Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

NINE

Terror swept over England. No one was safe from the accusations of Titus Oates. The Queen herself was in danger. As for Louise, the lampoons which the Whigs had been accustomed to pass round the coffeehouses were replaced by demands that she be brought to trial or sent back to France.

The King, hating trouble and realizing as few others did that Titus Oates was a rogue and a liar, did all in his power to keep himself aloof from the troubles. He dared not expose Titus; he dared not attempt to prevent the cruel executions which were taking place, for he knew that revolution was in the air and that he was in as dangerous a position as his father had been before he had laid his head on the block.

Louise was now known as the “Catholic whore.” No sin was too black to be imputed to her. She trembled in her apartments and played with the idea of abandoning all she had worked for and slipping back to France.

Nell, on the other hand, was unaware of danger. The King seemed fonder of her than ever before. She wept now and then because Lord Beau-clerk was in France, and thus her happiness could not be complete. Since the birth of her children her thoughts had been occupied with them almost to the exclusion of all else. Nell wanted to have the King and her sons with her, like any cozy family; then she could be happy. Plots whirled about her, but she was scarcely aware of them. Her so-called friend, Lady Harvey, had recently tried to bring to the notice of the King a lovely girl named Jenny Middleton. Lady Harvey—urged by her brother Montague—had sought Nell’s help in bringing this girl to the King’s notice, and Nell, her mind being taken up with her grief in the absence of my lord Beauclerk and the promotion of my lord Burford to a dukedom, had been quite unaware of Lady Harvey’s intention of bringing to the King’s notice one who would turn him from Nell herself.

The Middleton affair had collapsed unexpectedly when Montague, its instigator, who was suspected of being Jenny Middleton’s father, was recalled to England. He was in deep disgrace because he had seduced Anne, Countess of Sussex (the young daughter of the King and Barbara) while they were both in France. As Montague had previously been Barbara’s lover, Barbara was furious with the pair and had lost no time in acquainting the King with Montague’s defection. The resulting disgrace of Montague meant that all connected with him were out of favor; thus the Middletons found it necessary to leave Court in a hurry; and Nell was safe. Only she herself was sublimely ignorant of the danger through which she had passed.

She was a Whig because her friends were Whigs. Buckingham and Rochester had been good to her, and Nell was the sort never to forget a friend. She was fond of Monmouth because he reminded her of her own little Charles, and he was her children’s half-brother. She always felt that she wanted to ruffle that black hair and tell Prince Perkin to enjoy himself and not worry so much about whether he would inherit a crown. He seemed to forget that, if he ever received it, it could only be at the death of that one who, Nell believed, must be as beloved by his son as he was by her—King Charles, the fount of all their bounties.

She enjoyed life as best she could taking into account the absence of little James. She had a bonfire on November 5th, just outside her door in Pall Mall, and there she had a Pope to burn with the longest red nose that had ever been seen. The people rejoiced, calling her the “Protestant whore.” And she was one of the few people at Court who was not in danger from Titus Oates.

Little Charles ran excitedly from the bonfire to his mother. He was throwing fireworks of such beauty that few had seen before.

“Now watch, good people,” cried Nell. “My lord Burford will throw a few crackers.”

So Lord Burford let off his fireworks and threw squibs at the long red nose of the burning Pope, and all the people about Nell’s door that night rejoiced in her position at Court. They remembered that those who were poor had no need to ask help twice from Nell Gwyn. “Long life to Nelly!” they cried.

Nell went into her house that night when the celebrations were over, and as she herself washed the grime from the little Earl’s face, he noticed that she was crying; and to see Nell cry was a rare thing.

He put his arms about her and said: “Mama, why do you cry?”

Then she hugged him. She said: “It has been a good day, has it not, my lord Earl? I was wondering what my lord Beauclerk was doing in the great French capital. And I was crying because he was not here with us.”

Little Lord Burford wiped away his mother’s tears. “I’ll never go,” he said. “Never … never. I’ll never go to France.”

The fury continued, and Charles temporized. He gave way to demands. He did all he could to save Danby, but was forced to submit to his imprisonment in the Tower. He found it necessary to dismiss the Duke of York and send him into temporary exile in Brussels. Louise, sick both mentally and physically, could not make up her mind whether or not to leave for France. Hortense continued to play basset and amuse herself with a lover. The people realized that Hortense should not give them cause for concern. It was Louise, the spy of Catholic France, who was the real enemy of the country.

There was talk of the Queen’s attempt to poison the King. Charles characteristically intervened and, although he would have welcomed a new wife and a chance to get a son which he felt would have solved most of his immediate troubles, gallantly stood by the Queen and saved her life.

Nell continued to receive the Whigs at her house. She was cheered wherever she went. People crowded into a goldsmith’s shop, where the goldsmith was making a very rich service of plate, admired this greatly and were pleased because they believed it was to be presented to Nell. When they discovered it was for Portsmouth, they cursed the Duchess and spat on the plate.

Nell was immersed in family affairs. Rose had married again on the death of John Cassels. This time her husband was Guy Forster, and Nell was working hard to get a bigger pension for Rose and her husband.

While Nell was at Windsor news came to her of her mother’s accident.

Madam Gwyn had moved to Sandford Manor where, at the bottom of her garden, was a stream which divided Fulham from Chelsea. One day she had wandered out to her garden and, well fortified with her favorite beverage, had slipped and fallen into the stream. It was a shallow brook but, being too drunk to lift herself out of it, she had lain facedown and drowned.

Nell hurried to London where Rose was waiting for her. They embraced and wept a little.

“’Tis not,” said Nell, “that she was a good mother to us, but she was the only mother we had.”

So Nell gave the old lady a fine funeral and many gathered in the streets to see it pass. Madam Gwyn was buried in St. Martin’s Church, and Nell ordered a monument to be erected over her grave.

Whigs and Tories gathered in the streets. The Whigs called attention to the virtues of Nell; the Tories jeered. There was a new spate of Tory lampoons on Nell’s upbringing in her mother’s bawdy-house.

Nell snapped her fingers and went back to Windsor to join the King.

Charles knew that he was passing through the most dangerous time of his life. As an exile he had longed to regain his kingdom, but then he had been young. Now he was aging; he had enjoyed almost twenty years of that kingdom, but he knew that if he did not walk with the utmost care he would lose it again; and he wondered whether, if he lost it, he would ever have the strength to recover it.

He tried to lead the life he loved—sauntering in his parks, his dogs at his heels, feeding his ducks, exchanging witty comments as he went. He sat for long hours fishing on the banks of the river at Windsor. He wished that he could prorogue Parliament and prevent its ever sitting again. If he had enough money with which to manage the affairs of the country, he believed he could rule in peace; he could put an end to this terror which hung over his country. He would demand freedom of thought in religious matters for all men. He saw no peace for any country when there was religious conflict. He wished to say: Think as you wish on these things, and let others go their way. He himself would never feel bound to any religion; he merely wished for freedom for all his subjects.

He wanted peace, and while Whig was at Tory’s throat, and vice versa, there would never be peace. Let a pleasure-loving man such as himself rule; let the people take their pleasures as he did; give him enough money to fit out a navy which would hold all enemies from his shores, and there would be peace and plenty throughout the land.

But this terror had come upon the country, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He was powerless in the hands of his Parliament; he was caught between the Whigs and Tories, the Protestants and the Catholics.

James had reproved him for wandering too freely in his parks alone. “Would his little spaniels protect him from an assassin’s bullet?” James demanded. “Do not worry on that score,” Charles had said. “They will never kill me to make you King.”

He had said it with a laugh, but there was a great sadness in his heart. He feared for James; he greatly feared for James.

Oh, James, he mused again and again, if you would but turn from your holy saints, if you would but declare yourself a Protestant, England would accept you as my successor, and young Jemmy’s nose would be out of joint. All this unrest would die down, for it flows out of the curse of this age—religious conflicts, and the curse of Kings: the inability to get sons.

He went to Nell for comfort.

Young Charles—my lord Burford, thought the King with a chuckle—came running to greet him.

“It is long since you have been to see me, Papa,” said Charles.

“’Tis but a few days.”

“It seems longer,” said the boy.

Charles ruffled the hair so like his own had been when he was a small boy roaming in the grounds of Hampton Court or lying on the banks at Greenwich watching the ships sail by.

“It was wrong of me.”

“You should pay a penalty for your sins, Father.”

“What would you suggest for me?”

“Stay all the time.”

“Ah, my son, that would be my pleasure, and penances are not for the pleasure of the sinner, you know. You and I will go to Portsmouth to watch the launching of one of my ships, shall we?”

Charles leaped into the air. “Yes, Papa. When? … When? …”

“Very soon … very soon … I’ll tell you something else. Ships have names, you know, just as boys have. What shall we call this one?”

Little Charles looked shyly at his father, waiting. “Charles?” he suggested.

“There are so many Charleses. Who shall say which is which? Nay, we’ll call her Burford.”

“Then she will be my ship?”

“Oh, no, my son. All those which bear our names do not necessarily belong to us. But the honor is yours. It will show the world how much I honor my son Burford. ’Twill make your mother dance a merry jig, I doubt not.”

“Shall we tell her?” asked small Charles with a laugh.

“Come! We’ll do so now.”

And hand in hand they went to find Nell.

Charles, determined to follow the old life as far as possible, gave up few of his pleasures. He could not stop the execution of the accused, though he had managed to save the Queen. The mob had allowed him that, for such was his charm that he had only to appear before them to subdue their anger, and he had gone in person to Somerset House to bring Catherine to Whitehall at the very time when the mob was howling for her blood. But he could not save others, for Titus Oates, it seemed, was King of London during those days of terror.

So he sauntered and fished and played games, as he had always done. He had forgotten that he was fifty, he had enjoyed such robust health that he seemed to have a notion that he always would.

He had played a hard game of tennis and, walking along by the river, he had taken off his wig and jacket to cool down.

This he had done effectively enough at the time, but when he went to bed that night he became delirious and his attendants hurried to his bedside, to find him in a high fever.

Shaftesbury, Buckingham, and the whole of the Parliament were filled with consternation. If Charles should die now, there could be no averting civil war. James would never stand aside, and, although Monmouth had his supporters, there were many who would die rather than see a bastard on the throne.

James’ friends sent word to Brussels, telling him that the King was on the point of death and that he should return immediately. James left Brussels at once, leaving Mary Beatrice there and taking with him only a few of his most trusted friends—Lord Peterborough, John Churchill, Colonel Legge, and his barber.

He dressed himself in simple dark clothes and wore a black periwig, so that on his arrival in England none would recognize him. This was very necessary, for with his brother, as he believed, dying, his life would be worth very little if he fell into the hands of his enemies.

James believed that a great ordeal lay before him and, as John Churchill advised him, it was imperative that he should be at hand when his brother died, that he might be proclaimed King before Monmouth could be helped to the throne. James was very sad. He was a sentimental man and very fond of every member of his family. It seemed a terrible thing that a Stuart should be forced to fly the country while his brother was reigning King. Time and time again Charles had said to him: “Give up your popery, James, and all will be well.” But, thought James, my spiritual well-being is of greater importance than what happens to me here on Earth.

He prayed and meditated on the future as he made the crossing in a French shallop, and when he arrived at Dover none knew that the Duke of York had come home.

Reaching London, he spent a night in the house of Sir Allen Apsley in St. James’ Square, and Sir Allen immediately brought his brother-in-law, Hyde, to him with Sidney Godolphin.

“It is necessary, Your Grace,” they told him, “to make all haste to Windsor where the King lies. He is a little better, we hear. But for the love of God ride there, and ride fast. As yet Monmouth and his followers know nothing of His Majesty’s indisposition.”

James set out for Windsor.

Charles’ barber was shaving him when James burst in.

He rushed to his brother and knelt at his feet.

“James!” cried Charles. “What do you here?”

“But you are yourself, brother. I had heard you were dying.”

“Nay, ’twas but a chill and touch of fever. The river breezes cooled me too quickly after tennis. And kneel not thus. Let me look at you. Why, James, did you think to find me a corpse and yourself a King?”

“Brother, I rejoice that it is not so.”

“I believe you, James. You have not the art of lying. And indeed you are wise to wish it at this time. I dare not think what would happen if I were so inconsiderate as to die now. I should leave the affairs of this country in a sorry state. Think of it, brother: The English persecute the Jesuits and they owe my life, and what is more their concern the peace of their country—if this present rule of Titus can be called peace—to the Jesuits’ powder, quinine. I swear this drug has cured me.”

He asked after Mary Beatrice and life in Brussels.

“’Tis a sorry thing that you must be an exile, James,” he said. “It would seem our family is cursed to be exiles. But, James, if you persist in acting as you have, and you should come to the throne, I’d not give you four years to hold it.”

“I would hold it,” said James, “were it mine.”

“You must leave the country ere it is discovered that you returned.”

“Brother, is it justice, I ask you, that I should be exiled? Monmouth remains here. You know that were it not for Monmouth there would not be this trouble. This illness of yours has brought home to me how dangerous it is for me to be so far away when Monmouth is so near.”

Charles smiled wryly. James was right. It was unhealthy to have Mon-mouth in England during the Popish terror. Monmouth should go to Holland where he had so distinguished himself against the Dutch; and Catholic James should go to Protestant Scotland. It might be that both these men—both dearly beloved, but both recognized as sadly foolish—should learn something they both needed to learn, against a background which should be alien to them.

Shaftesbury and his Whigs were determined on the downfall of the Duke of York. They did not wish Monmouth to remain abroad and, believing that the King’s love for his eldest son was as strong as ever, they brought him secretly back from Holland.

Monmouth was nothing loath. He was now certain that he was to wear the crown. It was true he had been sent to Holland, but that was only that the King might have an excuse to be rid of the Duke of York. The foolish and criminal exploits of his youth had been forgiven him. He knew how to placate the King, and Charles was never annoyed with him for long at a time.

It was the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, and the Whigs had chosen this occasion as an opportunity for staging a demonstration which they believed would induce the King to legitimize Monmouth and make him his heir. It was easy to whip up the people of London to a state of excitement. They had already been shown the villainy of the papists by Titus Oates, according to whom new plots were continually springing up. It was therefore not difficult to rouse them to fury, and they were soon parading the streets holding aloft effigies of the Pope and the Devil which it was their intention to burn.

For several days these scenes took place; then they gave way to rejoicing. Charles, watching from a window of Whitehall, having heard the bells ring out, saw his son riding triumphantly at the head of a procession, holding himself as though he already wore the crown.

He stopped at Whitehall, and a message came to Charles that his dearly beloved son craved audience.

Charles sent back a message.

“Bid him go back whence he came. I have no wish to see him. I will deprive him of all his offices since he has disobeyed my wishes in returning to England when I commanded him to stay abroad. Tell him, for his own safety, to leave the country at once.”

Monmouth went disconsolately away.

Charles heard the crowds cheering him as he went. He shook his head sadly. “Jemmy, Jemmy,” he murmured, “whither are you going? The path you are taking leads to the scaffold.”

Then he recalled long-ago days in The Hague, when he had lightly taken Lucy Water as his mistress. From that association had sprung this young man, and in him had been born such ambition as could set a bloody trail across this fair land and plunge it into civil war as hideous and cruel as that which had cost Charles’ father his head. And all for the sake of a brief passion with a light-o’-love.

I must save Jemmy at all costs, Charles decided.

Nell was giving my lord Burford his goodnight kiss when she was told a visitor wished to see her.

She hoped it was my lord Rochester. She had need of his cheering company. Charles was melancholy. It was due to all these riots in the streets, all this burning of the Pope and the Devil. Poor Charles! She wished everyone would go about his business and let the King enjoy himself.

The visitor was shown in. He was wearing a long cloak which he threw off when they were alone.

“It’s Perkin,” cried Nell. “Prince Perkin.”

He did not frown as he usually did when she used that name. Instead he took her hand and kissed it. “Nell, for the love of God, help me. The King has refused to see me.”

“Oh, Perkin, it was wrong of you to come. You know His Majesty forbids it.”

“I had to come, Nell. How can I stay away? This is my home. This is where I belong.”

“But if you are sent abroad on a mission …”

“Abroad on a mission! I am sent abroad because my uncle must go.”

“Well, ’tis only fair that if one goes so should the other.”

“My uncle goes because the people force him to. You have seen they want me here. Did you not hear them shouting for me in the street?”

Nell shook her head. “All these troubles! Why cannot you all be good friends? Why are you always seeking the crown, when you know your mother was no better than I am. I might as well make a Perkin of little Burford.”

“Nell, my mother was married to the King.”

“The black box!” said Nell scornfully.

“Well, why should there not have been a black box?”

“Because the King says there’s not.”

“What if the King tells not the truth?”

“He says it all the same, and if he says ‘no black box,’ then there should be none.”

“Nelly, you’re a strange woman.”

“Strange because I don’t bring my little Earl up to prate about a black box which carries my marriage lines?”

“Don’t joke, Nell. Will you keep me here? Will you let me stay? ’Twill only be for a short while, and mayhap you can persuade the King to see me. I’ve nowhere to go, Nell. There’s no one I can trust.”

Nell looked at him. Dark hair, so like my lord Burford’s. Dark eyes … big lustrous Stuart eyes. Well, after all, they were half-brothers.

“You must be well-nigh starving,” said Nell. “And there’ll be a bed for you here as long as you want it.”

Monmouth stayed in her house, and the whole of London knew. It was typical that the King, knowing, should have said nothing. He was glad Nell was looking after the boy. He needed a mother; he needed Nell’s sharp common sense.

Nell pleaded with Charles to see his son.

“He grows pale and long-visaged, fearing Your Majesty no longer loves him.”

“It is well that he should have such fears,” said Charles. “I will not see him. Bid him be gone, Nelly, for his own sake.”

Nell was universally known now as the “Protestant whore.” In the turmoil that existed it was necessary to take sides. She was cheered in the streets; for the London mob, fed on stories of Popish plots, looked upon her as their champion.

They loved the King, for his easy affability was remembered by all, and in this time of stress they sought to lay blame for everything that happened in his name on the people who surrounded him. The Duchess of Portsmouth was the enemy; Nell was the friend of the people.

One day, as she was riding home in her carriage, the mob surrounded it, and, believing that it was Louise inside, they threw mud, cursed the passenger, and would have wrecked the vehicle.

Nell put her head out of the window and begged them to stop. “Pray, good people, be civil,” she cried. “I am the Protestant whore.”

“’Tis Nelly, not Carwell,” shouted one and they all took up the cry: “God bless Nelly! Long life to little Nell.”

They surrounded the coach, and they walked with her as she was carried on her way.

She was stimulated. It was pleasant to know that Squintabella, from whom it had been impossible to turn the King’s favor, was so disliked and herself so popular. Nell enjoyed dabbling in their politics, even though she understood so little. Still she had understood enough to keep her place; she knew that she was no politician; she knew that the King could not discuss politics with her as he could with Louise. As she had said on one occasion: “I do not seek to lead the King in politics. I am just his sleeping partner.”

So she was carried home.

The troublous winter had passed into spring and now it was June. Nell never forgot that June day, because some joy went out of her life then, and she knew that no matter what happened to her she would never be completely happy again.

A messenger arrived at her house. Her servants looked subdued and she knew at once that something had gone wrong and that they were afraid to tell her.

“What is this?” she asked.

“A messenger,” said her steward, Groundes. “He comes from France.”

“From France. Jamie!”

“My lord Beauclerk was suffering from a sore leg.”

“A sore leg! Why was I not told?”

“Madam, it happened so quickly. The little boy was running about happily one day, and the next …”

“Dead,” said Nell blankly.

“Madam, all was done that could be done.”

Nell threw herself onto a couch and covered her face with her hands. “It is not true,” she sobbed. “There was nothing wrong with Jamie. He had a cough at times, that was all. Why was I not told? … My little boy, to die of a sore leg!”

“Madam, he did not suffer long. He died peacefully in his sleep.”

“I should not have let him go,” said Nell. “I should have kept him with me. He was only a baby. My little boy …”

They tried to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. She drove them all away. For once Nell wanted to be alone.

Her little James, Lord Beauclerk, for whom she had planned such a glorious future, was now dead and she would never see those wondering dark eyes looking at her again, never hear the baby lips begging her to dance a jig.

“I let him go,” she said. “I should never have let him go. He was only a baby. But I wanted to make him a Duke, so I let him go, and now I have lost him. I’ll never see my little lord again.”

They sent Lord Burford in to comfort her. He wiped her eyes and put his arms about her.

“I’m here, Mama,” he said. “I’m still here.”

Then she held him fiercely in her arms. She did not care if he was never a Duke. The only important thing was that she held him in her arms.

She would keep him with her forever.

Nell shut herself in with her grief. Life seemed to have little meaning for her. She blamed herself. She had so wanted the child to be educated like a lord. How thankful she was that she had kept one of her sons at home.

She was still mourning the death of James when the news of another death was brought to her. It was that of the Earl of Rochester. Rochester had been a good friend to her; his advice had always been sound; and because he was merry and wicked and, although three years older than she was, had seemed but a boy to her, she grieved for him. It seemed a sad thing that he, after only thirty-three years of life, should have died, worn out by his excesses. Poor Rochester, so witty, so brilliant—and now there was nothing of him but the few verses he had left behind.

Death was horrible. Her mother was gone, but she was old and Nell had never loved her. It was a marvel that the gin had not carried her off long before. But these deaths of such as Rochester and little Jamie moved her deeply. She might laugh; she might dance and sing; but she was aware of change.

She was glad she had known nothing of that fever which had attacked Charles so recently. There had been no need to feel anxiety then, because he was well again before she heard of it. But it could happen suddenly and mayhap next time it would not end so happily.

Rochester … Jamie … She could not forget.

Charles, sharing her grief in the loss of their son though not by any means feeling it as deeply as she did, was sad to see the change in her.

He wanted his merry Nell back again.

He took her to Windsor and showed her a beautiful house not far from the Castle.

This was to be Burford House, and it was the King’s gift to Nell. It was a delightful place. “And so convenient to the Castle,” said the King with a smile.

It was impossible not be charmed with the house. It seemed a fitting residence for my lord Burford. And Nell showed her gratitude by trying to dismiss all thoughts of her lost child from her mind. She had the interior of Burford House decorated by Verrio, the Court painter, who was also working on the Castle at this time. And Potevine, her upholsterer in Pall Mall, furnished the place to her satisfaction. The gardens, facing south, were a delight, and she and the King planned them together, with my lord Burford running from one to the other, happy to see his mother more like herself, and his father with her in the new home.

With the terror at its height, the Whigs made an effort to force Charles to legitimize Monmouth. Thus only, they argued, could the King protect his own life and save his people from the Catholic plotters.

Charles, in the House of Lords, patiently pointed out that what they asked of him was illegal. He assured them that he intended to take great care of himself and his people.

It was pointed out to him that laws could always be changed in emergency.

“If that is your conscience,” said Charles, “it is far from mine. I assure you that I love my life so well that I will take all the care in the world to keep it with honor. But I do not think it is of such great value after fifty to be preserved with the forfeiture of my honor, my conscience, and the law of the land.”

Monmouth was present and Charles watched the young man as he spoke. He saw the bitter look in Monmouth’s face; and he thought: I was a fool to think he loved me. What did he ever love but my crown?

The King won the day. But Shaftesbury would not give in. He had gone so far he could not draw back and he knew he had proved himself to be such an enemy to the Duke of York that he must at all cost prevent his coming to the throne. He now tried to bring a new bill to force Charles to divorce the Queen. Charles retaliated with his old gambit: the dissolution of Parliament.

Louise meanwhile had been in constant touch with the new French ambassador, Barrillon, who had replaced Courtin. She believed she saw a chance to reinstate herself with Charles.

She had made herself aware, during the recent years of terror, of every twist and turn in the complicated policy of the King and Parliament. Now that Danby was a prisoner in the Tower she had turned her attention to Lord Sunderland, one of the most important men in the country. She had used all her wits to save herself and had found it convenient to turn to anyone who she thought could be of the slightest use to her. She even helped Shaftesbury to reinstate himself; she made friendly overtures to Monmouth, though she secretly hoped that her son, the Duke of Richmond, might be legitimized and named heir to the throne; but she said nothing of this to Monmouth.

Louise was desperate and, being full of crawling as well, she began to sidle back to the King, and her ability to discuss with intelligence any new political move made him seek her company. He was visiting her every day, although he was spending his nights with Nell. Louise did not greatly care that this should be so, because she was beginning to realize that if she were clever enough both Louis and Charles could come to look upon her as a person important to the policies they wished to pursue. For Charles she was that one to whom he could confide what he wished for from the King of France; to Louis she was the person who wielded an influence over the King of England which she could use as he bade her.

She sought out the King very soon after the dissolution of Parliament and, seeing that she wished to speak with him alone, he allowed her to dismiss all those about them.

One of his little dogs leaped into his lap, and he fondled its ears as they talked.

“What great good fortune,” said Louise, “if it were never necessary to reassemble Parliament!”

“I agree with all my heart,” said Charles. “But alas, it will be necessary ere long to do so.”

She had moved nearer to him. “For what reason, Charles?”

“Money,” he said. “I must have money. The country needs it. I need it. The Parliament must assemble and grant it to me.”

“Charles, what if there were other means of filling your exchequer … would you then think it necessary to call the Parliament?”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, but he was alert.

“If I could make certain promises to Louis …” she began.

“There have been promises.”

“Yes, and the Dutch marriage and your failure to confess yourself a Catholic angered Louis.”

Charles shrugged lightly. “I was forced into the first,” he said. “The people wished it. As for the second—that is something my people would not tolerate.”

“And you yourself, Charles?”

“I am an irreligious fellow. I cannot conform, you know. I think that the Catholic Faith is more befitting to a gentleman than gloomy Presbyterianism certainly. But I am my grandfather again. England is worth a principle, as Paris was with him.”

“In the Treaty of Dover you promised to proclaim yourself a Catholic.”

“At the appropriate time,” said Charles quickly.

“And that will be …?”

“When my people will accept a Catholic King.”

“You mean … never as long as you live.”

“Who can say? Who can say?”

Louise was silent for a while. Religion, as with his grandfather who had saved France from the disaster into which religious conflict was plunging the nation, would always be for Charles a matter of expediency. She must shelve the great desire to fulfill that part of her duty to France. But she must seek to bind Charles closer to the country of her birth, not only to please the French King, but to make her own position secure.

“If you had money,” she said, “if you had, say, four million livres over three years you would be able to manage your affairs without calling Parliament.”

“You think Louis would pay …”

“On conditions which me might arrange …”

Charles put down the lapdog and held out his hand. “Louise, my ministering angel,” he said, “let us talk of those conditions.”

Before the next Parliament was called Charles was to receive £200,000 a year for a promise of neutrality towards Louis’ Continental adventures. Charles saw his chance to rule without a Parliament, which in the past he had needed merely to vote him the money he required for governing the country.

When the new Parliament met, the King’s expression was inscrutable.

He called to the Lord Chancellor to do his bidding, and the Lord Chancellor declared that the Parliament was dissolved.

Charles left the chamber, where everyone was too astonished to protest. When he called to his valet to help him change, Charles was laughing. “You are a better man than you were a quarter of an hour since,” he said. “It is better to have one King than five hundred.”

He continued in high good humor. “For,” he said, “I will have no more Parliaments, unless it be for some necessary acts that are temporary only, or to make new ones for the general good of the nation; for, God be praised, my affairs are now in so good a position that I have no occasion to ask my Parliament to vote me supplies.”

Thus Charles, true ruler of his country through the French King’s bribes, determined not to call a Parliament for as long as he lived. Nor did he.

Now he began to deal with the terror. Shaftesbury was sent to the Tower. Oates was arrested for slander. Monmouth was arrested and, although he was soon released, and Shaftesbury escaped to Holland, gradually there was a return to peaceful living.