Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

SIX

Nell saw little of the King during the months which followed. He was completely obsessed by Louise, who gave herself the airs of a queen; she had only to imply that the apartments at Whitehall which had been hers before the mock ceremony were now no longer grand enough to house her, to have them remade and redecorated at great expense. With Louise it was possible not only to make love but to talk of literature, art, and science; and this the King found delightful. He realized that for the first time he had a mistress who appealed to him physically and intellectually. Barbara had been outrageously egoistical and her own greed and desires had shadowed her mind to such an extent that it had been impossible to discuss anything with her in an objective manner. Nell had sharp wits and a ready tongue, and there would always be a place for Nell in his life, but what did Nell know of the niceties of living? And Frances Stuart had been a foolish little creature for all her beauty. No! In Louise he had a cultured woman, moreover one who was well versed in the politics of her country, which happened to be at this time of the utmost importance to Charles.

It seemed that Louise had succumbed at exactly the right moment, for Louis Quatorze was about to undertake that war in which, under the terms of the Treaty of Dover, Charles had promised to help him.

Louise had received the French ambassador; she had been informed of the wishes of the King of France; it was for her to ensure that the King of England kept to his bargain. Louise was happy. She was pleased with her progress. She had held out against the King until it would have been dangerous to remain longer aloof. It had taken her some time to realize that her greatest rival could have been the common little play-actress, Nell Gwyn, simply because her aristocratic mind refused to accept the fact that one brought up in Cole-yard could possibly be a rival to herself. But at length she had realized that this play-actress—low as she was—had certain qualities which could be formidable. Her pretty, saucy face was not the most formidable of her weapons. Had Nell Gwyn received even the rudiments of education it might have been hopeless to do battle with her. As it was she must be treated with respect.

French soldiers were now crossing the Rhine and marching into Holland. The gallant Dutch, taken off their guard, were for a short time stunned—but only for a short time. They rose with great courage against the aggressors. In fury those men, the brothers De Witt who had advocated a policy of appeasement, were torn to pieces by the mob in the streets of The Hague. Dutchmen were calling on William of Orange to lead them against their enemies, declaring they would die in the last ditch. They were ready to open the dykes, an action which had the desired effect on the invaders by showing the French that no easy victory would be theirs when they came against Dutchmen.

Louise, in the King’s confidence, assured him of the advisability of carrying out his obligations under the treaty. Charles had no intention of not carrying out this particular clause. He too badly needed the French gold which had been coming into his exchequer to offend Louis so flagrantly. Therefore Charles decided to send an expeditionary force of 6,000 men to aid the French.

Monmouth came to the King and asked if he might speak to him alone. Louise was with Charles, and Duke and King’s mistress eyed each other with some suspicion. Each of them, favored by the King, was jealous of Charles’ regard for the other. As yet they were unsure of the other’s power. There was one great cause for dissension between them. Louise was Catholic, Monmouth Protestant. Monmouth knew—not that he had realized this himself, but those such as Buckingham whose interest it was to persuade the King to legitimize him had told him this—that Louise was an ambitious woman whose hopes went beyond becoming the King’s mistress. Therefore she was dangerous. Monmouth did not believe for a moment that Charles would divorce Queen Catherine; but if the Queen died and Louise was able to fascinate the King enough, who knew what might happen? Louise was already pregnant, and she was delighted that this should be so. If she proved that she could give the King sons, as she was a lady of nobility there was a possibility that Charles might marry her. The thought that that child she now carried might one day take all that Monmouth so passionately longed for was unbearable to him.

Louise saw the King’s natural son as an upstart. Monmouth’s mother had been of little more consequence than the play-actress of whom the King was so fond. Little Charles Beauclerk had as much right to hope for the crown as this other bastard.

“You may speak as though to me alone,” said the King.

Monmouth glared at Louise who, proud of her breeding, was clever enough to know that the King was so enchanted with her because he could be sure of decorous handling of any situation. Louise was determined to impress upon Charles that her manners were impeccable.

Now she inclined her head graciously and said with quiet dignity: “I see that my lord Duke would have speech with Your Majesty alone.”

Charles gave her a grateful look and she was rewarded. She was smiling as she left father and son together. She would in any case very quickly discover what Monmouth had to say.

Monmouth scowled after her.

“Well,” said Charles, “having succeeded in dismissing the lady, I pray you tell me what is this secret matter.”

“I wish to go to Holland with the Army.”

“My son, I doubt not it can be arranged.”

“But as the King’s son I wish to have a rank worthy of me.”

“Oh, Jemmy, your dignity rides ahead of your achievements.”

Monmouth’s handsome face was flushed with anger. “I am treated as a boy,” he protested.

Charles laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Would you remedy it, Jemmy? Then grow up.”

“There is only one post worthy of your son, Sir,” he said. “Commander of the Army.”

“You may command it, Jemmy. In time … in time …”

“Now is the time, Father. Wartime is the time to command an army.”

“’Tis true that at such times honors can be won. But disgrace can also be the lot of the commander who fails.”

“I should not fail, Father. Always I have longed to lead an army. I beg of you, give me this chance.”

He had thrown himself at Charles’ feet, had taken his father’s hand and was kissing it. The dark eyes with their curling black lashes were appealing. Lucy lived again in those eyes. Charles thought: Why is he not my legitimate son? What a happy state of affairs we should have if he were! Then he would have been trained with a difference; then he would not have been so eager always to maintain his dignity. We would have made a bonny King of Jemmy. Brother James could have continued to worship his graven images in peace, and none would have cared; there would not have been this enmity between them. What an unfortunate father I am! But how much more unfortunate is this pretty boy of mine!

“Get up, Jemmy,” he said.

“Your Majesty will grant me this one small request?”

“You underestimate it, Jemmy. ’Tis no small one.”

“Father, I swear you will be proud of me. I will lead your armies to victory.”

“You know the temper of our enemies. You have seen what fighters these Dutchmen are.”

“I know them, Father. They are an enemy worthy of the conquering.”

“Jemmy, a commander of a great army must have more care for his men than for himself.”

“I know it, and so would I have.”

“He must be ready to face all that he asks his men to face.”

“So would I face death to win my country’s battles …”

“And glory for yourself.”

Monmouth hesitated for a while and then said grudgingly: “Yes, Sir, and glory for myself.”

Charles laughed. “I see new honesty in you, Jemmy, and it pleases me.”

“And this I ask you …?”

“I’ll think of it, Jemmy. I’ll think of it …”

“Father, do not put me off with promises such as those you give to others. I am your son.”

“There are times when I think it had been better if you had been the son of another of your mother’s lovers.”

“Nay!” cried Monmouth. “I would rather be dead than own another father.”

“You love my crown too much, Jemmy.”

“’Tis yourself, Sir.”

“And I had just complimented you on your honesty! Nay, do not look hurt. ’Tis natural to be dazzled by a crown. Do I not know it? I was dazzled all through the years of exile.”

“Father, you are turning me from my point. My uncle of York has the Navy. It is only right that I, your son, should have the Army.”

“Your uncle is the legitimate son of a King, Jemmy. There is a difference. Moreover he is many years older than you; he is possessed of great experience. He has proved himself to be a great sailor.”

“I will prove myself to be a great soldier.”

Charles was silent for a while. He had never seen Jemmy so fervently eager. It was a good sign; he at least was asking for some means of proving himself to be worthy of a crown. Previously he had thought mainly of possessing it.

“There is nothing I would like better,” said Charles, “than to see you at the head of the Army.”

“Then you will …?”

“I will do all that is possible.”

Monmouth had to accept that but he was not satisfied. He was fully aware of his father’s easy promises.

But Charles had decided that he would do something. He discussed the matter with Louise and she agreed with him that the young Duke should be given some duties. Moreover if he were sent with the Army there was the possibility of his disgracing himself or even being killed. It seemed to Louise an excellent way of getting the troublesome young man out of the kingdom for a while.

Charles sent for Arlington.

“Let the Duke of Monmouth have the care of the Army,” he said, “though not the command of it. Make him a Commander—in name only. Then we shall see how he shapes as a soldier.”

Arlington was very willing. He was eager not to be on bad terms with one so close to the King as the Duke was; he could see that Monmouth could save him a great deal of trouble without taking any of his power and profit from him.

So when the expeditionary force left England, Monmouth was with it.

And Charles, with fatherly devotion, waited to see how the young man would acquit himself.

The war continued. It was popular in spite of the fact that press-gangs roamed the streets and, invading the taverns and any place where men might be gathered together, carried off protesting recruits. There came news of the successes achieved by Louis with the aid of Monmouth. Charles was proud to hear that Jemmy was proving himself to be both brave and daring in battle, harrying the enemy with the same abandon with which he had attacked innocent citizens of London.

Several of the Court gallants, considering the victories of Monmouth, planned to take a band of volunteers abroad to join the Duke. Buckingham, restless, always eager to be at that spot where he could enjoy most limelight, begged the King to be allowed to go as Commander-in-Chief.

Charles talked of this with Louise, as he talked of most things.

Louise smiled; she had visions of the Duke, returning to London a conqueror. It seemed as if that other Duke, Monmouth, might do this. Two Protestant Dukes to ride through the streets as conquering heroes! It would not do. Moreover she had a score of long standing to settle with Buckingham.

“Nay,” she said. “Send not my lord Buckingham. He is as a weather-vane. He turns this way and that, according to the winds that blow. Has it occurred to you, Charles, that the noble Duke is the most unreliable man in your kingdom?”

“Oh, George is a good fellow at heart. Wild he may be at times, and there has been trouble between us, but I have never doubted that George is my friend. We grew up together, shared the same nursery. I have a fondness for George, as I have for brother James.”

“He has not Your Majesty’s good heart. And forget not, he is a Protestant.”

Charles laughed. “As are most of my subjects, and as I am … as yet.”

“As yet,” agreed Louise. “But you will not remain so.”

The King was alert. He knew Louise spent occasional hours in the company of the French ambassador and he did not doubt that instructions for Louise would be continually arriving from Louis.

“I shall declare my conversion in my own time,” said Charles. “That time is not yet.”

“Nay, but mayhap after the war has been satisfactorily concluded….”

“Who shall say when that will be! These Dutch are stubborn fellows. And we were talking of George’s desires to lead the volunteers …”

“I long for Your Majesty to be a true Catholic in thought and deed.”

“You share the desires of my dear brother Louis, which is mayhap not surprising since you are a subject of his.”

Louise lowered her eyes and said quickly: “When one loves there is a wish for the loved one to share all things. This applies in particular to something so precious as Faith.”

“Faith is one of the most difficult possessions for an honest man to acquire,” said the King lightly. “Shall I give George his wish? Shall we turn him into a gallant soldier?”

This was characteristic. Stop this talk of my promise to declare myself a Catholic and you shall have your wish regarding Buckingham. Louise smiled gently.

“If my lord Buckingham left England, Lady Shrewsbury would miss him sorely,” she said. “Is it kind to her ladyship to inflict such hardship upon her?”

The King laughed. She had given a witty turn to the discussion and that appealed to him.

He sent for Buckingham.

“You are not to lead the volunteers, George,” said Charles, “for we could not bear to break Anna’s heart. Therefore we will not deprive her of your company.”

Buckingham’s face was purple with suppressed anger. Louise was delighted to see him thwarted. It mattered not to her that he did not realize she was the one who had prevented his attaining his desires. Louise enjoyed working in the dark. Her aim was to destroy the man who had slighted her, not merely to enjoy the transient pleasure of snapping her fingers in his face.

There came news of the battle of Southwold Bay which, while it proved indecisive, cost much in men’s lives. Now the press-gangs were more rapacious, and mothers and wives were terrified when any able-bodied young man ventured into the streets. What was this war? it was asked. The English, sternly Protestant, were fighting Protestant Holland at the side of Catholic France. They were suffering great losses. For what reason? To spread the Catholic Faith across Europe. The King’s brother, commanding the Navy, was almost certainly a Catholic. The King’s favorite mistress was a Catholic. The King himself was so easygoing that he would adopt any faith if he were asked to do so prettily enough.

There were increasing scandals concerning the Court. That July, Barbara Castlemaine gave birth to a daughter whom she tried to foist on the King, but who everyone was sure was John Churchill’s child. In spite of Barbara’s importuning him, the King refused to acknowledge the girl.

Louise’s son was born the same month. He was called Charles. Louise insisted on the name, although the King mildly protested that this would be his fourth son named Charles, and he feared he might at times be wondering which was which.

“My Charles,” said Louise, “will be different from all the others.”

She was certain of this, and she was furious when she saw the youngest of the King’s Charleses—little Charles Beauclerk—amusing his father with his quaint manners which seemed to belong half to the Court and half to the slums of London.

Louise sighed over her Charles. He would be more handsome, more courtly than any. Only the greatest titles in the land would suit him.

“For I am different,” she told Charles. “I am not your mistress. I am your wife, and Queen of England. That is how I see myself.”

“As long as no others see it so, that is a happy enough state of affairs,” said the King.

“I see no reason why you should not have two wives, Charles. Are you not Defender of the Faith?”

“Defender of the faithless sometimes,” said Charles lightly. He was thinking of Barbara, who, since he had refused to acknowledge John Churchill’s child, was making demands on behalf of those whom he had already accepted. She wanted her Henry, who was nine years old, raised to the peerage without delay. Earl of Euston, she thought, should be the title for him; then he would be fit to marry my lord Arlington’s daughter, a charming little heiress. Charles had reminded her that her eldest was already Earl of Southampton, and young George was Lord George Fitzroy.

“I was never a woman to favor one child more than another,” said Barbara virtuously. “And what of poor dear Anne and Charlotte? I must ask you to allow them to bear the royal arms.”

Charles was beset on all sides.

Louise was less blatant in her demands than Barbara. But Charles knew that they would be no less insistent. Indeed, Louise’s schemes went deeper than those of Barbara ever had. The Queen was ill, and Louise’s small squinty eyes were alert.

It was not easy for her to hide her satisfaction as the Queen grew more languid. If the Queen died, Louise would get her little Charles legitimized at once through her marriage with the King. The little Breton girl, for whom it had been so difficult to find a place at the Court of France, would be the Queen of England.

Charles pointed out to Louise that he could not give her honors equal to those of Barbara’s, for she was still a subject of the King of France, and therefore not in a position to accept English titles, so Louise lost no time in appealing to Louis. She must become a subject of the King of England, for England was now her home. Louis hesitated for a while. He wondered whether the granting of her request might mean the relinquishing of his spy. Louise assured him through the ambassador that, no matter what nationality she took, her allegiance would always be to her native land.

Louise’s hopes were high. She believed she knew how to manage the King. She had shown him that she could bear his sons. She had all the graces which a queen should possess. And the Queen was sick. Once Louis had agreed to her naturalization she would be the possessor of noble titles, and with great titles went wealth. And she would never swerve from the main goal, which was to share the throne with Charles.

One of her minor irritations was the presence at Court of the orange-girl.

She suspected that the King often slipped away from her company to enjoy that of Nell Gwyn. He would declare he was tired, and retire to his apartments; but she knew that he slipped out of the Palace and climbed the garden wall to the house in Pall Mall.

Louise knew that she was often referred to as Squintabella because of the slight cast in her eye, and Weeping Willow because, when she wanted to make some request, she would do so sadly and with tears in her eyes. Both of these names had been given her by the saucy comedienne, who made no secret of the fact that she looked upon herself as Louise’s rival. To Nell Squintabella was no different from Moll Davies or Moll Knight or any low wench to be outwitted for the attentions of the King.

She would call to Louise if their carriages passed: “His Majesty is well, I rejoice to say. I never knew him in better form than he was last night.”

Louise would pretend not to hear.

All the same, Nell had her anxieties. Barbara’s children flaunted their honors; it was said that the King was only waiting for Louise’s naturalization to make her a Duchess; and meanwhile Nell remained plain Madam Gwyn with two little boys called Charles and James Beauclerk.

When the King called on her she indignantly asked him why others should find such favor in his sight while two of the most handsome boys in the kingdom were ignored.

Young Charles, now just about two years old, studied his father solemnly, and the older Charles felt uncomfortable under that steady stare.

He lifted the boy in his arms. Little Charles smiled cautiously. He was aware that his mother was angry, and he was not quite sure how he felt towards this man who was the cause of that anger. Little Charles looked forward to his father’s visits, but his merry mother, who laughed and jigged and sang for him, was the most wonderful person in his world, and he was not going to love even his fascinating father if he made his mother unhappy.

“Are you not glad to see me, Charles Beauclerk?” asked Charles Stuart. “Have you not a kiss for me?”

Little Charles looked at his mother.

“Tell him,” said Nell, “that you are as niggardly with your kisses for him as he is lavish with the honors he showers on others.”

“Oh, Nelly, I have to be cautious, you know.”

“Your Majesty was ever cautious with Madam Castlemaine, I understand. Those whom you fondly imagine to be your children—though none else does—are greatly honored. Yet for those who are undoubtedly your sons you have nothing but pleas of poverty.”

“All in good time,” said the harassed King. “I tell you this boy shall have as fine a title as any.”

“Such a fine title that it is too fine for the human eye to perceive, I doubt not!”

“This is indeed Nelly in a rage. Fighting for her cub, eh?”

“Aye,” said Nelly. “For yours too, my lord King.”

“I would have you understand that this is something I cannot do as yet. If you had been of gentle birth …”

“Like Prince Perkin’s mother?”

Charles could not help smiling at her nickname for Jemmy. He said: “Lucy died long ago, and Jemmy is a young man. There is plenty of time for this little Charles to grow up. Then I think he shall have as grand a title as any of his brothers.”

“Should his mother be so obliging as to die then,” cried Nell dramatically. “Shall I jump in the river? Shall I run a sword through my body?”

Young Charles, vaguely understanding, set up a wail of misery.

“Hush, hush,” soothed the King. “Your mother will not die. She but acts, my son.”

But young Charles would not be comforted. Nell snatched him from the King.

“Nay, nay, Charlie,” she said, “’Twas but a game. Papa was right. There’s naught to fret us but this: You are a Prince by your father’s elevation, but you have a whore to your mother for your humiliation.”

Then she laughed and jigged about the room with him until he was laughing and the King was laughing too.

He was so delighted that he could not resist promising Nell that he would think what he could do for the boy. And he remembered too that her sister Rose suffered from her poverty, and he would grant her the pension of one hundred pounds a year for which Nell had asked him on her behalf.

As for Nell herself, she did him so much good even when she scolded for her son’s sake that he would make her a countess, indeed he would.

“A countess,” said Nell, her eyes shining. “That would please me mightily. Young Charlie and Jamie, having a King for a father, should indeed have no less than a countess for a mother.”

The King wished he had been more discreet, but Nell went on: “I could be Countess of Plymouth. It is a title which someone will have ere long. Why should it not be Nelly? Barbara has done as well.”

“All in good time,” said the King uneasily.

But Nell was happy. Countess of Plymouth—and that meant honors for her boys. And why not? Indeed why not?

Nell did not become Countess of Plymouth. Boldly she had applied for the documents which would have staked her claim to this title, only to be told that these could not be supplied. The King told her that he had but been jesting when he had made the suggestion; he asked her to understand the state of the country. They were engaged in a war which was proving to be more costly than they had expected; the Dutch were determined not to lose their country; not content with opening the dykes and causing the utmost confusion to the invaders, young William of Orange, Stadholder and Captain-General, was a determined young man who seemed to be possessed of military genius.

“Who would have guessed this of that gauche young nephew of mine!” cried Charles. “Never will I forget his visit to my Court. A little fellow, pale of visage, afraid to dance lest it should make him breathless on account of his weak lungs. He was glum and I had to do something to rouse him, so I had Buckingham ply him with wine, and what do you think he did? Fall into a torpor? Not he! His true character came to the surface then. Before he could be prevented he had smashed the windows of those apartments which housed the maids of honor, so eager was he to get at them. ‘Dear nephew,’ I said, ‘it is customary at my Court to ask the ladies’ permission first. A dull English custom, you may doubtless think, but nevertheless one which I fear must be respected.’ Ah! I might have looked for greater depth in a young man who appeared so prim and whom his cups betrayed as a lecher. Then he was drunk with wine. Now he is drunk with ambition and the desire to save his country. Again we see that this nephew of mine can be a formidable young fellow indeed.”

“We talked of Plymouth, not of Orange,” Nell reminded him.

“Ah, we talked of Plymouth,” agreed the King. “Then let me explain that the war is costly. The people dislike the press-gang and the taxes; both of which are necessary to maintain our Navy. When the people are angry they look for someone on whom to vent their anger. They are asked for taxes, so they say, ‘Let the King pay taxes, let him spend less money on his women, and mayhap that will serve to supply the Navy.’ Nelly, I can do nothing yet. I swear to you that I shall not forget these sons of ours. I swear I shall not forget you.”

“Swearing comes easy to a gentleman,” said Nell, “and the King is the first gentleman in his country.”

“Nevertheless here is one promise I shall keep. You know my feelings for the boys. ’Twould be impossible not to love them. Nay, Nell, have patience. Come, make me laugh. For with the Dutch on one side and the French on the other and the Parliament at my heels I have need of light relief.”

Then Nell softened; for indeed she loved him, and she loved him for what he was, the kindest of men, though a maker of promises he could never keep; and she remembered too the words of my lord Rochester. She must soothe the King.

If she plagued him with her tongue, as Barbara had, she would drive him away. She, the little orange-girl and play-actress, had to be every bit as clever as the grande dame from France, who was her most formidable rival.

Charles was now very anxious. He did not believe that his subjects would continue to support the war. He knew that he must act. Louis had taken possession of large tracts of Holland and had even set up a Court at Utrecht; but Charles saw very clearly that, once he had beaten the Dutch, Louis would look for fresh conquests and that he would try to make his pensioner Charles, his slave.

He therefore planned to make a separate peace with Holland, doing all in his power to make them accept terms which would not displease Louis.

William of Orange was, after all, his nephew, and it was wrong, he declared, that there should be strife between them.

He decided to send two emissaries to Holland to sound young William; and he chose Arlington, one of the most able members of the Cabal, and the ebullient Buckingham of whom he still had great hopes. Moreover he wished to compensate poor George for his churlish refusal to allow him to take the troop abroad as its commander-in-chief.

He felt sure that twenty-year-old William would be ready enough to make peace on his terms. He did not ask a great deal; he wanted recognition of England’s claim to be saluted by all ships of any other nation; he wanted a subsidy of £200,000 for the cost of the war, he would ask for the control of the ports Sluys, Flushing, and Brill; a subsidy for herring fishing; new arrangements regarding English and Dutch trade in the East Indies; time enough for the English planters in Surinam to sell their effects and retire; and as William was his nephew he would help him to enjoy favorable conditions in his own country.

Buckingham, ever ready to undertake some new venture, was delighted to convey these terms to Orange.

He landed in Holland, the benign peacemaker, and he and Arlington were greeted with expressions of joy by the people, for these two were the Protestant members of the Cabal, and the Dutch had hopes that they were in truth on their side. Monmouth joined them, and all knew that the King’s natural son was a staunch Protestant even if only because his uncle, the heir presumptive to the throne, was suspected of Catholicism.

But the Princess-Dowager, Amalia, who was William’s grandmother and had always been a power in the land, did not trust the English emissaries, and she made this clear.

Arlington’s exuberance was quelled; Monmouth was silent; but Buckingham sought to assure her of their goodwill.

“We are good Hollanders, Your Highness,” he told the Princess.

She answered: “We would not ask so much of you, my lord Duke. We would only expect you to be good Englishmen.”

“Ah!” cried the irrepressible Buckingham. “We are not only good Englishmen but good Dutchmen. We do not use Holland like a mistress but like a wife.”

“Truly,” said the Princess, “I think you use Holland just as you do your wife.”

Buckingham could say nothing to that; he knew that she had heard that when he brought his mistress, Anna Shrewsbury, to his wife, and that poor wronged lady had protested that there was not room for her and Anna under the same roof, he had replied: “I had thought that, Madam. Therefore I have ordered your carriage.”

He felt therefore that he could not hope for a quick capitulation by the Princess, so he sought out young William over whom he imagined he would have an easy victory.

He remembered that it was in his apartments that William had become drunk during his stay in London. He remembered how difficult it had been to make the young man drink, for his opinions of wine seemed to be the same as those he had of gambling and the play; but he had managed it, and what fun it had been to see the solemn young Hollander smash the windows to get at the maids of honor! No! He did not foresee any great difficulty with young William.

“I rejoice to see Your Highness is in such good health,” cried Buckingham, and went on to tell William that the King of France had seen the terms set out by the King of England and agreed that, as Holland was a conquered country, they were fair indeed. “It is because of your uncle’s fondness for his sister who was your mother. His Majesty remembers that he promised his sister to keep an eye upon you. It is for this reason that, even though your country is a conquered one, His Majesty of England will insist that you shall be acclaimed King of Holland.”

This young man was quite different from the youth who had tried to storm the dormitory of the maids of honor. His cold face was alight with determination to drive the conquerors from his ravaged country.

He said coolly: “I prefer to remain Stadtholder, a condition which the States have bestowed upon me; and I—and all Dutchmen—do not consider we are a conquered people.”

“Your Highness would suffer not at all. You would be proclaimed King and accepted as such by France and England.”

“I believe myself bound in conscience and honor not to prefer my interests to my obligations.” The two Dutch statesmen who had accompanied him, Beverling and Van Beuning, nodded gravely, and William went on: “The English should be our allies against the French. Our countries are of one religion. What good would England reap were Holland to be made merely a province of France, myself a puppet—as I should certainly be—the French King’s puppet? Picture it, my friends. Holland ruled by Louis through me. What is Louis looking for? Conquest. Why, having secured my country he might conceivably turn to yours.”

“By God,” murmured Buckingham, “there is truth in what His Highness says.” The volatile Duke was immediately swayed to the side of the Dutchman. He saw a Catholic menace over England. He wanted to make new terms there and then which would make England and Holland allies against the French.

“But His Highness forgets,” said Arlington, “that his country is already conquered.”

“We in Holland do not accept that,” said William hastily.

“You have called a halt to Louis,” said Buckingham, “by flooding your land. But with the winter frosts it may well be laid open.”

William said firmly: “You do not know us Dutchmen. We are in great danger, but there is one way never to see our country lost and that is to die in the last dyke.”

There was no more to be said to such a fanatical idealist as this young Prince. It was vain to tell him that his ideals were part of his youth. William of Orange believed he had been selected to save his country.

Arlington, Buckingham, and Monmouth joined Louis’ encampment at Heeswick. New terms were submitted to Dutch William; again they were rejected.

Then news came that the states of Brandenburg, Lüneburg, and Minster, determined to stem the conquests of Catholic Louis, were about to join William of Orange in his fight against the invaders. Louis, having found the war had brought him little gain at great expense, decided to withdraw, and marched his armies back to Paris, and there was nothing for the English diplomats to do but return to England.

Louise was contented.

Buckingham had failed miserably. He had wasted a great deal of money—the account he put in for his expenses amounted to four thousand seven hundred and fifty-four pounds and a penny—and he had brought nothing but ridicule to his country.

With Arlington he was accused by the people of England of making this disastrous war with the Dutch.

Louise was not the only one in England who had decided to bring about the downfall of the Duke.

Charles could at last be proud of Monmouth. Whatever he had done at home, he had acquitted himself well abroad.

Charles liked to hear the account of how his son had fought at Brussels Gate. Beside him had marched Captain John Churchill, and it had been hard to say which of the two young men—Churchill or Monmouth—had been the braver.

“Only one man could pass at a time,” Charles was told by one who had witnessed the action. “We marched, swords in hand, to a barricade of the enemy’s. There was Monsieur d’Artagnan with his musqueteers, and very bravely these men carried themselves. Monsieur d’Artagnan did his best to persuade the Duke not to risk his life by attempting to lead his men through that passage, but my lord Duke would have none of his advice. Monsieur d’Artagnan was killed, but the Duke led his men with such bravery and such contempt for death as had rarely been seen. Many will tell Your Majesty that they never saw a braver or more brisk action.”

Jemmy came home, marching through the streets of London to Whitehall, and the people came out in their hundreds to see him pass.

He had grown older but no less handsome. There was a flush under his skin which made his eyes seem brighter and more lustrous. The women at the windows threw flowers to Monmouth, and the cry in the streets was: “Brave Jemmy’s come marching home.”

This was what he wanted. This acclaim. This glory.

And Charles saw with some anxiety that they were very ready to give it to this handsome boy—partly because he was handsome, partly because he was brave, but largely because the Duke of York was a Catholic and they had sworn that never again should a Catholic sit on the throne of England. Jemmy seemed more serious now, and Charles hoped his son might have realized it was better to jettison those dangerous ideas of his.

Jemmy had a new mistress—Eleanor Needham—who obsessed him. He was eager to found two packs of foxhounds at Charlton. His son—named Charles—was born, and the King himself with the Duke of York were godparents.

This was a happier way for a young man to conduct himself, thought the King. And the looks he bestowed on young Monmouth were very affectionate.

There were rumors throughout England that the Duke of York was about to remarry, and that the Princess chosen for him was Mary Beatrice, sister of the reigning Duke of Modena. The girl was young—she was fourteen—beautiful, and seemed capable of bearing children. There was one thing against her: She was a Catholic.

This marriage had caused Louise a great deal of anxiety. Since she had left for England, Louis had given her three main tasks. She was to work for an alliance with France against Holland, make Charles give a public profession of the Catholic Faith, and bring about a match between the Duke of York and a Princess of Louis’ choice.

Louis’ choice was the widow of the Duc de Guise, who was worthy, being Elizabeth d’Orléans before her marriage, second daughter of Gaston, brother of Louis XIII. Louise had stressed to Charles and James the advantage of this match, but she was clever enough to know that she must not work too openly for France.

The Duke of York, in remorse on the death of his wife, had given up his mistress, Arabella Churchill, but he had almost immediately formed an attachment with Catharine Sedley, Sir Charles Sedley’s daughter. Catharine was no beauty but, as his brother had said, it was as though James’ mistresses were chosen for him by his priest as a penance. But James had perversely decided that although he would forgo beauty in a mistress, he would not in a wife, and that Madame de Guise, no longer young and beautiful, would not suit him. So failing a French wife, Louise was ready to support the choice of Mary Beatrice since she was a Catholic, and a Catholic Duchess of York would certainly be no hindrance to one of her main duties—the bringing about of that open profession of the King’s acceptance of the Catholic Faith.

Louise felt therefore that, although she had failed to persuade the King and his brother to take Madame de Guise, she had not altogether displeased the King of France by throwing in her support for the marriage with Mary Beatrice, particularly as there was a great deal of opposition throughout the country to a Catholic alliance for the Duke.

A new wave of anti-Catholic feeling was spreading over England. It was long since fires had burned at Smithfield, but there were people still living who remembered echoes of those days.

“No popery!” shouted the people in the streets.

Louise had as yet failed to obtain any promise from Charles as to when he would declare himself a Catholic. He had, however, abolished certain laws against the Catholics. He wanted toleration in religious matters, he declared. But many of his subjects were demanding to know whether he had forgotten what happened to English sailors who fell into the hands of the Inquisition. Had he forgotten the diabolical plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament in his grandfather’s reign? The King, it was said, was too easygoing; and that with his brother a Catholic, and the French mistress at his ear, he was ready to pay any price for peace.

“If the Pope gets his big toe into England,” declared Sir John Knight to the Commons, “all his body will follow.”

The House of Commons then asked Charles to revoke his Declaration of Indulgence. To this Charles replied that he did not pretend to suspend any laws wherein the properties, rights, or liberties of his subjects were involved, or to alter anything in the doctrine or discipline of the Church of England, but only to take off the penalties inflicted on dissenters.

The Commons’ reply was to resolve not to pass the money bill until there was a revocation of the Liberty of Consciences Act.

Then Charles, finding both Houses against him, had no alternative but to give his assent to the Test Act, which required all officers, civil or military, to receive the sacrament according to the rites of the Church of England, and to make a declaration against transubstantiation.

Having done this, he immediately sought out James.

“James,” he said, “I fear now you must make a decision. I trust it will be the right one.”

“’Tis this matter of the Test Act?” asked James. “Is that what puts the furrow in your brow, brother?”

“Aye; and if you were possessed of good sense it need be neither in mine nor yours. James, you must take the sacrament according to the rites of the Church of England. You must take the Oath of Supremacy and declare against transubstantiation.”

“I could not do that,” said James.

“You will have to change your views,” said Charles grimly.

“A point of view is something we must have whether we want it or not.”

“Wise men keep such matters to themselves.”

“Men wise in spiritual matters would never enter a holy place and commit sacrilege.”

“James, you take yourself too seriously in some ways—not seriously enough in others. Listen to me, brother. I am past forty. I have not one legitimate child. You are my brother. Your daughters are heiresses to the throne. You are to marry a young girl ere long, and I doubt not she will give you sons. If you want to run your own foolish head into danger, what of their future?”

“No good ever grew out of evil,” said James firmly.

“James, have done with good and evil. Ponder on sound sense. You will come to Church with me tomorrow and by my side you will do all that is expected of you.”

James shook his head.

“They’ll not accept you, James,” insisted Charles, “they’ll not have a Catholic heir.”

“If it is God’s will that I lose the throne, then lose it I must. I choose between the approval of the people and that of God.”

“The approval of the people is a good thing for a King to have—and even more important for one who hopes to be King. But that is for the future. You have forgotten, my lord High Admiral, that all officers, under the Test Act which I have been forced to bring back, must receive the sacrament according to Church of England rites, make a declaration against transubstantiation, and take the Oath of Supremacy. Come, brother, can you not take me as head of your Church? Or must it be the Pope?”

“I can only do what my conscience bids me.”

“James, think of your future.”

“I do … my future in the life to come.”

“The life here on Earth could be a good one for you, James, were you to bring a little good sense to the living of it.”

“I would not perjure my soul for a hundred kingdoms.”

“And your soul is more important to you than your daughters’ future, than the future of the sons you may have with this new wife?”

“Mary and Anne have been brought up as Protestants. You asked for that concession and I gave it.”

“My solicitude was for your daughters, James. Has it ever occurred to you that if I die childless, and if you have no sons, one or both of those girls could be Queens of England?”

“It has, of course.”

“And you jeopardize their future for a whim!”

“A whim! You call a man’s religion a whim?”

Charles sighed wearily. “You could never give up your post as Commander of the Navy. You love the Navy. You have done much to make it what it is this day. You’d never give up that, James.”

“So they are demanding that?” said James bitterly.

“It has not been mentioned, but it is implied. Indeed how could it be otherwise? Indeed, James, I fear your enemies are at the bottom of the desire to have this revocation of the Declaration for the Liberty of Consciences.”

“Who would take my place?”

“Rupert.”

“Rupert! He is no great sailor.”

“The people would rather a Protestant leader who knew not how to lead their Navy, than a Catholic one who did. People are as fierce in their religion—one against the other—as they were in our grandfather’s day.”

“You constantly remind me of our grandfather.”

“A great King, James. Remember his word, ‘Paris is worth a Mass.’”

James opened his candid eyes very wide. “But that was different, brother. He … a Huguenot … became a Catholic. He came out of error into truth.”

Charles gave his brother his melancholy smile. He knew that he had lost his Lord High Admiral.

It was a misty November day when the royal barges sailed down the Thames to meet James and his new bride recently come from Dover. The people crowded the banks of the river to see the meeting between the royal barges and those which were bringing the bridal party to London. There was still a great deal of murmuring about this marriage. A strong body of opinion—set up by Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury—had declared firmly against it. Charles had been petitioned by this party in the Commons to send to Paris at once and stop the Princess from coming to England to consummate her marriage.

“I could not in honor dissolve a marriage which has been solemnly executed,” said Charles.

In a fury of indignation the Commons asked the King to appoint a day of fasting, that God might be asked to avert the dangers with which the nation was threatened.

“I could not withhold my permission for you gentlemen to fast as long as you wish,” was the King’s reply.

It was unfortunate that the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot should have fallen at this time. When the feeling against Catholicism ran high, the ceremony of burning Guy Fawkes was carried out with greater zest than usual, and that year Guy Fawkes’ Day was watched with great anxiety by the King and his brother. They feared that the burning of the effigies of Guy Fawkes, the Pope, and the devil would develop into rioting.

Arlington suggested then, since the King would not prevent the departure of the Princess of Modena from Paris, he might insist that, after his marriage, James and his new bride should retire from the Court and settle some distance from London, where he might enjoy the life of a country gentleman.

“Your suggestions interest me,” said the King. “But the first is incompatible with my honor, and the second would be an indignity to my brother.”

So Mary Beatrice of Modena had with regret left the shores of France where she had been treated with great kindness by many people in high places.

The young girl was terrified of her new husband. He was forty, and that seemed a great age. She had implored her aunt to marry the Duke of York, instead of her; she would be quite happy, she had declared, to go into a convent; any life would seem better to her than that which included marriage to a man, old enough to be her father, who had a reputation for keeping as many mistresses as his brother.

She was a lovely child; she resembled her mother who had been Laura Martinozzi, a niece of Cardinal Mazarin, and, like all the ladies of that family, noted for her beauty. But to be fourteen and torn from her home to start life in a new country with a man who seemed so old, was a terrifying experience, and she was too young not to show her repugnance.

James was fully aware of what his young bride’s feelings might be and was determined to do all in his power to put her at ease.

He was on the shore at Dover to greet her in person, and he was touched when he saw her, for her youth reminded him of his own daughter Mary, who was not much younger than this child who had left her home and all she loved to come to a new country to be his wife. He took her into his arms and embraced her warmly. But Mary Beatrice had taken one horrified look at her husband and burst into tears.

James was not angry; he could only find it in his kindly nature to be sorry for her. He assured her that although he was old and feared he must seem mighty ugly to one so young and fresh and beautiful, she had nought to fear, as it would be his delight to love and honor her all the days of their lives.

He was fervently wishing that he had Charles’ easy manner, which he was sure would quickly have put the child at ease.

But James’ gaucheries were balanced by his gentle kindness, and he decided that until the child had grown accustomed to his company he would not force himself upon her.

“I would not add to your fears,” he soothed her. “I think of my little Mary and Anne.”

They set out from Dover, and the bride was glad that her mother and the Prince Rinaldo d’Esté travelled with them. They journeyed by slow stages to Canterbury, Rochester, and Gravesend, and the people came out of their houses to watch. The little girl charmed them so much that they were astonished to think that she might bring evil into their country.

At Gravesend they embarked and sailed to meet the royal barges. When they met these James took his bride to meet the King.

Charles was surrounded by the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. The Queen was there, ready to be tender and kind, remembering her own coming into this land to marry the most fascinating of kings only to discover that he was far from faultless, and to learn that it was impossible to fall out of love with him. Louise was beside the King, less flamboyantly dressed than most, yet seeming to be more richly clad; less heavily jeweled so that each jewel which adorned her person seemed to glow with a special luster. It was this lady whom Mary Beatrice took to be the Queen. Louise held herself like a queen, thought of herself as a queen. She had recently become naturalized and this meant that she had been able to accept the titles and estates with which the King had been pleased to endow her. She had now several resounding titles—Baroness Petersfield, Countess of Fareham and Duchess of Portsmouth. She was a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber. She was, in all but name, the Queen of England. Nor did she despair of being entirely so. Her small eyes rested often on the pallid face of the Queen. She hoped the lady would not live long, for indeed what joy could there be in life for one such as Catherine of Braganza who could not adapt herself to her husband’s Court? She could surely have no great wish to live. The Queen’s death was what Louise ardently desired, for she knew the King would never divorce his wife. Louise had discovered something about Charles. Easygoing as he was, ready to make promises to all, once he made up his mind that he would take a firm stand on some point, he was the most obstinate man in the world. She must be continually grateful for his indulgence, but infatuated as she had managed to keep him, she did not forget that all others had a share in that indulgence—Catherine, the Queen, no less than any other. And if the King’s desire was fixed on Louise, his pity went to Catherine his wife.

Mary Beatrice was aware of other ladies and gentlemen. She noticed beautiful Anna Shrewsbury with the Duke of Buckingham, and Lord Rochester, that handsomest of all courtiers, although debauchery was beginning to mar his good looks; and close to him a lively and pretty creature with chestnut curls and bright tawny, mischievous eyes, most flamboyantly dressed, and attracting the attention of everyone. Even the King’s eyes strayed often towards her. Her name, it seemed, was Madam Gwyn. There were gentlemen whose names she had heard mentioned with that of the King: Earl of Carbery, Earl of Dorset, Sir George Etherege, Earl of Sheffield, Sir Charles Sedley, Sir Carr Scrope.

Then Mary Beatrice was aware of a pair of dark eyes watching her intently. She fell to her knees and she was raised by the King’s elegant hands, and he, looking into her face, saw the too-brilliant eyes which suggested tears, noted the trembling lips.

“Why,” he said in that gentlest and most musical of voices, “my little sister. I am mighty glad to see you here. You and I shall be friends.”

Mary Beatrice put her hands in his. She did not care that he was the King; she only knew that his words, his smile, his infinite charm made her feel happy and no longer afraid.

The King kept a hold on her hand, and she felt that while he held it thus she could be almost pleased that she had come.

He kept her beside him during the festivities. He implied that he would be her special friend until she felt quite at home in her new country. He told her that she reminded him of her kinswoman, Hortense Mancini—one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in the whole of his life. He had wanted to marry Hortense, but her uncle had put his foot down. “In those days I was a wandering exile. No good match at all. But I never forgot beautiful Hortense, and you remind me of her … with pleasure … with the utmost pleasure.”

She was beside him as they sailed to Whitehall. She heard the people acclaim him from the banks, and she knew that they all loved him, that they felt that irresistible charm even as she did.

He pointed out his Palace of Whitehall whither they were bound.

She was relieved to stand beside him. Her mother was delighted to see the King’s easy affability towards her daughter, delighted to see the lightening of her daughter’s spirits.

The courtiers watched them.

“Am I mistaken?” drawled Rochester. “Is it Charles who is bridegroom or is it James?”

“His Majesty but puts the child at ease,” said Nell.

“James has tried to do so,” said Buckingham, “without success. Alas, poor James! It strikes me that in all things our gracious sovereign could, if he would; and his brother would, if he could.”

Louise had strolled towards them. She glanced with some amusement at Nell’s brilliantly colored gown.

Nell’s eyes smoldered. It was galling to be reminded, every time she saw the woman, that she was now the Duchess of Portsmouth while her young Charles and James were merely surnamed Beauclerk and she was plain Madam Gwyn. The Duchess thought Nell scarcely worthy of notice. Yet she was kindly condescending.

“You are grown rich, it would seem by your dress,” she said lightly. “You look fine enough to be a queen.”

Nell cried: “You are entirely right, Madam. And I am whore enough to be a duchess.”

The Duchess passed on; the laughter of Nell, Buckingham, and Rochester followed her.

Louise’s face betrayed nothing. She was thinking that Rochester was a fool, continually banished from Court on account of his scurrilous attacks on all, including the King; his debauchery would soon carry him to the grave; there was no need to think of him. As for the orange-girl, let her remain—buffoon that she was. Moreover, the King delighted in her and would be stubborn if it were suggested she be removed; Nell Gwyn’s attack was with words, an art in which Louise could not compete with her. Those quips never rose easily to Louise’s lips even in her own language. But there was one who should soon feel the full weight of her displeasure. My lord Buckingham should not have long to flaunt his power if she could help it.

The Duke of Monmouth was delighted with the marriage of the Duke of York.

“There is nothing he could have done,” he told his cronies, “which could have pleased me more. The people are incensed. And do you blame them? My uncle is a fool if he thinks he can bring popery into England.”

He was told that Ross, his old governor, wished to see him; and when Ross was admitted to him it was clear that the fellow had something to say which was for his ear alone.

Monmouth lost no time in taking the man to a place where they could speak privately. Ross was looking at him with that admiration which Mon-mouth was accustomed to see in many eyes.

“For this moment,” said Ross, “I would but ask to look at Your Grace. I remember when you were a little fellow—the brightest, handsomest little fellow that ever came under my charge. It does me good to see Your Grace enjoying such fine health.”

Monmouth was indulgent. He loved praise. “Pray continue,” he said.

“There is but one thing which irks me concerning Your Grace.”

“The bend sinister?” Monmouth prompted.

“’Tis so. What a King you would make! How those people down there would line the streets and cheer, if only you were James, Prince of Wales, instead of James, Duke of Monmouth.”

“Just a ceremony … just a signature on a document …” muttered Monmouth.

“And for that a country loses the best King it could ever have.” “You did not come merely to tell me this, Ross.”

“Nay, my lord. When I watched you on your horse or learning how to use your sword, I used to let myself imagine that one day the King would acknowledge you as his legitimate son. I used to see it all so clearly … His Majesty sending for you when you were a year or so older … and that came true. His Majesty bearing great love for you … and that came true also. His Majesty declaring that in truth he had married your mother and that you would inherit the crown.”

“And that did not come true,” said Monmouth bitterly.

“It might yet … my lord.”

“How so?”

“I feel in my heart that there was a ceremony between your father and Lucy Walter.”

“My father says there was not, and I verily believe that since the Portuguese woman is barren he would most happily acknowledge me as his son if his conscience would let him.”

“The consciences of kings often serve expediency … saving your royal presence.”

“You mean my father would deny a marriage which had taken place. But why so?”

“Why so, my lord? Your mother was … again I crave pardon … a woman who took many lovers. She was not of state to marry with a king. Your father was young at the time—but eighteen—and young men of eighteen commit their indiscretions. She who was worthy to be a wife to an exiled prince, might not be owned by a reigning king.”

“You know something, Ross. You are suggesting that my father was married to my mother.”

“I asked Cosin, Bishop of Durham, to give me the marriage lines.” Ross smiled slyly. “He could have had them. He was chaplain at the Louvre for those who belonged to the Church of England at the time of the association.”

“Ross, you are a good fellow. What says he?”

“He insisted that there were no marriage lines. He asked me indignantly if I were suggesting that he should forge them.”

“And … now he has promised to produce them?”

“He is dead.”

“Then what good is he?”

Ross smiled slowly. “Friends of mine—and yours—are ready to swear that, as he died, he murmured of a black box which contained marriage lines proving that Lucy Walter was the wife of your father.”

“Ross, you are the best friend a man ever had …”

“I looked on you as my son when I became your governor in the house of my lord Croft. There is nothing I would not do to give you your heart’s desire.”

“I thank you, Ross; I thank you. But my father lives … What will he say of this … black box?”

Ross was silent for a while; then he said: “The King, your father, loves you. The country does not want a Catholic King. The Duke of York, in giving up his post as Lord High Admiral, has exposed himself as a Papist. Now there is this marriage. The King loves peace … He loves peace more than truth. He loves you. He loves all his children, but everyone knows that his favorite is his eldest son. It may be that he—and I, feeling as a father towards you, understand his feelings—would accept this tale of the black box for love of you and for love of peace.”

Monmouth embraced his old governor.

“Man,” he said, “you are my good friend. Never shall I forget it.”

Ross fell on his knees and kissed the Duke’s hands.

“Long live the Prince of Wales!” he said.

Monmouth did not speak; his dark eyes glittered; he could hear the shouts of the people, feel the crown on his head.

Rumor was raging through London as fiercely as, a few years before, the fire had raged—and, said some, as dangerously.

The King was married to Lucy Walter. The Bishop of Durham died speaking of a black box … a black box which contained the fateful papers, the papers which would one day place the crown on the head of the Protestant Duke of Monmouth.

“But where is the black box?” asked some. “Will it not be necessary to produce it?”

“It is in the interest of many to keep it hidden. The Duke of York’s men will swear that it has no existence.”

The country was Protestant and so hated the idea of a Catholic King. As for the wildness of young Monmouth, they would be ready to forget that. It was remembered only that he was young, handsome, and had acquitted himself with valor in the wars, that he was a Protestant and son of King Charles.

Monmouth awaited his father’s reactions. He could not be sure what went on behind those brooding, cynical, and often melancholy eyes.

He had asked to be formally acknowledged as the head of the Army.

Meeting his uncle, he told him so. James, unable to hide his feelings concerning this nephew of his, knowing of the rumors which were abroad, gruffly told him that he thought he lacked the experience for the post.

“It could not go to you, my lord,” said Monmouth with a smile. “You are disqualified under the Test Act. You know that all officers of the military services or civil ones must conform to the rites of the Church of England.”

“I know this well,” said James. “But your present position gives you as much power as you need.”

“I am sorry I have not your friendship and support,” Monmouth retorted sullenly.

James flushed hotly. “Indeed you are not sorry.”

Then he left his nephew.

Monmouth sent for his servant, Vernon.

“Vernon,” he said, “go to the clerks who are drawing up the documents which will proclaim me head of the Army. I have seen how these will be worded. The title of head of the armed forces is to go to The King’s natural son. Vernon, I want you to tell the clerks that you have had orders to scratch out the word ‘natural’ if it has been already put in; and if the papers are not completed let it be that the phrase reads: ‘The King’s son, James, Duke of Monmouth.’”

Monmouth fancied that Vernon’s bow was a little more respectful than usual. Vernon believed he was in the presence of the heir to the throne.

James, Duke of York, was with his brother when the papers were put before the King. James took them from the messenger and looked sadly at them.

Charles was carelessly fond where his emotions were involved. Many believed, though, that Monmouth would do well in the Army. He had the presence, the confidence for it. Moreover his handsome looks and likeness to the King made people fond of him.

He spread the papers out on a table.

“Your signature is wanted here, Charles,” he said.

Charles sat down and, as his eyes ran over the papers, the blood rushed into James’ head.

He pointed to an erasure. The word “natural” had been removed.

“Brother!” said James, his face stricken. “What means this?”

Charles stared at the paper in astonishment.

“It is so then,” said James. “This talk of the black box is no rumor. You admit that a marriage took place between you and Lucy Walter?”

“There is no truth in that rumor,” said Charles. He called the man who had brought it to the chamber.

“Who commanded that that word should be erased?” he asked.

“It was Vernon, the Duke of Monmouth’s man, Your Majesty.”

“I pray you bring me a knife,” said Charles, and when it was brought he cut the paper into several pieces.

“It will have to be rewritten,” he said. “When that is done, I shall sign the paper giving my natural son the command of the Army.”

Later that day, when he was surrounded by courtiers, ladies, and men from the Parliament, he said in a loud voice: “There have been rumors afoot of late which displease me. There are some who talk of a mysterious black box. I have never seen such a black box and I do not believe it exists’ outside the imagination of some people. What is more important, I have never seen what that box is reputed to contain, and I know—who could know better?— that these documents never were in existence. The Duke of Monmouth is my very dear son, but he is my natural son. I say here and now that I never married his mother. I would rather see my dear son—my bastard son, Monmouth—hanged at Tyburn than I would give support to the lie which says he is my legitimate son.”

There was silence throughout the hall.

Monmouth’s face was black with rage. But the King was smiling as he signed for the musicians to begin to play.

Louise, walking in the gardens of Whitehall Palace, came upon the newly created Earl of Danby and graciously detained him. She had decided that the two men who could be of most use to her were Danby and Arlington. She had been eager to bring about the disgrace of Buckingham ever since he had humiliated her at Dieppe, but her nature was a cold one and she cared more for consolidating her position at Court and amassing wealth than for revenge.

Danby, it seemed to her, must be her ally if she were to enrich herself as she intended to, for Danby was a wizard with finance and it was into his hands that the King would place the exchequer.

Much as Louise delighted in her title of Duchess, there was one thing that was more important than any English title. It was at the French Court that she had suffered her deep humiliation, and one of her most cherished dreams was that one day she would return there to receive all that respect which had been denied her in the past. She would rather have a tabouret at the Court of Versailles, on which she would be permitted to sit in the presence of the Queen, than any English honors. The ducal fief of Aubigny had reverted to the crown on the death of the Duke of Richmond, on whose family it had been bestowed by a King of France as far back as the early part of the fifteenth century. Louise’s acquisitive mind had already decided that she must be granted the title of Duchesse d’Aubigny—for with it went the tabouret—and she would need Charles’ help to plead with Louis for the title; and if the pleas of a man who was rising, as Danby surely would, were added to that of the King, it would be helpful, for Louis would be pleased to grant favors to those who held influential positions at the English Court.

Arlington was ready to turn against Buckingham. Together they had supported the Dutch war, and together they had sought to make peace. The country was saying that both these activities had been conducted with incompetence and inefficiency. Therefore a man such as Arlington, to save himself, would be ready to throw the larger share of blame on his companion in misfortune. Buckingham had already done his best to weaken Arlington’s position by trying to persuade the King not to proceed with the proposed marriage between Arlington’s girl, Isabella, and Barbara’s son, the Duke of Grafton. He had held out a better match as bait—the Percy heiress—and Arlington was furious at Buckingham’s attempt to spoil the linking of his family with the royal one.

But Louise felt that Danby was the man who could help her most. He was quiet, a man who would be happy to work in secret, and he had come to his present place by quiet determination, working by devious ways towards his goal. If he lacked altogether the brilliance of Buckingham, he also lacked the Duke’s folly which was ready to trip him at every step. As Sir Thomas Osborne, Danby had come to London when he was made member for York. He had first come to notice when he was appointed commissioner for examining public accounts some seven years before. Since then his rise had been rapid. He had been Treasurer of the Navy, Privy Councillor, and, with the reinstatement of the Test Act and the banishment of Clifford, he had become Lord High Treasurer.

Louise believed that he would rise to even greater power. She feared him. He founded his policy, she had heard, on the Protestant interest and thus he was opposed to the French. This meant that she and he must necessarily be in opposite camps. Yet at this point their interests were similar. Buckingham was to blame for the alliance with France and the Dutch war. Buckingham was even suspected of having Catholic interests, for he had received many costly presents from Louis Quatorze, and all knew that Louis did not give his presents for nothing.

Therefore she and Danby, who it would seem must follow diametrically different courses, could meet in one desire: to see the downfall of Buckingham. And Louise, ever fearful that she would fail to mold the King of England in the manner desired by the King of France, was ready to go to great lengths to secure the friendship of men whose animosity could ruin her. Her great dread was that she should be sent back to France without her tabouret—back to humiliation and obscurity.

“I trust I see you well, my lord Treasurer,” said Louise.

“As I trust I see Your Grace.”

Louise took a step nearer to him and lifted her eyes to his face. “You have heard the sad news of your predecessor?”

“My lord Clifford?”

Louise nodded. “He has grieved greatly since he resigned his post in accordance with the Test Act. He died—some say by his own hand.”

Danby caught his breath. It was into Clifford’s shoes that he had stepped. Was she warning him that a man held a high position one day and was brought low the next? He was bewildered. He could not believe that he could ally himself with the King’s Catholic mistress. Was she suggesting this?

She smiled charmingly, and said in her quaint English: “There are disagreements between us, my lord Treasurer, but as we are both near the King, should we allow these to make us the enemies?”

“I should be sad if I thought I were Your Grace’s enemy,” said Danby.

Louise laid her hand very briefly on his sleeve. It was almost a coquettish gesture. “Then from now on I shall hope that we are friends? Please to call on me when you have the wish.”

Danby bowed and Louise passed on.

Shaftesbury had been dismissed. Clifford was dead. The Commons declared that the remaining members of the Cabal—Lauderdale, Arlington, and Buckingham—were a triumvirate of iniquity.

The result of the Cabal’s administration was an unchristian war with Holland and an imprudent league with France. Protestant England had put herself on the side of Catholic France against a country which, entirely Protestant, should have been an ally. The King had been traitorously ensnared by pernicious practices.

Charles remained aloof. He could not disclose the clauses of the secret Treaty of Dover; he could not come to the rescue of his politicians by explaining that it had been necessary at one time to accept bribes from France in order to save England from bankruptcy. That clause in the treaty, referring to his conversion to Catholicism to be proclaimed at an appropriate moment, meant that it must never be disclosed while he lived.

If he attempted to defend his ministers, he could plunge his country into disaster.

He could only look on with the melancholy smile which came to his lips at times such as these, and await results. He could not regret the replacement of Clifford by Danby; Danby, juggling with figures, was beginning to balance accounts as they never had been balanced before.

So Lauderdale was indicted; Arlington followed; and Buckingham’s turn came.

He was called to defend himself, which he did in person and, as ever being unable to control his tongue, answered questions put to him in his jaunty, witty, and fearless way. He spoke long of the misfortunes which had occurred during his administration of the Cabal, but declared that he felt it his duty to remind the assembly that this was not so much due to the administration as to those in authority over it.

He could not resist adding: “I can hunt the hare with a pack of hounds, gentlemen, but not with a brace of lobsters.”

As this last epithet was flung at the King and the Duke of York, it was hardly likely that the reckless Buckingham would receive much sympathy in the only quarter from which at this time he could have hoped for it. Yet it was typical of the Duke that he would fling away years of ambition and all his bright hopes for the future for the sake of giving his tongue full play.

The result of this investigation was that Buckingham was dismissed, and the people clamored for peace with Holland. The clever young Prince of Holland asked for the hand of Mary, eldest daughter of the Duke of York, who, should the King and his brother fail to produce further offspring, would one day inherit the crown.

Louise was flung into a panic by this suggestion. She knew that she must exert all her influence with Charles to have it quashed. Louis would consider she had indeed failed in her duty if there was a marriage between Holland and England.

She talked to Charles. He was noncommittal. Easygoing as he always was, he was quick to sense the temper of the people. And the dissatisfaction with the Cabal had given rise to much murmuring among the people who knew that the King was involved, even as were his ministers. Charles wished to please those he favored, but not to the extent of angering his people against him.

Terrified that she would cease to find favor with Charles, picturing Louis’ indifference if she returned humiliated to France, Louise turned in panic to Danby. She was ready to do anything—just anything—for a strong man who would help her hold her position at this difficult time.

Buckingham’s health collapsed rapidly. He suffered, said his doctors, more from fever of the mind than of the body.

Louise, watching, knew that the Duke had too many enemies for her to worry greatly about bringing about his downfall. Moreover she had more immediate troubles of her own.

A few days after he had suffered his ordeal and while he was a very sick man, the guardians of the fifteen-year-old son of Anna Shrewsbury arranged that the boy should bring a charge against Buckingham of the murder of his father and the public debauchery of his mother.

As the death of Shrewsbury had occurred six years before, and almost every man at Court was living in open adultery, this was dearly yet another of his enemies’ moves to destroy the Duke.

He was aware that temporarily he was a defeated man, and he obtained absolution from the House of Lords only on paying a heavy fine, and promising never to cohabit with Lady Shrewsbury again.

The greatest of his troubles then was the knowledge that, now he was a defeated man, Anna Shrewsbury was finished with him. She had been faithful to him for many years, and had even been known as the Duchess of Buckingham, while Buckingham’s wife had been called the Dowager-Duchess. Their relationship had seemed as though it would go on forever.

Now he knew that she too had deserted him—for had she not done so, nothing would have kept her away from him nor him from her—he was as low as he had ever been. Charles, no doubt finding it impossible to forgive the reckless Duke for referring to him and his brother publicly as lobsters, deprived him of the Mastership of the Horse. There was one waiting to receive it whose handsome looks would well become it: the Duke of Monmouth.

So Buckingham retired from Court. But his exuberant spirits would not let him stay long in exile. Little Lord Shaftesbury (who as Ashley had been a member of the Cabal and was now the leading light of the Opposition and secretly intriguing to legitimize Monmouth) made friendly advances; and Buckingham was already planning his return.

Louise had not betrayed by one glance how delighted she was in the Duke’s misfortune.

But Nell knew it—although she knew nothing of politics—and decided that, since Louise was the enemy of the fallen Buckingham, she would be his friend.