Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

FIVE

James, Duke of Monmouth, was whipping himself to a rage. He strutted about his apartments before those young men whose pleasure it was to keep close to the King’s son and applaud him in all that he did.

Monmouth was handsome in the extreme. He had inherited his father’s physique and his mother’s beauty; and there was just enough of the Stuart in his features to convince everyone that he was the King’s son. All knew of the King’s devotion to this young man, the liberties allowed him, the King’s unending patience; for it had to be admitted that Monmouth was an arrogant fellow, proudly conscious of that stream of royal blood which flowed in his veins. At the same time he bore a great grudge against that fate which had made him an illegitimate son of such an indulgent father.

There was a hope, which never left him, that one day the King would legitimize him. There were many to surround him and tell him that this would be so, for the Queen’s pregnancies continued to end in miscarriages, and the dislike of the country for the King’s brother’s religion was growing.

James, Duke of York, was suspect. He had not proclaimed himself a Catholic, but it was clear by his absence from the church that he was uneasy in his mind concerning his religion, and rumor ran riot. It was for Mon-mouth and his friends to foster those rumors.

In the meantime Monmouth gave himself up to pleasure. He was a glutton for it. He had his father’s interest in women, but he lacked his father’s good-natured tolerance. Charles had the gift of seeing himself exactly as he was; Monmouth saw himself larger than life. Charles had had no need to bolster up the picture of himself, since his forbears were Kings of Scotland, England, and France. He was entirely royal. Monmouth had to link his royal ancestors with those of his mother; and, although he was the King’s son, there were many who declared he would never wear the crown. There was a burning desire within him to override those who would stand in the way of his ambitions. This colored his life.

His education had not been of the best; he had left the environment of a simple country gentleman to become a petted member of his father’s Court. His head was not strong enough for him to imbibe such a strong draught and remain sober.

So he strutted, raged, posed, and made many enemies; and those who were his friends were in truth either enemies of the Duke of York or those who thought to curry favor with the King because of the love he bore his son.

Monmouth’s time was devoted to fortune-tellers, looking after his appearance, collecting recipes for the care of his skin, and keeping his teeth white and his hair that lustrous black which was such a contrast to his smooth fair skin; soldiering attracted him; he wished to be a famous soldier and to make great conquests; he pictured himself riding through the streets of London with his military glory like a halo about his handsome head; for thus, he believed, the people would realize his worth and, when they cried “Down with the Catholic Duke of York,” they would add, “Up with the Protestant Duke of Monmouth!”

It was seven years since he had married the little Countess of Buccleuch, a very wealthy Scottish heiress whom his father had been pleased to bestow upon his beloved Jemmy. Monmouth had been fourteen then; Anne, his little bride, twelve. He remembered often how his loving father had merrily attended the ceremony of putting them to bed together, yet insisting on the ceremony’s stopping there, since the pair were so young.

It had proved a far from happy marriage. But Anne Scott was proud. Monmouth thought her callous. She gave no sign of any distress, which her husband’s wildness caused her, and some said she was as hard as the granite hills of her native land.

Monmouth was pursuing a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber, Mary Kirke. It was not that Mary appealed to him more than any other; but he had heard that his uncle, the Duke of York, was enamored of the lady and, in his slow and ponderous way, was attempting to court her.

That was enough to inspire young Monmouth’s passion, for it was necessary for him continually to flaunt what he felt to be his superiority over his uncle. He must do it in every possible way, so that all—including James, Duke of York—should realize that, should King Charles die without legitimate heirs, James II would not be James, Duke of York, but James, Duke of Monmouth.

Now, as he walked about his apartment, he was ranting to his companions on what he called an insult to royalty.

Sir Thomas Sandys was with him; also a Captain O’Brien. He had called these men in because he wished them to help in a wild plan which was forming in his mind. His great friends, the young Dukes of Albemarle and Somerset, sprawled on the window seat listening to Jemmy’s ranting.

“My father is too easy-going by far!” cried Monmouth. “He allows low fellows to insult him—and what does he? He shrugs his shoulders and laughs. It is all very well to take that attitude, but insolence should be punished.”

“His Majesty’s easy temper is one of the reasons for the love his people bear him,” suggested Albemarle.

“A King should be a King,” said Monmouth boldly.

None spoke. Monmouth, as beloved son, had a right to criticize his father which was denied to them.

“Have you fellows heard what this insolent Coventry said in the Parliament?”

All were silent.

“And who is this John Coventry?” demanded the young Duke. “Member for Weymouth! And what is Weymouth, I pray you tell me? This obscure gentleman from the country would criticize my father and go free. And all because my father is too lazy to punish him. ’Tis an insult to royalty, I tell you; and if my father will not avenge it, then should his son do so.”

The Duke of Albemarle said uneasily, “What was said was said in the Parliament. There, it is said, a man has a right to speak his mind.”

Monmouth swung round, black eyes flashing, haughty lips curled. “A right … to speak against his King!”

“It has been done before, my lord,” ventured Somerset. “What this man Coventry did was to ask that an entertainment tax should be levied on the theaters.”

” ’Twas a suggestion worthy of a country bumpkin.”

“He proposed it as a means of raising money, which all agree the country needs,” said Somerset.

“My good fellow, the King must be amused. He loves his theaters. Why should he not have his pleasures? The theaters give much pleasure to His Majesty.”

“That was said in Parliament,” said Albemarle grimly.

“Aye,” cried Monmouth. “And ’twas then that this John Coventry—Sir John Coventry—rose in his seat to ask whether the King’s pleasure lay among the men or the women who acted therein.”

“’Twas an insult to His Majesty, ’tis true,” admitted Albemarle.

“An insult! It was arrogance, lese majesté. It shall not be permitted. All the country knows that the King finds pleasure in his actresses. There are Moll Davies from the Duke’s and Nell Gwyn from the King’s to prove it. Coventry meant to insult the King, and he did so.”

“His Majesty has decided to allow the insult to pass,” said Albemarle.

“But I shall not allow it to pass,” cried Monmouth. “I shall make these country bumpkins realize that my father is their King, and any who dare insult him shall live to regret that day.”

“What does Your Grace plan?” asked Sir Thomas Sandys. “That, my good friends, is what I have assembled you here to discuss,” said the Duke.

The King was very uneasy. He sought out his brother James in his private apartments.

James was sitting alone, a book before him.

James, thought Charles, so tall and handsome—far handsomer than I—and clever enough in his way; why is it that James is a fool?

“Reading, James?” said Charles lightly. “And the book?” He looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Dr Heylin’s History of the Reformation. Ah, my Protestant subjects would be pleased to see you reading such a book, James.”

James’ big dark eyes were puzzled.

He said: “I find much food for thought ‘twixt these pages.”

“Give over thinking so much, James,” said Charles. “It is a task ill-suited to your nature.”

“You mock me, Charles. You always did.”

“I was born a mocker.”

“Have you read this book?”

“I have skimmed its pages.”

” ’Tis worth more than a skimming.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. I trust this means your feet are set in what my Protestant subjects would call the path of the just.”

“It fills me with doubts, Charles.”

“Brother, when I die you will inherit a crown. The managing of a kingdom will take every bit of that skill with which nature has provided you. You will be at your wits’ end to keep the crown upon your head, and your head upon your shoulders. Remember our father. Do you ever forget him? I never do. You are over-concerned with your soul, brother, when your head may be in danger.”

“What matters a head where a soul is in the balance?”

“Your head is there for all to see—a handsome one, James, and that of a man who may well one day be King. Your soul—where is that? We cannot see it, so how can we be sure that it has any existence?”

“You blaspheme, Charles.”

“I’m an irreligious fellow; I know it. ’Tis my nature. My mind is a perverse one, and to such as I am faith is hard to come by. But put away the book, brother. I would talk to you. ’Tis this affair of Coventry.”

James nodded gloomily. “A bad affair.”

“Young Jemmy grows too wild.”

“The fellow will live?”

“I thank God that he will. But those wild young men have slit his nose and the Parliament is filled with anger.”

“’Tis to be understood,” said James.

“I am in agreement with you and the Parliament, James. But my Parliament is displeased with me and it is a bad thing when parliaments and kings are not of one accord. We have a terrible example before us. When I came home I determined to live in peace with my subjects and my Parliament. And now young Jemmy has done this. He was defending my royalty, he proclaims.”

“That boy has such a deep sense of Your Majesty’s royalty, largely because he believes himself to have a share in it.”

“’Tis true, James. There are times when young Jemmy gives me great cause for anxiety. The Parliament has passed an act whereby any who shall put out an eye, cut a lip, nose, or tongue of His Majesty’s liege people or in any other manner wound or maim any Parliament man, shall be sent to prison for a year, besides incurring other heavy penalties.”

“’Tis just,” said James.

“Aye, ’tis just. Therefore I like not to see young Jemmy conduct himself thus.”

“A little punishment, inflicted by Your Majesty, might be useful.”

“Indeed it might. But I was never a punishing man, James, and I find it hard to punish those I care for as I do for that boy.”

“Nevertheless he will bring trouble on himself, and on you one day.”

“That is why I wish you to help me, James. Could not you two be friends? I like not to see this strife between you.”

“’Tis your natural son who causes the strife between us. He fears I shall wear the crown to which, in his heart, he believes himself to have prior claim.”

“There is only one thing which can make you two become friends, I fear; and that is a family of healthy sons for me, so that there is no hope for either of you to wear the crown.”

“Charles, there are some who say you love that boy so much that you would make him your heir in all things.”

“’Tis true I love the boy. He is my own flesh and blood. There are a thousand things to remind me of that each day. He is my son—my eldest son. He is handsome, he delights me. I’ll deny it not. But you too, brother, are our father’s son and you are my heir. Never would I make Jemmy legitimate, while there is one who, it is right and proper, should take my place. If I die childless, James, you are the heir to the throne. I never forget that. Light-minded though I may be, on this point I am firm and strong. But there is one other matter I must settle with you. It is this dabbling with the Catholic Faith.”

“We cannot control our thoughts, brother.”

“Nay, but we can keep them to ourselves.”

“I could not be false to what I believed to be the true religion.”

“But you could keep your thoughts to yourself, brother. Remember our grandfather, Henri Quatre. You’re his grandson no less than I. Think of the control he kept on his religion, and because of this a country, which had known disastrous war, at last knew peace. England is a Protestant country—as firmly Protestant as France in the days of our grandfather was firmly Catholic. England will never again accept a Catholic King. If you would have peace in England when I am gone, you must come to the throne a Protestant.”

“And if my heart and mind tell me the Catholic Faith is the true one?”

“Subdue the heart, dear brother. If you let the mind take control, it will say this: Worship in secret. Remain outwardly what the country wishes you to be. Remember our grandfather … the greatest King the French ever had. He put an end to civil war, because he, who had been Huguenot, professed to be a Catholic. Stop this flirting with the Catholic Faith, James. Show yourself with me in the church when the occasion demands it. Let the country see you as a good Protestant. Then, brother, we shall more quickly put an end to this unhealthy fostering of young Jemmy’s ambitions. Do this—not for my sake—but for your own and that of an England you may one day rule.”

James shook his head gravely. “You know not what you ask, brother. If a man follows the Catholic Faith, how can he go to a Protestant church and worship there?”

Charles sighed wearily.

Then he shrugged his shoulders. James was a fool … always had been a fool and, he feared, always would be. Charles could console himself with the thought that whatever trouble James brought on himself he, Charles, would be in his grave and not concerned with it.

He turned to a happier subject. “How fares your family?”

James’ face lightened. “Mary is solemn as ever. Anne grows plump.”

“Come, take me to them. I would have them know their uncle forgets them not.”

In the Duke’s apartment Charles met Anne Hyde. Anne’s welcome was fond, and not entirely so because her brother-in-law was King. Anne was a clever woman, and she and Charles had ever been good friends. Anne did not forget that, when all had deserted her soon after her marriage and Henrietta Maria was demanding that she be ignored, it was Charles the King who had been her best friend.

“Your Majesty looks in good spirits,” she said.

“’Tis the prospect of talk with you,” said Charles, ever gallant even to the over-fat and ageing. “Od’s Fish! James is a gloomy fellow with his holy problems. Where are these children of yours?”

“I’ll send for them,” said Anne. “They’ll be eager to come, now they know Your Majesty is here.”

Charles, looking at Anne, thought she was more sallow than usual; her very fat seemed unhealthy.

He asked if she had news of her father, Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, who was living in exile in France.

Anne had heard. He passed his days pleasantly enough, she told the King. He was finding compensation for his exile in writing his memoirs.

“They should make interesting reading,” said the King.

Now the little girls were coming into the room: Mary and Anne, the only two who had survived, thought the King, among the seven—was it seven?—which Anne Hyde had borne the Duke of York.

Yet James, with his two girls, had been more fortunate than his brother. Why was it that royal folk, for whom it was so necessary to produce heirs, were usually so unfortunate? Lack of heirs was the curse of royalty.

Mary, the elder, took his hand and solemnly kissed it. Charles lifted her in his arms. He loved children and he was particularly fond of solemn little Mary.

He kissed her affectionately, and she put her arms about his neck and rubbed her cheek against his. Next to her father she loved her Uncle Charles.

Anne was tugging at his coat.

“Anne’s turn,” said Anne stolidly.

“Now, Mary, my dear,” said the King, “you must give place to plump Anne.”

He set Mary down and made as though to lift Anne from the ground. He wheezed and puffed, and both children shrieked with delight.

“Anne is too fat to be lifted,” said Mary.

“I confess,” said the King, “that this great bulk of my niece defeats me.”

“Then give me sweetmeats instead,” said Anne.

“It is because she eats that she is so fat, Uncle Charles,” said Mary. “If she eats more she will become fatter and fatter, and nobody will be able to lift her.”

Anne gave them a slow, friendly smile. “I’d rather have sweetmeats than be lifted,” she said.

“Ah, my dear Anne, you present a weighty problem,” said the King. “And knowing your fancies, and that I should be admitted to your ponderous presence, I came well armed.”

Both little girls looked at his face; for he had knelt to put his on a level with theirs.

“Armed,” said Mary. “That means carrying swords and such things, Anne.”

“Swords made of sweetmeats?” said Anne, interested.

“Feel in my pocket, nieces, and you may find something of interest,” said their uncle.

Anne was there first, squealing with delight, and cramming the contents of the King’s pocket into her mouth.

Mary put her hand in that of the King. “I will show you Papa’s greyhounds. I love them.”

“I love them too,” mumbled Anne as best she could; while the sweet juices ran down her plump chin.

“They are so thin,” said the King, giving her his melancholy smile.

“I like others to be thin,” said Anne. “It is only Anne who must be fat.”

“You fear that if they grow as fat as you they will acquire similar tastes. If we all loved sweetmeats as does Mistress Anne, there would not be enough in the world to satisfy us all.”

Anne was solemn for a while, then she smiled that affectionate and charming smile. “Nay, Uncle Charles,” she said, “the confectioners will make more sweetmeats.”

They went to look at the Duke’s greyhounds. Their father forgot his preoccupation with religious problems and played games with his little girls. Charles showed them how to throw in pelmel.

And, as he guided Mary’s hand when she would throw the ball and as little Anne toddled beside him, Charles thought: If these two were but mine I should end this dangerous rivalry between Jemmy and James; I should not need to feel concerned because I see my brother deep in doubt when he reads Dr. Heylin’s History of the Reformation.

Charles came to see Nell after she had been playing on the stage of the King’s Theater for a few weeks.

He was amused by her return to the stage; but, as he pointed out, everyone knew that the child who was sleeping in the cradle was his son, and it was hardly fitting for that child’s mother to remain an actress.

“It is necessary for that child’s mother to provide food for the King’s bastard,” said Nell characteristically. “And if playacting is the only way she can do it, then playact she must. Should an innocent child starve because his mother is too lazy and his father too poor to feed him?”

“Have done,” said the King. “Leave the stage and you shall not want—nor shall he.”

“If I leave the stage I shall be obliged to see that this is a promise Your Majesty shall keep,” said Nell. “For myself I ask no pension; but for my child—who is known by the name of Charles, and none other—I would ask a good deal.”

“All that can be done for you and him shall be done,” promised the King.

He was visiting her more frequently now. Louise de Kéroualle was still holding him at bay. He thought a great deal of Louise; she seemed to him infinitely desirable, indeed the most desirable woman in his kingdom, but he was too lighthearted to sigh on that account. Louise would succumb eventually, he felt sure; in the meantime there was Moll—still charming enough to be worth a visit now and then; Barbara on whom he still called occasionally, if only that he might congratulate himself on having almost broken with her; and Nell, who could always be relied upon to amuse and come up with the unexpected. The others—the ladies who provided amusement for a night or so—there would always be. He was well supplied with women.

Charles realized Nell’s problems, and he had decided that it would be convenient if she lived even nearer to him at Whitehall.

He reminded her that he had given her the house in which she now lived.

“And that,” retorted Nell, “I do not accept, since I discover it to be leasehold. My services have always been free under the Crown. For that reason, nothing but freehold will satisfy me.”

“Nell,” said the King with a laugh, “you grow acquisitive.”

“I have a son to think for.”

“It has changed you—becoming a mother.”

“It changes all women.”

The King was sober temporarily. “You do well,” he said, “to consider the boy. You do well to remind me of your needs. Why, look you, Nell, it is a long step here from Whitehall.”

“But Your Majesty’s chief pleasure—save one—is sauntering, so I’ve heard.”

“There are occasions when I would wish to have you near me. And now that you have left the stage, I am going to make you a present of a fine house—freehold. The only freehold in the district on which I can lay my hands.”

“It is near Whitehall?”

“Nearer than this one, Nell. Indeed, it is nearer by a quarter of a mile. I do not think you will have reason to find this house unworthy of our son, Nell.”

“And it is freehold?” insisted Nell.

“I swear it shall be.”

Nell was climbing in the world now.

She had her residence in the beautiful wide street at that end which was the home of many of the aristocrats of the Court. Nell’s new house was three storys high, and its gardens extended to St. James’ Park, from which it was separated by a stone wall. At the end of Nell’s garden was a mound, and when she stood on this she could see over the wall and into the Park; she could call to the King as he sauntered there with his friends.

Now Nell was indeed treated with the “decencies of a royal mistress.” Her near neighbors were Barbara Castlemaine, the Countess of Shrewsbury, and Mary Knight who had once been one of the King’s favored mistresses. Lady Greene and Moll Davies were not far off.

There was a difference in the attitude of many people towards her now. She was Madam Gwyn more often than Mrs. Nelly; tradesmen were eager for her custom; she was treated with the utmost servility.

Nell of the old days would have ridiculed these sycophants; Nell the mother enjoyed their homage. She never forgot that the more honor paid to her the easier it would be for honors to find their way to that little boy, and she was determined to see him a Duke before she died.

There were some who often tried to remind her that she had been an orange-girl and an actress, bred in Cole-yard. Mary Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham’s sister, had refused to receive her and this, Nell was delighted to learn, had aroused the King’s deep displeasure. He had reminded the noble lady: “Those I lie with are fit company for the greatest ladies in the land.” And Mary Villiers had had to change her attitude.

The Arlingtons were cool. They were all for the promotion of Mademoiselle de Kéroualle; but she, it seemed, was chained to celibacy by her virtue. Let her remain thus, thought Nell, while the rest of us enjoy life and grow rich.

There was some rivalry with Moll Davies.

Nell could not endure Moll’s affected airs of refinement. She wondered that the King—a man of such wit—did not laugh them to scorn. He still visited Moll, and there were occasions when Nell, expecting him to call at the house or even vault the wall as he sometimes did, would see him passing on his way to visit Moll Davies.

Moll sometimes called on Nell after the King’s visit. She would sit in Nell’s apartment, displaying her £700 ring, and talking of the latest present the King had brought her.

“He even brings me sweetmeats such as I like. He says I am almost as great a glutton for them as the Princess Anne.”

One day, early that spring, Moll called at Nell’s house in a twitter of excitement expressly to tell her that the King had sent a message that he would be calling on her that night.

“It surprises me, Nelly,” she said, “that he should come so far. You are nearer now, are you not, and yet he comes to me! Can you understand it?”

“All men, even Kings, at times act crazily,” said Nell quickly.

She was anxious. Her son was without a name. She was not going to have him called Charlie Gwyn. He was growing. He needed a name. Many times she had suggested that some honor be given to the boy, but the King was always vague and evasive. He promised to do all that he could, but Charles’ promises were more readily given than fulfilled. He was fond of the boy; yet to have ennobled him would have caused much comment. Rochester was right about that. The affair of Sir John Coventry was still remembered, and there were times when the King was eager not to arouse too much criticism in his subjects.

“Let be, Nell,” he had said. “Let the matter rest awhile. I promise you the boy shall lack nothing.”

And tonight he would go to that scheming Moll Davies. It was not to be borne.

“I am a good hand at making sweetmeats,” Nell said to Moll.

“I was never taught to perform such menial tasks,” said Moll.

“I used to make them to sell in the market,” Nell told her. “Sweetmeats!” she cried in a raucous cockney voice. “Good ladies, buy my sweetmeats!”

Moll shuddered. She looked about her at the beautifully furnished apartment and wondered how such a creature as Nell had ever managed to obtain it.

Nell pretended not to see Moll’s disgust. “I shall bring you some sweetmeats,” said Nell. “My next batch shall be made especially for you.”

Moll rose to go; she had preparations to make, she reiterated, for the reception of the King that night.

When she had gone, Nell picked up the baby.

A fine healthy boy; she kissed him fondly.

She was ready to fight all the duchesses in the land for his sake.

Now she went to her kitchen and, rolling up the fine sleeves of her gown, made sweetmeats; and as soon as they were ready she set out with them for Moll Davies’ house.

Moll was surprised to see her so soon.

“I made these for you,” said Nell; “and I thought I would bring them to you while they were fresh.”

“They look good indeed,” said Moll.

“Try one,” suggested Nell.

Moll did so, flourishing her diamond under Nell’s eye. Nell’s gaze dwelt on it enviously, so it seemed to Moll.

“It’s beautiful,” said Nell simply.

“It is indeed! Every time it catches my eye it reminds me of His Majesty’s devotion.”

“You are indeed fortunate to have that outward symbol of the King’s devotion. Do try another of these fondants.”

Moll tried another.

“How clever to be able to make such delicious things! I was never brought up to be so useful.”

“Nay,” said Nell with a high laugh. “You were brought up to wear a diamond ring and play high-class whore to a merry King.”

Nell went into peals of laughter which made Moll frown. Moll had never been sure of Nell since the impudent girl from Cole-yard had imitated her on the stage of the King’s Theater.

“I laugh too readily,” said Nell, subdued. “It was a habit I learned in the Cole-yard. I would I were a lady like yourself. Pray have another.”

“You are not eating any.”

“I ate my fill in my own house. These are a present for you. Ah, you are thinking, why should I bring you presents and what do I want in exchange? I see the thoughts in your eyes, Moll. ’Tis true. I do want something. I want to learn to be a lady such as you are.” Nell held out the box in which she had put the sweets, and Moll took yet another.

“You know well what flavors appeal to my palate,” said Moll.

“I’ll confess it,” said Nell. “I study you. I would ape you, you see. I would discover why it is His Majesty visits you when he might visit little Nell from the Cole-yard.”

“Nell, you are too low in your tastes. You laugh too much. You speak with the tongue of the streets. You do not try to be a lady.”

“’Tis true,” said Nell. “Pray have another.”

“I declare I grow greedy.”

“’Tis a pleasure to please you with my sweetmeats.”

Moll said: “You are good at heart, Nell. Listen to me. I will tell you how to speak more like a lady. I will show you how to walk as a lady walks, how to treat those who are your inferiors.”

“I pray you do,” said Nell.

And Moll showed her, eating the sweetmeats Nell had brought as she did so. When she had finished she had cleared the whole dish.

Nell rose to go. “You have preparations to make for His Majesty,” she said. “I must detain you no longer. Pray keep the dish. When you look at it you will think of me.”

Nell went out to her chair which was waiting for her.

“Hurry back,” she said to her professional carriers whom she hired by the week. “I have certain preparations to make.”

And when she reached her own house she went into the room where the baby was sleeping.

She picked him up and, kissing him fiercely, cried: “We must prepare for Papa. He will be coming here this night, I doubt not. And, who knows, when he is here I may be able to wheedle a nice little title from him for my Charley boy.”

Then she laid him gently in his cradle.

There was no time to lose. She called her cook and bade him prepare pies of meat and fowl, to set beef and mutton roasting.

“I have a fancy,” she said, “that His Majesty will be supping here this day.”

Then she put on a gown of green and gold lace with slippers of cloth of silver.

She was ready; she knew that the King would come. Moll Davies would be unable to entertain him that night, for the sweets with which she had supplied her unsuspecting rival had been filled with jalap made from the root of a Mexican plant.

Moll had taken a good dose. Nell had little doubt that ere this day was out the King and she would be laughing heartily over Moll’s predicament.

“It may be,” said Nell aloud, “that Mrs. Moll will realize this night that there is something to be learned from my Cole-yard ways.”

She was not disappointed. The King joined her for supper. He had discovered what had happened to Moll, and he had had a shrewd notion who had played the trick on her.

He could not contain his mirth as he and Nell sat over supper.

“You are the wildest creature I ever knew,” he told her.

And she saw that he liked well that wildness, and was beginning to feel that, whoever came into his life, he must keep Nelly there to make him laugh and forget his troubles.

It seemed to the King that, during that difficult year, Nell was his main refuge from his burdens. He was still pursuing Louise de Kéroualle who, although she was maid of honor to the Queen and had her apartments in Whitehall, still expressed her horror at the thought of becoming his mistress.

“How could that be?” she asked. “There is only one way in which Your Majesty could become my lover, and that way is closed. Your Majesty has a Queen.”

In vain did Charles point out the irksomeness of royal lives. Queens were not to be envied. Look at his own Queen Catherine. Did she seem to be a happy woman? Yet look at merry little Nell. Was there a happier soul in London?

Louise appeared to be puzzled. It was a trick of hers when she wished to appear vague.

“I must work harder at learning to understand the English,” she would say in her lisping voice which matched her baby face.

The King gave her more beautiful tapestries to hang in her apartments; he gave her jewels and some of his most treasured clocks. Still she could only shake her head, open her little eyes as wide as possible, and say: “If I were not the daughter of such a noble house, why then it would be easier for me to be as these others. Your Majesty, it would seem there is only one way open to me. I should go to a convent and there pass my days.”

Charles was torn between exasperation and desire. He could not endure his lack of success. It was Frances Stuart’s inaccessibility which had made her doubly attractive. Louise realized this, and played her waiting game.

It was many months since she had come to England. The King of France sent impatient messages. Daily the French ambassador warned her.

The Seigneur de Saint Evremond—who was a political exile from France and residing in England where, on account of his wit and literary qualities, Charles had granted him a pension—was eager to see his countrywoman an influence in the land of their adoption. He wrote to Louise—He had heard the rumor that she had declared her intention of entering a convent, so he wrote of the wretched life of nuns, shut off from the world’s pleasures, with nothing to sustain them but their religious devotions.

“A melancholy life this, dear sister, to be obliged for custom’s sake to mourn a sin one has not committed, at the very time one begins to have a desire to commit it.

“How happy is the woman who knows how to behave herself discreetly without checking her inclination! For, as ’tis scandalous to love beyond moderation, so ’tis a mortification for a woman to pass her life without one amour. Do not too severely reject temptations, which in this country offer themselves with more modesty than is required, even in a virgin, to hearken to them. Yield, therefore, to the sweets of temptation, instead of consulting your pride.”

Louise read the advice with her childish smile, and her shrewd brain worked fast. She would surrender at the right moment, and that moment would be one which would bring great profit to herself and to France.

The Duke of Monmouth, having been reprimanded by the King for the part he had played in the Coventry affair, was inclined to sulk.

“But, Father,” he said, “I sought but to defend your honor. Should a subject stand aside and see slights thrown at his King’s honor?”

“Mine has had so many aimed at it that it has developed an impenetrable shell, my son. In future, I pray you, leave its defense to me.”

“I like not to see your royalty besmirched.”

“Oh, Jemmy, ’tis so tarnished that a little more is scarce noticeable.”

“But that these oafs should dare condemn you …”

“Coventry’s no oaf. He’s a country gentleman.”

Monmouth laughed. “He’ll carry a mark on his face all the days of his life to remind him to mend his manners.”

“Nay, to remind us that we should mend ours,” said the King seriously. “But have done with these wild adventures, Jemmy. I frown on them. Now let us talk of other matters. How would you like to come with me to Newmarket? You and I will race together and see who shall win.”

Monmouth’s sullen smile was replaced by one of pleasure. He was quite charming when he smiled. He brought such a vivid reminder of his mother’s beauty that Charles could believe he was young again.

Jemmy was eager to go to Newmarket. Not that he cared so much for the racing, or for his father’s company. What meant so much to Jemmy was that he should be seen at his father’s side. He liked to observe the significant looks of courtiers, to hear the cries of the people. “See, there is the Duke of Monmouth, the King’s natural son! They say His Majesty is so fond of the boy—and can you doubt it, seeing them thus together?—that he will make him his heir.” Jemmy fancied that many people would be pleased to see this done. And why not? Did he not look every inch a prince? And was he not a Protestant, and were not the rumors growing daily concerning the King’s brother’s conversion to the Catholic Faith? Monmouth and his friends would see to it that there was no lack of such rumors.

Contemplating the trip to Newmarket, he was in high spirits. The King doted on him. There was nothing he could not do and still keep Charles’ favor. And everyone would know it. More and more people would rally to his support. They would say he was the natural heir to the throne. All would know that, in spite of the affair of Sir John Coventry, he had lost none of his favor with the King.

He called to Albemarle and Somerset: “Come,” he said, “let us go out into the town. I have a desire to make good sport.”

Albemarle was eager to accompany his friend. He, with others, marveled at the King’s softness towards Monmouth. The affair of Sir John Coventry was a serious one, yet the King had made as light of it as possible—because of who was involved. Albemarle was certain that his friendship with such an influential young man could bring him much good. Somerset shared Albemarle’s ideas.

It was fun to roam through the city at dusk, to see what they could find and make good sport with. What excitement to come upon some pompous worthy being carried in his chair, turning it over, and rolling the occupant in the filth of the street! There might be a young girl out late at night, and if a young girl wandered late at night what more could she be expecting than the attentions of such as Monmouth and his friends?

They made their way to one of the taverns, where they dined. They sat about drinking, keeping their eyes open for any personable young woman who came their way. The innkeeper had taken the precaution of locking his wife and daughters away out of sight, and was hoping with all his heart that the dissolute Duke had not heard that these had a reputation for beauty.

Monmouth had not, so he contented himself with the innkeeper’s wine and, when they staggered into the street, he and his friends were so befuddled that they lurched and leaned against the wall for support.

It was when they were in this condition that they saw an elderly man and a girl approaching them.

“Come,” cried Monmouth drunkenly, “here’s sport.”

The girl was little more than a child and, as the three drunken men barred the way, she clutched at her grandfather in terror.

“Come along, my pretty,” hiccupped Monmouth. “You are but a child, but ’tis time, I’ll swear, you left your childhood behind you. Unless you already have …”

The old man, recognizing the men as courtiers by their fine clothes and manner of speaking, cried out in terror: “Kind sirs, let me and my granddaughter go our way. We are poor and humble folk … my granddaughter is but ten years old.”

“’Tis old enough!” cried Monmouth, and laid his hands on the child.

Her screams filled the street; and a voice called: “What goes on there? Who calls?”

“Help!” screamed the child. “Robbers! Murderers!”

“Hold there! Hold there, I say!” called the voice.

The three Dukes turned and looked; coming towards them was an old ward beadle, his lanthorn held high. He was so old that he could scarcely hobble.

“Here comes the gallant knight!” laughed Monmouth. “I declare, I tremble in my shoes.”

The little girl had seized her grandfather’s hand, and they hurried away.

The drunken Dukes did not notice they had gone, for their attention was now centered on the ward beadle.

“My lord,” said the man, “I must prevail upon you to keep the peace.”

“On what authority?” demanded Monmouth.

“In the name of the King.”

That amused Monmouth. “Do you know, fellow, to whom you speak?”

“A noble lord. A gallant gentleman. I implore you, sir, to go quietly to your lodging and there rest until you have recovered from the effects of your liquor.”

“Know you,” said Monmouth, “that I am the King’s son?”

“Nevertheless, sir, I must implore you …”

Monmouth was suddenly angry. He struck the man across the face.

“Down on your knees, sir, when you address the King’s son.”

“My lord,” began the old man, “I am a watchman, whose duty it is to keep the peace …”

“Down on your knees when you speak to the King’s son!” cried Albemarle.

“Kneel …” cried Somerset. “Kneel there on the cobbles, you dog, and ask pardon most humbly because you have dared insult the noble Duke.”

The old man, remembering the recent outrage on Sir John Coventry, was seized with trembling. He held out a hand appealingly, and laid it on Monmouth’s coat. The Duke struck it off, and Albemarle and Somerset forced the man down to his knees.

“Now,” cried Monmouth, “what say you, old fellow?”

“I say, sir, that I but do my duty …”

Somerset kicked the old man, who let out a shriek of agony. Albemarle kicked him again.

“He is not contrite,” said Monmouth. “He would treat us as dogs.”

He administered a kick to the old man’s face.

Monmouth’s drunken rage was increasing; he had forgotten the girl and her grandfather, his first quarries. His one thought now was to teach the old man that he must pay proper respect to the King’s son. Monmouth suspected all, who did not immediately pay him abject homage, to be sneering at him because of his illegitimacy. He needed twice as much homage as the King himself, because he needed to remind people of that in him which, in the King, they took for granted.

The watchman, sensing the murderous indifference to his plight in Monmouth’s attitude, forced himself to get to his knees.

“My lord,” he said, “I beseech you do nothing that would ill reflect upon your character and good nature …”

But Monmouth was very drunk; and he was obsessed with the idea that his royalty had been slighted.

He kicked the man with such ferocity that the poor watchman lay prone on the cobbles.

“Come!” screeched Monmouth. “Let us show this fellow what happens to those who would insult the King’s son.”

Albemarle and Somerset followed his lead. They fell upon the old man, kicking and beating him. The blood was now running from the watchman’s mouth; he had put up his hands to protect his face. He cried piteously for mercy. But still they continued to inflict their murderous rage upon him.

Then suddenly the man lay still, and there was that in his attitude which somewhat sobered the three Dukes.

“Come,” said Albemarle, “let us go from here.”

“And be quick about it,” added Somerset.

The three of them staggered away; but not before many, watching from behind shutters, had recognized them.

Before daybreak the news spread through the town.

Old watchman, Peter Virmill, had been murdered by the Dukes of Monmouth, Albemarle, and Somerset.

Charles was worried indeed. People were saying that there was no safety in the streets. A poor old ward beadle murdered, and for keeping the peace!

All were watchful. What would happen now? My lord Albemarle who had recently inherited a great title, my lord Somerset who was a member of a noble house, and my lord Monmouth, son of the King himself, were all guilty of murder. For, said the citizens of London, the murder of a poor watchman was as much murder as that of the highest in the land.

The King sent for his son. He was cooler towards him than he had ever been before.

“Why do you do these things?” he asked.

“The man interfered with our pleasure.”

“And your pleasure was … breaking the peace?”

“’Twas a young slut and her grandfather. Had they come quietly all would have been well.”

“You are a handsome young man, James,” said the King. “Can you not find willing ladies?”

“She would have been willing enough once we had settled the old grandfather.”

“So rape was your business?” said Charles.

“’Twas but for the sport,” growled Monmouth.

“I am not a man who is easily shocked,” said the King, “but rape has always seemed to me a most disgusting crime. Moreover it exposes a man as a mightily unattractive person.”

“How so?”

“Since it was necessary to make a victim of the girl instead of a partner.”

“These people were insolent to me.”

“James, you too readily see insult. Take care. Men will say, since he looks for insults, does he know that he deserves them?”

Monmouth was silent. His father had never been so cold to him.

“You know the penalty for murder,” said Charles.

“I am your son.”

“There are some who call me a fool for accepting you as that,” said Charles brutally.

Monmouth winced. Charles knew where to touch him in his most vulnerable spot. “But … there is no doubt.”

Charles laughed. “There is the greatest doubt. Knowing what I now know of your mother, I myself have doubts.”

“But … Father, you have made me believe that you never had these doubts.”

Charles stroked the lace on his cuff. “I had expected you to have your mistresses. That is how I would expect a son of mine to act. But to behave thus towards helpless people, to show such criminal arrogance to those who are not in a position to retaliate … these things I understand not at all. I am a man of much frailty, I know. But that which I see in you is so alien to my nature that I have come to believe that you cannot be my son after all.”

The beautiful dark eyes were wide with horror.

“Father!” cried the Duke. “It is not true. I am your son. Look at me. Can you not see yourself in me?”

“You, such a handsome fellow—I, such an ugly one!” said the King lightly. “Yet never did I have to resort to rape. A little wooing was enough on my part. I think you cannot be a Stuart after all. I shall have you taken away now. I have no more to say to you.”

“Father, you mean … You cannot mean …”

“You have committed a crime, James. A great crime.”

“But … as your son …”

“You remember I have my doubts of that.”

The Duke’s face was twisted with his misery. Charles did not look. He was soft and foolish where this young man was concerned. He had made too much of him, spoiled him, petted him.

For Jemmy’s own sake, he must try to instill some discipline into that turbulent proud nature which lacked the balanced good sense to understand the temper of the people he so fervently hoped to rule.

“Go to your apartments now,” he said.

“Father, I will stay with you. I will make you say you know I am your son.”

“It is an order, my lord Duke,” said Charles sternly.

Monmouth stood uncertainly for a moment, a pretty petulant boy; then he strode towards Charles and took his hand. Charles’ was limp, and the melancholy eyes were staring out of the window.

“Papa,” said Monmouth, “Jemmy is here …”

It was the old cry of childhood which had amused Charles in the days long ago when he had come to see Lucy, this boy’s mother, and the boy, fearing he was not receiving his due of the King’s attention, had sought to draw it to himself.

Charles stood still as a statue.

“To your apartments,” he said crisply. “There you will stay until you hear what is to be done.”

Charles withdrew his hand and walked away.

Monmouth could do nothing but leave the apartment.

When he had gone, Charles continued to stare out of the window. He looked down at the river, beyond the low wall with its semicircular bastions. He did not see the shipping which sailed past. What to be done? How to extricate the foolish boy from the results of this mad prank? Did he not know that it was acts such as this which set thrones tottering?

There would be murmuring among the people. The Coventry scandal had not died down.

If he were strong, those three would suffer the just punishment of murderers. But how could he be strong where his warmest feelings were concerned?

He had to take a bold step. But he would do it to save that boy. There was very little he would not do for the boy. He must at all costs resist the temptation to give him what he so earnestly desired—the Crown. That he would not do—love him as he did, he would see him hanged first. Jemmy had to learn his lesson; he had to learn to be humble. Poor Jemmy, was it because he feared he was too humble that he strutted as he did? Had he been a legitimate son … then what a different boy he might have been. Had he been brought up with the express purpose of wearing the Crown, as he, Charles, had been, there would have been no need for him to make sure that everyone recognized him as the King’s son.

I make excuses for him—not because he deserves them; but because I love him, thought Charles. A bad habit.

Then he did what he knew he must do. It was weakness, but how could he, a loving father, do aught else?

He issued a pardon “Unto our dear son James, Duke of Monmouth, of all murders, homicides, and felonies whatsoever at any time before the 28th day of February last past, committed either by himself alone or together with any other person or persons …”

There! It was done.

But in future Jemmy must mend his ways.

While the King was brooding on the wildness of Monmouth, news came to him that his brother’s wife, Anne Hyde, had been taken ill. She was so sick, came the message, and in such agony that none of the physicians could do aught for her.

Charles went with all haste to his brother’s apartments. He found James distracted with grief; he was sitting, his face buried in his hands; Anne and Mary were standing bewildered on either side of him.

“James, what terrible news is this?” asked the King.

James dropped his hands, lifted his face to his brother’s, and shook his head with the utmost sadness.

“I fear,” he began, “I greatly fear …”

He choked on his sobs and, seeing their beloved father thus, the two little girls burst into loud wailing.

Charles went through to the bedchamber where Anne Hyde was lying, her face so distorted with pain that she was scarcely recognizable.

Charles knelt by her bed and took her hand.

Her lips twisted in a smile. “Your Majesty …” she began.

“Do not speak,” said Charles tenderly. “I see that it is an effort.”

She gripped his hand firmly. “My … my good friend,” she muttered. “Good friend first … King second.”

“Anne, my dear Anne,” said Charles. “It grieves me to see you thus.” He turned to the physicians who stood by the bed. “Has all been done?”

“All, Your Majesty. The pains came so suddenly that we fear it is an internal inflammation. We have tried all remedies. We have bled Her Grace … We have purged her. We have applied plasters to the afflicted part, and hot irons to her head. We have tried every drug. The pain persists.”

James had come to stand by the bedside. The little girls were with him, Mary holding his hand, Anne clinging to his coat. Tears flowed from James’ eyes, for Anne was half-fainting in her agony, and it was clear to all in that chamber that her life was ebbing away.

James was thinking of all his infidelities which had occurred during their married life. Anne herself had not always been a faithful wife. James thought bitterly of his repudiation of her in the early days of their marriage, and he wondered if his weakness at that time was responsible for the rift between them.

He could have wished theirs had been a more satisfactory marriage. Mayhap, he thought, had I been different, stronger when my mother was against us, if I had stood out, if I had been more courageous, Anne would not have lost her respect for me and mayhap we should have been happier together.

One could not go back. Anne was dying, and their married life was over. He wondered what he would do without her, for always during their life together he had respected her intelligence and relied on her advice.

There were his two little girls who needed a mother’s care. If the King did not get a legitimate child, the elder of those little girls could inherit the throne.

“Anne …” he murmured brokenly.

But Anne was looking at Charles; it was from the King’s presence that she seemed to gain comfort. She was remembering, of course, that he had always been her friend.

“Charles …” she murmured, “the children.”

Then Charles bade the little girls come to him and, kneeling, he placed an arm about each of them.

“Have no fear, Anne,” he said. “I shall care for these two as though they were my own.”

That satisfied her. She nodded and closed her eyes.

James, weeping bitterly, flung himself on his knees. “Anne,” he said. “Anne … I am praying for you. You must get well … you must …”

She did not seem to hear him.

Poor James! thought Charles. Now he loves his wife. She has but an hour to live and he finds he loves her, though for so long he has been indifferent towards her. Poor ineffectual James! It was ever thus.

Charles said: “Let her chaplain be brought to her bedside.”

He could tell by her stertorous breathing that the end was near.

The chaplain came and knelt by the bed, but the Duchess looked at him and shook her head.

“My lady …” began the man.

James said: “The Duchess does not wish you to pray for her.”

There were significant glances between all those who had come in to witness the death of the Duchess of York.

Anne half raised herself and said on a note of anxiety: “I want him not. I die … in the true religion …”

James hesitated. Charles met his eyes. The words which James was about to utter died on his lips. There was a warning in Charles’ eyes. Not here … not before so many witnesses. He turned to the bed. Anne was lying back on her pillows, her eyes tightly shut.

“It is too late,” said the King. “She will not regain consciousness.”

He was right. Within a few minutes the Duchess was dead.

But there were many in that room of death to note her last words and to tell each other that when she died the Duchess was on the point of changing her religion. It seemed clear that, if the Duke was not openly a Catholic, he was secretly so.

Monmouth must lie low for a while. He must curb his wild roistering in the streets; but that did not prevent him from spreading the rumor that the Duke—heir presumptive to the throne—was indeed a Catholic. Had not the English, since the reign of Bloody Mary, sworn they would not have a Catholic monarch on the throne?

Nell was now enjoying every minute of her existence. She had indeed become a fine lady.

She had eight servants in the house in Pall Mall, and from “maid’s help,” at one shilling a week, to her lordly steward, they all adored her. The relationship between them was not the usual one of mistress and servants. Nell showed them quite clearly that she was ever ready to crack a joke with them; never for one instant did she attempt to hide the fact that she had come from a lowlier station than most of them.

She liked to ride out in her Sedan chair, calling to her friends; and to courtiers and humble townsfolk alike her greeting was the same. She would call to the beggar on the corner of the street who could depend on generous alms from Mrs. Nelly, and chat as roguishly with the King from the wall of her garden. Nor would she care who his companions were. They might be members of his government or his church, and she would cry: “A merry good day to you, Charles. I trust I shall have the pleasure of your company this night!” If those who accompanied the King were shocked by her levity, he seemed all the more amused; and it was as though he and Nell had a secret joke against his pompous companions.

Nell entertained often. She kept a goodly table. And there was nothing she liked better than to see her long table loaded with good things to eat—mutton, beef, pies of all description, every fruit that was in season, cheesecakes and tarts, and plenty to drink. And about that table, she liked to see many faces; she liked every one of the chairs to be occupied.

Nell had only one worry during that year, and that was the King’s failure to give her son the title she craved for him. But she did not despair. Charles was visiting her more frequently than ever. Moll Davies rarely saw him now, and it was not necessary to administer jalap in sweetmeats to turn the King from her company to that of Nell. He came willingly. Her house was the first he wished to visit.

Louise was still tormenting him and refusing to give way. Many shook their heads over Louise. She will hold out too long, it was whispered. Mayhap when she decides to bestow herself the King will be no longer eager.

Barbara Castlemaine, now Duchess of Cleveland, was growing of less and less importance to the King. Her amours were still the talk of the town, partly because they were conducted in Barbara’s inimitable way. When Barbara had a new lover she made no attempt to hide the fact from the world.

That year her lustful eyes were turned on William Wycherley, whose first play, Love in a Wood, had just been produced.

Barbara had selected him for her lover in her usual way.

Encountering him when he was walking in the park and she was driving past in her coach, she had put her head out of the window and shouted: “You, William Wycherley, are the son of a whore.”

Then she drove on.

Wycherley was immensely flattered because he knew, as did all who heard it, that she was reminding him of the song in his play which declared that all wits were the children of whores.

It was not long before all London knew that Wycherley had become her lover.

So with Barbara behaving so scandalously, and Louise behaving so primly, and Moll ceasing to attract, Nell for a few months reigned supreme.

Rose was a frequent visitor. She was now married to John Cassels, and when this man found himself in trouble Nell managed to extricate him, and not only do this but obtain for him a commission in the Duke of Mon-mouth’s Guards, so that instead of having a highwayman for a husband Rose had a soldier of rank. Nell had also found it possible to bring her cousin, Will Cholmley, his heart’s desire. Will Cholmley was now a soldier, and she hoped that ere long there would be a commission for him.

Rose came to her one day, and they talked of the old days.

Rose said: “We owe our good fortune to you, Nell. It is like you, Madam Gwyn of Pall Mall, the King’s playmate and the friend of Dukes, not to forget those you loved in the old days. We have all done well through you. I’ll warrant Ma wishes she had used the stick less on you, Nell. Little did she think to what you would come.”

“How fares she?” asked Nell.

“She will not fare for long.”

“The gin?”

“It is as bad as ever. She is more often drunk than sober. I found her lying in the cellar—that old cellar; how long ago it seems!—dead drunk. John says she’ll not live long.”

“Who cares for her?” asked Nell.

“There are plenty to care for her. She can pay them with the money you send her. But ’tis a foul place, that cellar in Cole-yard. The rats are tame down there. ’Tis not as it was when Ma used it as her bawdy-house.”

“She will die there,” said Nell. “’Tis her home. I give her money. That is enough.”

“’Tis all you can do, Nell.”

“She needs care,” said Nell. “We needed it once. But we did not get it. We were neglected for the gin bottle.””

’Tis true, Nell.”

“Had she been different … had she loved the gin less and us more …” Nell paused angrily. “’Tis no concern of ours … if she be ill and dying of gin. What is that to us? What did she do to you, Rose? What would she have done for me? I’ll never forget the day the flesh-merchant said you stole his purse. There she stood before you, and there was terror on your face … and she pushed you to him. Rose, she cared not for us. She cared for nothing but that you should sell yourself to pay for her gin. What do we owe to such a mother?”

“Nothing,” said Rose.

“Then she will die in her cellar, her gin bottle beside her … die as she lived. ’Tis a fate worthy of her.”

Nell was angry; her cheeks were flushed; she began to recount all the unhappiness and neglect she and Rose had suffered at their mother’s hands.

Rose sat listening. She knew Nell.

And as soon as Rose had left, Nell called for her Sedan chair.

“Whither, Madam?” asked the carriers.

“To Cole-yard,” said Nell.

That night Nell’s mother slept in a handsome bed in her daughter’s house in Pall Mall.

“Old bawd that she is,” said Nell, “yet she is my mother.”

Many were disgusted to discover the bawdy-house keeper installed in her daughter’s house; many applauded the courageous action of the daughter, which had brought her there.

Nell snapped her fingers at them all. She cared not, and life was good. She was again pregnant with the King’s child.

That was a happy summer for Nell. She was with the King at Windsor, and it was a pleasure to see his affection for her little son.

Never, declared Nell, had she known such happiness as she had with her Charles the Third. Charles the First (Charles Hart) had been good to her and taught her to become an actress. Charles the Second (Charles Sackville, Lord Buckhurst) was a regrettable incident in her life, but with Charles the Third (the King) she found contentment. She did not ask for his fidelity. Nell was too much of a realist to ask for the impossible, but she had his affection as few people had; she knew that. She had discovered that she could keep that affection by means of her merry wit and her constant good humor. Charles had been accustomed to women who asked a great deal; Nell asked for little for herself, but the needs of her son were ever in her mind.

The little boy was now called Charles Beauclerk—a name given him by his father as a consolation while he waited for a title. He was called Beau-clerk after Henry I, who had received it because he could write while his brothers were illiterate. This Henry I had been the father of a greater number of illegitimate children than any English King before Charles—Charles, of course, had beaten him. It was characteristic of the King to remind the world of this fact in naming Nell’s son.

So temporarily Nell had to be content with the name Beauclerk which, while it brought no earldom nor dukedom for which she craved, at least was a royal name and a reminder to the world that Charles accepted Nell’s son as his own.

Louise was growing a little anxious. Nell Gwyn was becoming too formidable a rival. It was rather disconcerting that, as in the case of his other mistresses, the King seemed to grow more rather than less affectionate towards Nell. It was incredible that the girl from Cole-yard should have such power to hold the elegant and witty King’s attention where fine ladies failed.

Louise began to listen to the warnings of her friends.

Louis Quatorze had work for her to do. He was very impatient with her on account of her delay. Lord Arlington, who had Catholic inclinations and who had made himself her protector, was decidedly worried.

Louise had declared so frequently that she was too virtuous to become the King’s mistress that, unless she made a complete volte face, she did not see how she could be. Yet she, too, had come to realize that to delay any longer would be dangerous.

“The King is an absolute monarch,” she said to Arlington. “Why should he not, if he wishes, have two wives?”

Arlington saw the implication. He approached the King. Mademoiselle de Kéroualle loved His Majesty, said Arlington, and there was only one thing which kept her aloof—her virtue.

The King looked melancholy. “Virtue,” he said, “is indeed a formidable barrier to pleasure.”

“Mademoiselle de Kéroualle,” mourned Arlington, “as a lady of breeding, finds it difficult to fill a part which has been filled by others who lack her social standing. If in her case an exception were made …”

“Exception? What means that?” asked the King, alert.

“If her conscience could be soothed …”

“I have been led to believe that only marriage could do that.”

“A mock marriage, Your Majesty.”

“But how is this possible?”

“With Kings all things are possible. What if Your Majesty went through a ceremony with the lady …?”

“But how could such a ceremony be binding?”

“It would serve one useful purpose. It would show a certain respect to the lady. With none of those who pleased you has Your Majesty gone through such a ceremony. It would set Mademoiselle de Kéroualle apart from all others. And, although she cannot be Your Majesty’s wife, if she were treated as such her pride would be soothed.”

“Come, my lord, I see plans in your mind.”

“What if, when Your Majesty is at Newmarket, you called at my place of Euston. What if we had a ceremony there … a ceremony which seemed in the outward sense a marriage … then, Your Majesty …”

The King laughed. “Let it be!” he cried. “Let it be! My dear Arlington, this is a capital idea of yours.”

Arlington bowed. It was his greatest pleasure to serve his King, he murmured.

So, when the King set out for Newmarket, he did so with more than his usual pleasure. Racing delighted him. Monmouth, now fully restored to favor, was at his father’s side most of the time. They went hawking together, and matched their greyhounds. They rode together against each other, and the King won the Plate although his young son was among the competitors. Charles, at forty-one, had lost little of the attractiveness of his youth. His gray hair was admirably concealed under the luxuriant curls of his periwig; there were more lines on his face, but that was all; he was as agile and graceful as he had ever been.

Every day he was at Euston; often he spent the night there; and all the time he was courting Louise who was growing more and more yielding.

And on one October day Arlington called in a priest who murmured some sort of marriage service over the pair, and after that Louise allowed herself to be put to bed with all the ribald ceremonies in which it was the custom to indulge.

Now Louise was the King’s mistress and, in view of her rank and the high value she set upon herself, was being regarded as maîtresse en titre—that one, of all the King’s ladies, to take first place.

Nell realized that her brief reign was over. There was another who now claimed the King’s attention more frequently than she did; and because she was what Louise would call a vulgar play-actress, she knew that the Frenchwoman would do all in her power to turn the King’s favor from her.

That December Nell’s second son was born. She called him James, after the Duke of York.

As she lay recovering from the exhaustion of childbirth, which, because of her rude health, was slight, Nell determined to hold her place with the King and to fight this new favorite with all the wit, charm, and cockney shrewdness at her disposal.

She did not believe she would fail. Her own love for her Charles the Third strengthened her resolve; moreover she had the future of little Charles and James Beauclerk to think of.