsome.

Mary Fairfax knew that her husband was one of the queen’s greatest enemies; she loved her husband but she was too intelligent not to understand his motives, and she could not resist coming to warn the Queen.

“Your Majesty,” she cried, “this man Bedloe has sworn that Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey was murdered by your servants.”

“It cannot be true. How could they do such a thing? They were nowhere near the place where his body was found.”

“They have trumped up a story,” said Mary. “They declare that Godfrey was invited to Somerset House at five o’clock in the afternoon, and that he was brought into one of the rooms here and held by a man of my Lord Bellasis’ whilst Walsh and le Fevre stifled him with the aid of two pillows.”

“No one can believe such a tale.”

“The people believe what they want to believe at a time like this,” said Mary sadly. “They say that the body lay on your back staircase for two days. Many have been arrested. The prisons are full. The crowds are congregating outside and shouting for them to be brought out, hung, drawn and quartered.”

The Queen shuddered. “And my poor innocent priests …?”

“They will prove their innocence.”

“These lies are monstrous. Will no one listen to the truth?”

“Your Majesty, the people are treating this man Oates as though he is a god. They are arresting all sorts of people. Do you remember Mr. Pepys of the Navy Office, who did such good service at the time of the great fire? He was taken up, and God alone knows what would have become of him had not one of his accusers—his own butler—come suddenly to his deathbed and, fearing to die with the lies on his lips, confessed that he had borne false witness. He is a good Protestant. Then why was he taken? Your Majesty might ask. Merely because he had been in the service of the Duke of York who thought highly of him.”

“No one is safe,” murmured the Queen. “No one is safe.”

She looked at Mary and was ashamed of herself for suspecting her. But the thought had crossed her mind then; how could she be sure who was her friend?

Who was this man Bedloe who had sworn he had seen the body of a murdered man on her back stairs? Had he been here, disguised as one of her servants?

How could she know who were her enemies; how could she know whom she could trust?

In the streets they were saying that the Queen’s servants were the murderers of the City magistrate; and since these men were the Queen’s servants, that meant that it was at the instigation of the Queen that the man had been murdered.

She was alone … alone in a hostile country. She did not believe now that they merely wished to be rid of her; they wished for her death.

They were going to accuse her of murder, and there was no one to stand between her and her accusers.

The country was feverish with excitement; plot after plot was discovered every day; armed bands walked the streets wearing the sign “No Popery” in their hats; and they all talked of the Papist Queen who had murdered the Protestant Magistrate.

Titus Oates went about the town in his episcopal gown of silk, in his cassock and great hat with its satin band; he wore a long scarf about his shoulders and shouted to the people that he was the savior of the nation.

He was ugly in spite of his finery, but none in those fear-ridden streets dared so much as hint that this was so. All who saw him bowed in homage, all called to him that England had been saved by him.

Catherine knew that the misshapen little man was thinking particularly of one victim whom he longed to trap; she knew he was waiting for the right moment, because she was such an important victim that he dared not pounce too soon.

Then suddenly she knew that she was not alone. She knew that she had not been mistaken, for the King came riding into the Capital from Windsor.

He had heard of the accusation against the Queen’s servants, and he would realize to what this was leading.

He sent for Bedloe. He would have an exact description of what had taken place at Somerset House. Would the man describe the room in which the murder had taken place? Would he give the exact day on which this had happened?

Bedloe was only too willing to oblige. He gave details of the Queen’s residence, for he had made sure of being correct on this.

But when he had finished, the King faced him squarely. “It is a strange thing to me,” he said, “that I should have visited Her Majesty on the day you mention, and that I should have been at Somerset House at the very hour the murder took place.”

“Your Majesty,” began the man, “this may have been so, but Sir Edmund was lured inside while Your Majesty was with the Queen.”

The King raised his eyebrows. He said lightly: “Since you and your friends startled my people with your stories of plots, my guards have been most careful of my person. I must tell you that, at the hour when the magistrate was said to have been lured into Somerset House, every possible entry was well guarded because I was there also. Could he have been lured past the guards, think you? And I will add that your tale lacks further conviction, for the passage, in which you say the body of the man lay, is that which leads to the Queen’s dining chamber, so that her servants, when bringing her meals, must either have walked over the corpse or not noticed it, which I scarcely think is likely.”

Bedloe was about to speak.

“Take this man away!” roared the King.

And Bedloe was hurried out, lest a command to send him to the Tower might be given. Charles was too shrewd to give such an order. He was aware that, as at the time of the war with the Dutch, revolution was in the air.

He could not stem the stream of accusations against the Queen, but he was there to give her his protection while he could do so.

The people continued to believe that the Queen was guilty. Buckingham and Shaftesbury were bent on two things: the exile of the Duke of York and his Duchess; and the ruin of the Queen. The King had declined to rid himself of her by divorce; therefore there was only one other way of ridding the country of her.

Why should she not be accused of plotting against the King’s life? Titus Oates had the people ready to believe any lie that fell from his lips. He must now uncover for them a plot more startling than any which he had given them before. It could be proved that the Queen had written to the Pope; she had done this during the first weeks of her arrival in England; she had offered to try to turn the King to Catholicism, in exchange for the Pope’s recognition of her brother as King of Portugal. But more should be proved against the Queen.

She had refused to enter a nunnery; perhaps she would prefer the block.

Titus Oates, drunk with power, delighting in his eminence, knew what was expected of him.

He set out to concoct the plot to outshine all plots.

The country waited; those men who had determined on the ruin of the Queen waited. And Catherine also waited.

Oates stood before the members of the Privy Council. He had grave matters of which to speak to them. He was a careful man, he reminded them; he was a man who had pretended to become a Jesuit for the sake of unearthing their wicked schemes; he was a brave man, they would realize from that, so he did not hesitate to make an accusation against a person however high that person stood in the land.

“My lords,” he said in his high affected voice, “there are certain matters which I feel it my duty to disclose to you concerning the Queen.”

“The Queen!”

The members of the Council feigned to be astonished, but Titus was aware of their alert and eager faces.

“Her Majesty has been sending sums of money to the Jesuits. They are always at her elbow … in secret conclave.”

They were watching his face. Dare I? he wondered. It needed daring. He was uncertain, and this matter concerned no other than the King’s own wife.

But Titus was blown up with his own conceit. He was not afraid. Was he not great Titus, the savior of his country?

He made his plots, and he made them with such care and with such delight that he came to believe in them even as he elaborated and made his sharp little twists and turns to extricate himself from the maze into which his lies often led him.

“I have seen a letter in which the Queen gives her consent to the murder of the King.”

There was a sharp intake of breath as every eye was fixed on that repulsive, almost inhuman face.

“Why did you not report this before?” asked Shaftesbury sharply.

Titus folded his hands. “A matter concerning so great a lady? I felt I must make sure that that which I feel it my duty to bring to your notice was truth.”

“And you have now made certain of this?”

Titus took a step nearer to the table about which sat the ministers.

“I was at Somerset House. I waited in an antechamber. I heard the Queen say these words: ‘I will no longer suffer such indignities to my bed. I am content to join in procuring the death of the Black Bastard, and the propagation of the Catholic Faith.’”

“This were high treason,” said Buckingham.

“Punishable by death!” declared Shaftesbury.

But they were uneasy.

“Why did you not tell this earlier?” asked one of the ministers. “I have been turning over in my mind whether I should not first impart it to His Majesty.”

“How can you be sure that it was the Queen who spoke these words?”

“There was no other woman present.”

“So you know the Queen?”

“I have seen her, and I knew her.”

“This is a matter,” said Shaftesbury, “to which we must all give our closest attention. It may be that the King’s life is in imminent danger—in a quarter where he would least expect it.”

Titus was elaborating his plot. Poison was to be administered to the King; and when he was dead the Duke of York would reign, and there would be a place of honor in the land for his Catholic sister-in-law.

In Somerset House the Queen was fearful. Rumor reached her. She knew that evil forces were working against her. What if, next time she was accused, the King could not save her?

What would he do then? she asked herself. Would he stand by and leave her to her fate?

The climax came on a dark November day. Titus could contain himself no longer. His friend Bedloe had been pardoned for all his offenses, as payment for the evidence he had given against the Papists.

Titus, so happy in his episcopal robes, smoothing his long scarf, thinking of the happy days on which he had fallen after all the lean years, hearing the shouts of acclamation when he had been so accustomed to shouts of derision, was called to the bar of the House of Commons to give further evidence of plots he had unearthed.

He stood at the bar, and his voice rang out.

He said those fatal words which were meant to condemn an innocent woman to the block and to bring about the long hoped for conclusion of unscrupulous statesmen: “Aye, Titus Oates, accause Catherine Queen of England of Haigh Treason.”

The words were greeted with a shocked silence.

Buckingham was heard to curse under his breath: “The fool! It is too soon as yet!”

And then the news was out.

All over London, and soon all over the country, the people of England were calling for the blood of the woman who had sought to poison their King.

So this was the end. Catherine sat like a statue, and beside her was the Count Castelmelhor, whose expression of blank misery made it clear that he believed there was nothing more that he could do for her.

There would be a trial, thought Catherine; and her judges would find her guilty because they had determined to do so.

And Charles?

She understood his case.

His position was an uneasy one. The people were crying out for the blood of Papists, and she was a Papist. Revolution trembled in the air; she was fully aware that there was one day which Charles would never forget—that was a bleak January day when his father had been led to execution.

If he showed any leniency towards the Catholics now, the country would be screaming for his blood too. He knew it, and he had sworn that, at whatever cost, he would never go travelling again.

The people of England were repudiating her. She was a barren Queen; she was a Queen whose dowry had never been paid in full; and she was a Papist. The tall dark man with the melancholy face was no longer ruler of England; that role had fallen to a shuffling man with the most evil of countenances who went by the name of Titus Oates.

There seemed nothing to do but wait for her doom.

Castelmelhor had news for her.

“The King has questioned those who accuse Your Majesty. He has questioned them with the utmost severity, and it is clear to all those who hear him that he is greatly displeased with those who would destroy you.”

A gentle smile illumined Catherine’s face. “Yes, he would be unhappy. That is like him. But he will do nothing. How can he? It would be against the people’s wishes. And he must consider them now.”

“He has insisted on a minute description of the room of this Palace in which Oates swears he overheard you plan to poison him; he says a woman would have to shout, for Oates to have heard her say what he declares he heard you say; he has said that you are a low-voiced woman. He is doing everything to prove your accusers liars.”

Catherine smiled, and the tears started to flow gently down her cheeks.

“I shall remember that,” she said. “When they lead me to the block I shall remember it. He did not pass by on the other side of the road. He stopped to succor me.”

“Your Majesty must not despair. If the King is with you, others will follow. He is still the King. He is very angry that you should be so accused. They are saying now that Sir George Wakeman was to have brought the poison to you, and that you were to administer it to the King when he next visited you. The King has laughed the idea to scorn, and he says he will never suffer an innocent lady to be oppressed.”

“I shall never forget those words,” said Catherine. “I shall carry them with me to the grave. I know they have determined on my death, but he would have saved me, if he could.”

“You underestimate the power of the King, Madam.”

“My dear Castelmelhor, come to the window.”

She took his hand and drew him there, for he was reluctant to go with her. Already the crowds were gathering. She saw their hats with the bands about them on which were written “No Popery! No Slavery!” They carried sticks and knives; they were a vicious mob.

They had come to mock and curse her on her journey to the Tower.

A barge was on the river. The crowds hurried to its edge.

They have come to take me away, thought Catherine. I shall lie in my prison in the Tower as others have before me. I am guilty of the crime of Queens; I could not bear a son.

This was the end then—the end of that love story which was to have been so perfect, and of which she had dreamed long ago in the Lisbon Palace. She would sail down the river to the grim gray fortress into which she would enter by way of the Traitors’ Gate.

It might be that she would never again set eyes on Charles’ face. He would not wish to see her. It would distress him too much, for however much he wished to be rid of her, he would never believe her guilty of conspiring to poison him.

She heard the shouts of the people. She could not see the barge, for the crowds on the bank hid it; but now someone had stepped ashore. It was a tall figure, slender, black-clad, the dark curls of his wig falling over his shoulders, his broad-brimmed plumed hat on his head, while those about him were hatless.

Charles!

So he had come to see her. She felt dizzy with her emotion. He had come; and she had never thought he would come. He could have only one purpose in coming to her now.

With him were members of the Court, and his personal guards; he came from the landing stairs to the house with those so well-remembered quick strides of his.

“The King is here!” The words echoed through the house. It was as though the very walls and hangings were trembling with excitement—and hope.

He strode into the room; she tried to approach him, but her limbs trembled so that she could not move. She wanted to sink to her knees and kiss his hand. She merely stood mutely before him, looking up into that lined and well-loved face.

Then he put his hands upon her shoulders and, drawing her towards him, kissed her there before them all.

That kiss was the answer to all who saw it; it was the defiance of two people who were going to stand against all those who were the enemies of the Queen. They had not understood him. They had thought him too facile. They thought that he, being an unfaithful husband, was faithless throughout. They thought that he, finding it so easy to smile and make promises, could never stand firm.

“I have come to take you with me to Whitehall,” he said. “It is not meet that you and I should live apart in these times.”

Still she could find no words. She felt his hands gripping hers; she saw the tender smile which she remembered from the days of their honeymoon.

Come,” he said, “let us go now. I am eager to show them that, whatever comes, the King and Queen stand together.”

Then she could not suppress her emotion.

She threw herself against him and cried, half laughing, half in tears: “Charles, you do not believe these stories against me? Charles, I love you with all my heart.”

He said: “I know it.”

“They will seek to prove these terrible things against me. They will lie and … and the people listen to their lies.”

“You are returning with me to Whitehall,” he said, “whence we shall go to Windsor. We will ride through the countryside together, you and I; for I wish the people to know that in this turmoil there are two who stand side by side in trust and love and confidence: the King and his Queen in whom he puts his trust.”

The crowds were gathering about the house. She could hear their shouts.

“Come,” he said. “Let us go. Let us leave at once. Are you afraid?”

“No,” she said, putting her hand in his, no longer afraid.

They left the house; the people stood back in a hushed silence; they stepped into the barge; the King was smiling at the Queen, and he kept her hand in his.

They sailed along the river to Whitehall and it was seen that never had the King paid more attention to any woman than he did at that time to his Queen.

Catherine felt then that those dreams which had come to her in the Lisbon Palace had materialized. She knew that it was such moments as this which made all that she had suffered worthwhile.

All through the years to come she would treasure this moment; she would remember that when she was lonely and afraid, when she was in imminent peril, that man who had come to her and brought her to safety was the one whom she loved.