The Merry Monarch's Wife

QUEEN IN DANGER

I AM SURE TITUS OATES WAS DETERMINED TO INCRIMINATE me after Charles had disconcerted him over his false descriptions of my apartments.

It is difficult now to see myself as I was at that time. How does one feel when one is more or less under sentence of death? There were times when I felt that the axe was poised over my head, and I would become numb with fear. At others I would feel a certain exultation. One swift sharp blow and my troubles would be over. There was even a moment when I felt a sublime indifference. I was innocent of what they accused me. As if I would plot to kill the one I loved beyond all others! There was one thought which was always with me during those days. It was that he believed in my innocence and it was he who had stood between me and my enemies. There were times when I said to myself, they will have to destroy him before he allows them to destroy me.

Perhaps it was that thought which enabled me to meet the days with a serenity which amazed those about me.

Poor Donna Maria was too old and infirm to know what was happening. I was glad of that. I was relieved that my mother was no longer here, for she would have learned of my danger and it would have wounded her deeply to know that all her plans for me had led to this.

I often thought of those first days in England at Hampton, where I had known the supreme joy of loving and believing myself to be loved; and I tried not to remember that cruel awakening when Lady Castlemaine came to shatter my happiness.

It was over…and Charles was now here beside me, my protector.

The Count had been right when he had said that Bedloe had told of how he had heard me plotting with the Jesuits in the chapel at Somerset House. Bedloe, no doubt urged on by Titus Oates, had written his accusation and delivered it to the House of Commons.

I heard what had happened when his words were read out, how Titus Oates approached the Bar and declared in ringing tones: “I, Titus Oates, accuse Catherine Queen of England of High Treason.”

I was told of the astonishment of the House and how, for some seconds after the announcement, there was a deep silence.

Titus Oates had his supporters, Shaftesbury at the head of them, and it was proposed that an address should be sent to the King without delay and that I, with all my household, should be committed to the Tower on a charge of High Treason.

I had never come nearer death. They had accused me, and they would find means of proving me guilty. The truth was of no consequence to them.

It was fortunate for me that such action could not be taken without the consent of the Lords and their verdict was that they would not treat me as guilty until it was proved that I was, and they would need more than the accusation of men like Oates before they did.

Shaftesbury was infuriated by the rejection of the Commons decision, but there was nothing he could do.

It was Charles’s reaction which put heart into me.

He was very angry. He ordered that Oates should be arrested and put under guard. He declared that he would not suffer an innocent lady to be wronged as these men were trying to wrong the Queen.

I wept with joy at his response, but I soon realized that, in spite of his power, even he could not completely withstand the demands of the people.

There was an outcry about the incarceration of Titus Oates, and the people demanded that he be freed.

It was only then that Charles realized what a hold that man had on the people, how they revered him, how they waited for every word he uttered.

And my fate seemed to be in the hands of such a creature.

Count Castelmelhor came to me in great dismay.

“Oh, my lady,” he cried, “I have lived in such fear. When I heard of Oates’s declamation at the Bar I thought it was the end.”

“I, too,” I said.

I touched my neck with my fingers. I could almost feel the axe there.

“But,” went on the Count, “it did not happen.”

“No. The Peers saved me…and then the King.”

“The Peers just wanted more evidence…and do you doubt Oates would not have invented that? It was the King who saved Your Majesty. If he had given way in the slightest degree…”

“It would have been the end of me.”

“Thank God and all the saints for His Majesty the King.”

What strange feelings possessed me! I had come within a few steps of the axe. No one who has not experienced that can understand what it is like…and at the same time I was exultant because I owed my life to Charles.

Charles himself came to see me.

He looked at me, smiling that rather careless smile, as though there was nothing to disturb our serenity.

I said: “I have heard what you did…”

“Oh, you mean that villain and his familiar, Bedloe, do you?”

“The Commons…and the Lords…,” I began.

He shrugged his shoulders. Then he came to me and put his arms about me, holding me tightly, protectively.

I said: “Thank you…thank you…for what you have done for me.”

“What have I done?” He laughed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Very little that is good, I fear. Now I want you to come back to Whitehall with me. I like not this long sojourn at Somerset House.”

I forgot that I was in danger. I forgot all that I had suffered through his preoccupation with other women. He was taking me back to Whitehall…to be close to him. I knew why he wanted this. It was to show them all that I was his Queen and he was there to protect me against all those who wished me ill. They should not succeed because he was there to care for me.

WE WERE TOGETHER NOW. I sauntered with him; we rode together; and I was happier than I had been for a long time. It was because he was afraid for me. I was fully aware of that, though he shrugged his shoulders and spoke contemptuously of the plotters.

I was overcome with joy when I overheard someone whisper mockingly: “The King has a new mistress. It is his Queen.”

It was wonderful that his aim should now be to protect me, to show the court that any who attacked me must first deal with him.

I had my fearful moments. There were cries of, “No Popery!” in the streets; and I knew that Charles would like to keep Oates and his associates in the Tower. But even he dared not do that. When he talked of what he called his wandering years, I often saw the determination in his eyes. He would never go wandering again.

I knew the mood of the people. They would not have a Catholic king. Charles himself leaned toward the Catholic faith, but he was never going to admit it…for none knew better than he that it would be the first step toward that fate which he had determined should never be his again.

He often said that James was a fool. Why could he not do his worshipping in secret? Why did he have to proclaim his faith to the world?

During that time he and I grew close together and there were occasions when he implied that if he were free to make a choice it would be for my faith. It appealed to him. It had been his mother’s faith, and he had French blood in his veins. His grandfather had begun life as a Huguenot and his well-known assertion that Paris was worth a Mass would never be forgotten.

“My grandfather was a wise man,” Charles once said. “He wanted the crown, so blithely he changed his religion to keep it. I have the same respect for my crown as he had for his.”

He told me that we were in a precarious situation. These men would stop at nothing. They were adventurers. If one looked into their history one saw clearly that they would do anything for gain. Why could not the people see this? It was the old story. They would not because they did not want to. They wanted to believe in Oates because they wanted a Protestant country.

“We must be watchful,” he said. “This man Oates will strike again.”

How right he was! A few days later I heard that one of the silversmiths in my household had been arrested.

This was Miles Prance — a meek and inoffensive man who, I was sure, was far more interested in his silver work, cleaning it and generally keeping it in good order, then becoming involved in any state plot.

Poor Miles! How could be withstand the torture Oates insisted should be applied to extricate his “confession.” What they did to him exactly I never heard, but they reduced him to a gibbering wretch ready to say anything they demanded of him.

Had he been involved in a plot to poison the King? they asked.

Poor Miles! How could he endure the pain?

“Yes, yes,” he cried.

“At the Queen’s command?”

“Yes, yes,” if that was what they wanted to leave him alone.

He must name other accomplices. He called out all the names he could think of.

More arrests. More executions.

Miles had confessed and was freed; and no sooner was he at liberty than he repented so earnestly of what he had done that he proclaimed to everyone that he had lied and lied and knew of no attempt to poison the King. He would never rest again if he did not put right what he had done. He had spoken against the Queen which was false…all false. They had tortured him so fiercely that he did not know what he was saying.

He disappeared and we heard that he was back in Newgate. It was not enough to let him disappear. He had done enough harm to Oates, so he was chained to the floor in a cell where he was tormented. He did not admit to more misdeeds; he simply went mad. He was no use to them — so they hanged him with those whom he had accused.

In the streets people went on shouting, “No Popery!” Shaftesbury was “discovering” several people who declared they had witnessed the marriage of the King to Lucy Walter. In the taverns Monmouth’s health was drunk. People were calling him the Prince of Wales. This was done so frequently that Charles publicly made a declaration stating that he had never been married to Lucy Walter. He had been married only once in his lifetime and that was to Queen Catherine. It was not what the people wanted, but it was amazing how popular Charles remained. He had the gift of making people love him. I sometimes thought that if he decided to become a Catholic they would still have wanted him to rule them.

His grace and charm won their hearts, and always had. His infidelities were laughed at and looked upon as the waywardness of a charming boy. He was everybody’s darling.

If this had not been so, events might have turned out very differently. Even so, the people were determined, and even Charles had to be watchful.

I heard that Sir George Wakeman was about to be tried, and I knew that this could be of the utmost importance to me. If the court found my physician guilty of trying to poison the King, that would be tantamount to condemning me.

The trial, I guessed, would not be fair. Many people had been executed on the evidence of Oates and Bedloe…innocent people. Why should Sir George Wakeman be different from those?

And if he were declared guilty, in the minds of the people so should I be.

I knew that Oates would do everything in his power to bring about Sir George’s downfall; and if he were successful, could even the King save me?

THOSE ABOUT ME WERE in a state of tension…but none more so than I. I felt light-headed. I wondered how much longer I could endure this persecution. It was only my innocence — and Charles’s support — which kept me from collapsing, I believed. I tried to tell myself that they could not prove anything against me because there was nothing to prove. But what of others equally innocent? When had these people cared for the truth?”

I often wondered how a man with such a record as Titus Oates behind him could so delude the people. But, as Charles always said, they believed because they wanted to. Oates was the enemy of Catholics and that was at the heart of the matter. If I had had a child, if James had not publicly acclaimed his conversion, all this would not have arisen. But these were the facts, and out of them had come Titus Oates and his criminal associates who were destroying so many, including myself.

So Sir George Wakeman was indicted for High Treason and was to appear at the Old Bailey to be tried by Lord Chief Justice Sproggs, and never was the outcome of a trial awaited with such excitement and interest as this one. So much hung upon it…and especially for me.

I felt that Titus Oates was rubbing his hands with glee. I guessed that in his imagination I was already imprisoned in the Tower awaiting execution, for once my physician Sir George Wakeman was found guilty, the implication must be that I was too. Members of my household had already been found guilty because of the insistence of Oates…poor innocent people…but this was my physician, a friend, one who would be in my confidence.

Sir George had never made any secret of the fact that he was a Catholic. He and his brother had, during the war, raised a troop of horse for the Royalist cause. He had fought against the Parliament and had been in prison at the time of the Restoration. He was a man of charm and intellect; he was well liked. There must surely have been many who marvelled that a man like Titus Oates could set himself against such as Sir George and have the weight of public opinion supporting him.

Accused with Sir George were three Benedictine monks who, Oates asserted, were working with the physician in these dastardly schemes.

The chief witnesses for the prosecution were, of course, Oates and his crony Bedloe.

I was glad in a way that I was not present, although I knew that everything that was said would be of the utmost importance to me.

I heard an account of the trial from an eyewitness, so I could well imagine the tension in that court room. Everything depended on Lord Chief Justice Sproggs. I had heard of him. He was the one who had condemned Coleman to death.

Oates, I was told, gave his evidence with the assurance that he must be believed. He was a little sanctimonious, trying to create the impression that he was God’s advocate, throwing off his lies as though they were inspired by heaven. It was so difficult to understand why people could not see through him. He said that Wakeman had been offered ten thousand pounds to kill the King, which he could do with the Queen’s help, but at first he had folded his hands and refused.

“The court was so still,” said my informant, “that you could hear the sharp intake of people’s breath.” Was Oates going to admit that he had lied? But of course not. He went on to say that Wakeman had protested that it was a daring operation they were asking him to undertake and ten thousand pounds was not enough. “Moreover, what of his post in Your Majesty’s household? He would lose that. There would be a new queen. No, ten thousand pounds was not enough. ‘Then,’ said Oates, ‘came the offer.’ When the deed was done, Sir George was to be offered the post of Physician General to the Army, and five thousand would be added to the reward. ‘That was an offer,’ said Oates, ‘which he could not refuse.’ Sir George declared that there was not a shred of truth in this. Then Bedloe was called to corroborate Oates’s story.”

I heard how outside the Old Bailey the mob was calling for a verdict of guilty. I could imagine the satisfaction of Oates and Bedloe. They were confident of success. However, the Lord Chief Justice was not afraid of the mob, and the comparison between the evil countenances and the wild accusations of the witnesses for the prosecution and a man of Sir George’s reputation and obvious integrity had its effect on him.

Sir George was shrewd in his evidence. He proved that some of the papers produced by Oates were forgeries. Bedloe professed that he himself had had several interviews with Sir George.

“Does Your Honor think that I would consort with a man such as that?” Sir George demanded.

Most people would admit that it was unlikely.

Oates grew very excited. He could not endure opposition. He went a little too far, even for him. He declared that he had seen Sir George sign the receipt for the first thousand pounds. In his zeal he said that he had been present — hidden as usual — and had actually seen another receipt which Sir George had signed accepting the five thousand pounds and the appointment as Physician General to the Army.

The Lord Chief Justice asked him how he knew that the document was not a false one. Anyone could produce such a piece of paper.

“Oh, it was Sir George’s signature, my lord.”

“You know his signature well?”

“Oh yes, my lord. I have seen it many times. There was no mistaking it.”

“And how did it come into your possession?”

Oates looked sly. “My lord, in my zealous pursuit of those who would seek to destroy our country, I have engaged people…those whom I can trust and who have the same ideals that I have…to work for me. It is dangerous work for which I must pay them.”

“So you tell me, Mr. Oates,” said Lord Chief Justice Sproggs, “that you were sure this document was not false because you knew the signature of Sir George Wakeman so well.”

“That is so, my lord.”

It was then that Oates was greatly discomfited, for the Lord Chief Justice brought out several specimens of handwriting in the name of George Wakeman.

“Now, Mr. Oates,” said Sproggs, “will you be good enough to tell me which of these is the signature of Sir George Wakeman?”

With an air of confidence Oates made his selection.

The Lord Chief Justice smiled slowly. “Mr. Oates,” he said, “you clearly could not recognize Sir George’s signature, for it was among those shown to you, and you have selected one which is quite unlike his.”

Oates was furious. He would soon be discovering that Sproggs was plotting treachery.

The Lord Chief Justice summed up the case decisively. He addressed the jury with eloquence. Could they in the light of what they had heard in the court find Sir George Wakeman guilty? Of course they could not.

Charles came to me in great delight. He swept me into his arms.

“Odds fish!” he cried. “This must be the beginning of the end. Wakeman is acquitted.”

SHORTLY AFTERWARD Sir George was asking the King to receive him. Charles did so with the utmost pleasure, and I was with him when Sir George arrived.

He came and knelt before the King. He looked pale and drawn, which was not surprising after his ordeal.

Charles congratulated him. “I cannot express my joy,” he said with emotion.

“Your Majesty is gracious.”

I took his hand. “I have prayed for you,” I said. “I thank God my prayers were answered.”

“That villain got a trouncing,” said Charles. “Thank God Sproggs had the courage to do it.”

“It takes courage, Sire, at this time.”

“Are you going to return to my household?” I asked.

He hesitated. Then he said: “There is something I would say to your Majesties. Oates will not let this matter rest.”

Charles nodded in agreement.

“He will find some other charge,” went on Sir George. “He will not be content to let me go. He will hate me the more for this.”

“It would appear to me,” said Charles, “that he will be less confident now. I am of the opinion that even the people who shout for him in the streets may be asking themselves whether they should not look at his actions more closely.”

“That may be so, Sire, but the man is dangerous still. I would not feel confident to remain where he could wreak his vengeance on me.”

“I understand your feelings,” said Charles ruefully.

“Your Majesty, I am asking your permission to leave the country.”

I was dismayed, but I saw his reasoning, and recognized the wisdom of it.

“What do you propose to do?” I asked.

“To cross the Channel tomorrow, Your Majesty.”

“I see,” said Charles. “Of course, you must go and you are right. You want no more of these ordeals. I trust that soon we shall be free of this obnoxious fellow. Godspeed. I shall write letters for you to take, and one day perhaps you will come back to us.”

Sir George fell onto his knees in a state of great relief.

I wished him well and he left us.

I was very sorry to see him go, but I knew he was wise to do so. He was free and yet with a lesser man than Lord Chief Justice Sproggs, he might have been in a cell at this moment awaiting execution.

And if that had been the case, I might very well soon have been sharing his fate.

I DO BELIEVE that the trial of Sir George Wakeman was a turning point for Titus Oates and his confederates, though this was not immediately apparent.

Oates was, of course, incensed by the acquittal. It was an absolute rebuff by Lord Chief Justice Sproggs, who had hitherto been a zealous Protestant and far from lenient to Oates’s victims.

I did not like much what I heard of Sproggs. He was rather a crude man with a not very good reputation. He was brash, but his asset was a certain power with words. He could be outstandingly eloquent, both with speech and pen. This set him apart, and the fact that he had used his skills on the side of good against evil and had secured the release of Sir George Wakeman aroused the King’s interest in him.

As was expected, Oates was not going to accept the rebuttal meekly.

He immediately began stirring up trouble for Sproggs. He incited the people against him, and defamatory libels were set in motion; broadsheets were circulated and rhymes were set to tunes to be sung in the streets. These implied that Sproggs had been bribed with gold from Portugal. Sproggs knew that Wakeman was guilty and with him the Queen. In the ordinary course of justice that would have been the verdict…but Sproggs had diverted the course of justice for Portuguese gold.

Sproggs, however, was a man able to defend himself. At the King’s Bench, he answered his critics in a brilliant speech. He said that at the trial of Sir George Wakeman he had acted “without fear, favor or reward, without the gift of one shilling or promise of expectation.”

I believed that even Oates realized that there was little to be hoped for from attacks on such a man.

The King sent for Sproggs and he came to Windsor. I was present at the interview.

I was a little repulsed by the man. There was something unpleasant about him, but Charles received him warmly, for he said to me in private that the man had saved us from God alone knew what. I knew that he was thinking that, had Wakeman been judged guilty, there would have been demands to question me; and moreover, those who did so would have been determined to prove me guilty. So we owed a good deal to Sproggs.

Charles congratulated him on his actions in Sir George’s trial.

“I did my duty, Your Majesty,” said Sproggs.

“Knowing that it was not what the people wanted.”

“Knowing that, Sire. The accusation was aimed beyond Sir George Wakeman…that much was clear.”

The King laid his hand on my arm and nodded gravely.

I said: “Thank you, Lord Chief Justice.”

“The people are using you ill,” added Charles.

“Your Majesty, the mob is easily led…and very changeable.”

“And these have some strong leaders. They have used you ill. They have used me worse.” He smiled at me. “We stand or fall together.”

Sproggs bowed. He was obviously delighted, and I believed counted the King’s favor as worth more than the approval of the mob.

When he had gone, Charles said: “I don’t much like the fellow, but he has a way with words…and that is a very powerful thing to have. He will stand for us…and it may well be that Mr. Titus Oates will not maintain his glory much longer.”

IT WAS TRUE that Oates was deflated by the Wakeman trial and his inability to take adequate revenge on the Lord Chief Justice. There was another case in which Oates met a similar fate.

There was a certain notoriety about this one, because the accused was Roger Palmer, Earl of Castlemaine, husband of the infamous Barbara. He was a well-known Catholic, and therefore a target for Titus Oates.

On Oates’s accusation he was sent to the Tower, and while there he wrote a pamphlet on those who had been falsely arrested and charged with being concerned in a plot which had no reality outside the imagination of Titus Oates.

This was a further insult to Oates and he could not allow it to pass. Fresh evidence against Castlemaine was procured and in time the case was brought before Lord Chief Justice Sproggs.

The Earl of Castlemaine was a great friend of the Duke of York. I sometimes wondered when Oates would have the temerity to attempt to bring James himself to trial. After all, he had tried hard enough to involve me. But then, of course, because Charles spent so much time with other women they had not expected so much opposition from him. Yet when he had protected me, they had not stopped their prosecution. But I supposed that even they would hesitate to attack the King’s brother and heir to the throne.

Castlemaine faced the court with courage and determination. He shrugged aside the insults of the prosecution and defended himself with dignity, restraint and a sincerity which could not be ignored. And, like Sir George Wakeman, he was acquitted.

Oates’s power was considerably subdued, but I had another enemy in Shaftesbury. His was the cause of Protestantism, and I was a Catholic. He did not accuse me of attempting to poison the King. He merely wanted to remove me so that the King might marry a Protestant queen and have children who would ensure a Protestant heir to the throne.

He knew that he could rely on considerable support throughout the country, and he brought in a Bill for the exclusion of the Duke of York and a divorce for the King that he might marry a Protestant and leave the crown to legitimate issue.

If Charles had wished to divorce me then, it would have been easy for him to have done so. He could have shrugged his shoulders in his nonchalant way and declared that it was his duty to do so.

I shall never forget how he stood by me in that time of danger. I knew how he hated trouble, how his great desire was to live a life of comfort and pleasure. His sauntering, his interest in the stars, his herbs, his dogs, the navy, planning buildings with the architects…that was the life he wanted to live. He had been so long in exile that these pleasures were of particular importance to him. He had had enough of conflict.

Yet with great vigor, he became my champion, and because of this I was ready to fight beside him. Indeed, what else could I do? To be parted from him was something I could not contemplate. It would be the end of everything I wanted. Anything, even this persecution, was better than that.

Charles made a point of going to the Peers to stress his abhorrence of the Bill, and to tell them that it was against his wishes that it should proceed. He would not see an innocent woman wronged. He was married to me and so he would remain. As for the Duke of York, he was the legitimate heir to the throne and only if he, the King, had legitimate heirs could that be changed.

Charles won the day. His wishes were respected and the Bill did not proceed.

Then William Bedloe died. This was quite unexpected, and it was another blow for Oates, for on his deathbed, Bedloe decided that he could not meet his Maker with so much on his conscience. So he repented and confessed that he had told many lies, that he knew nothing against me, except that I had given money to some Catholic institutions and was a Catholic myself. He admitted that accounts he had given of my attempts to poison the King were all lies.

Titus Oates must have been infuriated. Already he had lost some of his credibility by the acquittals of Sir George Wakeman and the Earl of Castlemaine. He might strut round in his episcopal robes — silk gown, cassock and long scarf — calling himself the nation’s savior, and enjoying his pension from the privy purse, but he must be suffering some qualms of fear and asking himself how long his glory would last.

I heard he had three servants to wait on him and dress him, as though he were royal; they vied for the honor of holding the basin in which he washed his hands. Everywhere people fawned on him, fearing that if they did not he might name them as conspirators and they find themselves under arrest.

He had so much to lose and Bedloe’s deathbed confession must have given him great concern.

His spirits were no doubt uplifted by the trial of William Howard, Viscount Stafford. There was as much interest in this as there had been in that of Sir George Wakeman; and there was a certain desperation about Oates and his followers now. There must be no more acquittals. Stafford was a noble lord…a man of integrity, son of the Earl of Arundel…and a Catholic.

He had been accused by Titus Oates, with several other Catholic lords, but Stafford was the one they decided to send for trial. I was of the opinion that this was because he was old, in frail health and perhaps less able to defend himself.

He was to be tried in Westminster Hall and I had a great urge to be there. I knew that, even if I were not mentioned as one of the conspirators, my complicity would be hinted at and I felt I must hear what was said.

A box was provided for me in the Hall and in this I sat, with some of my ladies.

It was a heart-rending experience to see that old man so persecuted. He was innocent, of course, and people in that hall knew it, but were afraid to say so.

Oates and his men gave evidence. There were two I had not heard of before — Dugdale and Tuberville. They swore that Stafford had tried to persuade them to murder the King. Oates affirmed that he had seen a document sent from the Pope to Stafford in which it was clear that Stafford was promoting Catholic interests.

The trial lasted for seven days. It was the same as before — lies, innuendoes and the continual suggestions that I was concerned in the plot to kill Charles.

Surely, I said to myself, everyone must see how false these people are. They are so obviously liars. Again and again they are proved wrong over details.

But there was fear in the hall. I could sense it. Titus Oates had a satanic power to terrify people. They did not seem to realize that if they all stood together against him they need not fear him.

Lord Chief Justice Sproggs had been persecuted after the acquittal of Sir George Wakeman. He had succeeded because of his powerfully expressed arguments. But for that, Sir George would have been condemned. It was pitiable. There was no such help for Stafford, and the verdict was what Oates demanded: Stafford was found guilty of treason. And the sentence for such a crime was hanging, drawing and quartering.

When I looked at that noble old man I felt sick with horror. When would all this end?

Why had I thought the power of Oates was waning? He was still an evil influence in the land.

I HAD RARELY SEEN Charles so distressed. Before him was the warrant for Stafford’s execution and it was to be signed by him.

There was anguish in his eyes.

“You cannot sign it,” I said.

“It is the law. He has been judged.”

“It is all so false,” I cried. “He is not guilty of treason. He would never join in a plot to kill you. You cannot believe it.”

Charles said. “He has had his trial and they have judged him guilty.”

“But he is not guilty.”

“They have judged him so.”

“If you refuse to sign…”

He shook his head. I understood. Even the King could not defy the law. His father had stood against the Parliament and what had happened to him must be a never-forgotten lesson to all the kings of England.

“I shall have to do my duty,” he said.

“That old man! But not to hang, draw and quarter. That is barbaric.”

“It is the law.”

He was still staring at the paper before him, reluctant to take up his pen.

He said: “Catherine, I must sign…”

I looked at him sadly, for he was so deeply disturbed.

To hang, to draw and quarter. I knew what that fearful sentence meant.

“I shall change that,” he said. “It shall be the axe. It is the least…and the most…I can do.”

Then he took up his pen and signed.

I believe that was something he regretted for the rest of his life.

SO THEY TOOK STAFFORD out to Tower Hill. Oates and his friends had been angered because the King had changed the sentence and they had some of their supporters on the scene, but their voices were silenced by the many who had gathered there and who did not think the verdict was just.

That should have been a further warning to Oates that his popularity was waning, for someone was heard to shout: “May God bless you, my Lord Stafford.”

Stafford made a declaration before he died. He persisted that he was entirely innocent. And a voice in the crowd was distinctly heard to say: “We believe you, my lord. You are innocent. This is a crime against justice.”

I was told that for a few moments the executioner looked perplexed, but like others, he would be afraid of what might happen to him if he did not do what was expected of him.

He lifted the axe and struck.

They buried Lord Stafford in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula; and Charles was melancholy for some days and kept to his apartments.

WITH THE COMING OF SPRING there was more trouble.

Shaftesbury and his supporters had been so angry that their Bill to exclude the Duke of York and bring about my divorce had not been given a hearing that they were determined to bring it up again and force it through Parliament.

Then Edward Fitzharris appeared on the scene. He wanted to be another Titus Oates, which was not surprising, since Titus had done so well for himself.

The interesting point about Edward Fitzharris was that he had been associated with Louise de Keroualle, from whom doubtless he would have learned something of the art of spying.

His plan was to produce a document advocating the exclusion of the Duke of York from the succession because he was a foolish man unfit to rule, and that I should be removed because I had been suspected of being involved in a plot to poison the King.

It might have been that Louise de Keroualle was behind him in this. Being a Catholic, she could not hope to take my place and become Queen, but she was very ambitious for her son — who was also the King’s.

It was a slightly different version of the Popish Plot.

A document in the form of a letter, which was called “The True Englishman speaking Plain English in a letter from a friend to a friend,” was to be discovered in the house of some prominent member of the government and through it Fitzharris was to be a savior of his country, such as Titus Oates, the man on whom he was modelling himself.

Unfortunately for Fitzharris, one of his accomplices betrayed him before he was able to put his plot into action. He was arrested and sent to the Tower.

This was the state of affairs when we heard that Shaftesbury was going to present his Bill to Parliament and this time intended to force it through.

Charles came to me. He was very disturbed. I knew that he was still thinking of Stafford and blaming himself for signing the death warrant.

On this occasion there was a light of determination in his eyes.

He said: “I have been a coward. Ever since my restoration I have been clinging to my crown at all costs. I have never forgotten what happened to my father, and it has made a weakling of me in this respect. But better to go wandering again than live in fear. I should have refused to sign Stafford’s death warrant. What would they have done then?”

“I think they would have killed him in any case.”

“And there were complaints because I gave him a little relief at the end. They wanted that barbarous sentence carried out on that frail innocent old man.”

I shivered. “At least you saved him from that,” I comforted.

“True, and I must not look back. I am not going to allow Shaftesbury the satisfaction of making his Bill law.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “I think they are so determined to be rid of me that they will succeed in the end.”

“Never while I am here.”

I put out my hand and, with that courtly gesture which charmed so many, he kissed it.

“You are so good to me,” I said. “You have made me very happy.”

“You…shame me,” he replied, not meeting my eyes. After a pause he went on: “Do you know, my dear, I think the people here like me. Or perhaps they want to keep me alive in order to defer the coming of James. Well, I am not going to let that villain Oates and that fanatical Shaftesbury have it all their own way.”

“What shall you do?”

“You will see. Prepare to leave for Windsor on Monday.”

“Will not Parliament then be in session?”

He nodded. “I shall expect you to be ready to leave.”

I SOON LEARNED what he was going to do.

It was a Saturday when the Bill was introduced to the Parliament. On the following Monday, the King left Whitehall in a sedan chair in which the curtains were drawn so that none was aware of who was in it. He wore his state robes and carried his crown in his hands.

Without any preamble he went into the House and took his place on the throne. His crown was then on his head.

Then he ordered Black Rod to summon the Commons to the chamber, and when they were assembled, he said in ringing tones: “The substance of this session has begun in so ill a way as can bring no good to any; therefore it is better to end it.” He turned to his Chancellor. “I pray you, declare this Parliament dissolved.”

With that he rose and in silence left the astonished members.

He came to Whitehall where I was waiting for him.

“Now,” he said, “we leave for Windsor. It will be a short stay. There is work to be done.”

THE VERY NEXT DAY we left Windsor and returned to Whitehall together. The people cheered us in the streets of the capital. Charles was as smiling and affable as ever. He was right when he said they loved him.

The court was subdued. I guessed everyone would have been talking about the manner in which the King had dissolved Parliament, so dismissing Shaftesbury’s Bill. This was the King’s prerogative, and in a few days it became clear that what Charles had done was acceptable to most people. But I could imagine Shaftesbury’s fuming; and surely now Oates must be feeling anxious.

The people were with the King, though. That much was obvious. They would not want him to “go wandering” again. They would not be eager to accept James — but I hoped I would never see that day — and Charles might say that they kept him on the throne because they preferred him to his brother, but I knew they loved him, as so many of us did.

He said to me at that time: “There can be no doubt that on this occasion I took the right turning. Odds fish! I should have done this before. If one is a king, one must act like one.”

People were waiting for what could come next.

They were saying that Fitzharris would go free because to try him might be an inconvenience to Louise de Keroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth, since he had been a servant of hers and might involve her.

I wondered, too. Even those of us who loved Charles had to admit his weakness over women.

But no. He gave orders that Fitzharris should stand for trial, and, although the Duchess and one of her women were witnesses for the defence, Fitzharris was found guilty and hanged.

Then there was Monmouth. I knew how fond Charles was of that young man. Charles was proud of him, but during this period Monmouth had played a disturbing role. He was ambitious in the extreme. He could not help casting covetous eyes on the throne, and the faction which had wanted to prove there had been a marriage with Lucy Walter had raised his hopes high.

Charles said to me: “I cannot receive Jemmy knowing what part he has played in this.”

“He is young…and ambitious,” I reminded him.

Charles looked at me steadily. “You are forgetting that he is in league with these men who would seek to destroy you.”

“I do know that.”

“I cannot believe that he could plot to poison me.”

“No, he does love you.”

“But he loves my crown more.”

“He must know in his heart that it can never be his.”

“Does he? He was involved in that plan to produce the famous box in which was the evidence to prove I married his mother.”

“Well, that would be a temptation, would it not?”

“Knowing it to be lies…”

“How could he be sure? I daresay they would convince him that there was such a box.”

“He would need little convincing, I’ll swear.”

“He is young. Naturally he is ambitious. He will be very unhappy if you turn from him.”

“Catherine, these people do not love me. They are bemused by the glitter of the crown. I know this well. But I think my brother James is a little fond of me.”

“He is very fond of you. Your subjects love you. Many people love you, Charles.”

“I know one who does, though I often ask God why.” He looked at me whimsically.

I was too moved for speech. Such moments were very precious to me and I should remember and cherish them throughout my life.

I said: “And Monmouth…you will forgive him?”

“You are asking me to, and if it is your wish…but remember, he has not been such a good friend to you.”

“I have one friend here whose goodness throughout these troubles has given me great happiness.”

“Thank you, Catherine,” he said. “Because you ask it, I will receive him.”

“And kindly?” I asked.

“Since it is your wish. But I shall insist that Jemmy is my illegitimate son. His mother and I were never married. And I will not allow it to be said otherwise.”

I said: “I think it will be enough if you receive him.”

SO MONMOUTH WAS back in favor…a little subdued for a while, but he quickly regained his confidence as the weeks passed.

The Duchess of Portsmouth was there too. I wondered how she felt about the execution of Edward Fitzharris, which was something of a reflection on herself.

She was as arrogant as ever, as certain of herself, still showing outward respect for me which concealed an almost imperceptible veiled insolence.

I found her presence disturbing.

Charles had made it impossible for Shaftesbury’s Bill to get a hearing; he had commanded that Fitzharris should be tried; and he had said he was behaving like a King, which he should have done before. But the Duchess of Portsmouth was still there. It was true that he spent less time with her and more with me, but she remained close to the King.

One evening when the court was assembled, she had taken her place beside him…a place which should have been mine. She did this with an assumption of unconcern, as though it were the most natural place for her to be.

Charles looked at her suddenly with a certain coldness rare in him.

He said: “You are looking pale, Duchess. May I suggest you try the Bourbon waters? They are said to be most beneficial.”

She looked at him in surprise tinged with dismay. I felt my heart bound in pleasure. This was diplomatic dismissal.

“I thank Your Majesty for your concern,” she said lightly. “Yes…I have heard they are very health giving.”

“You must try them, Duchess, I insist.”

She bowed her head.

Her eyes then met mine briefly. I hoped I did not betray my triumph.

WHAT A JOY IT WAS to be without Louise de Keroualle. The King and I were together frequently and it was almost like those first days at Hampton Court.

Monmouth was affable to me and I fancied Charles must have told him that he owed his reception to my good graces.

Charles was slipping into a routine which he enjoyed. He had ceased to concern himself with the calumnies of Titus Oates. The man had been discredited so many times, but even now his reign of terror persisted and people were afraid to offend him. But events were turning against him. When he accused a priest of complicity in his plot, the priest was tried and found guilty, but Charles intervened and the priest was reprieved. Oates was foolish. He did not seem to be aware that people were turning against him.

A certain Isaac Backhouse, a schoolmaster by profession, had, according to Oates, called after him: “There goes that perjured rogue.” Oates immediately took action against the schoolmaster, but the case was dismissed. Some months later he brought an action against a writer named Adam Elliot whom he accused of being a Jesuit priest. The case was disproved and Oates was forced to pay damages. Indeed, the tide was running against him. His pension was reduced and he was forbidden to come to court.

It was remembered that thirty-five people had been executed on account of the charges he had brought against them.

It was gratifying that Oates was being recognized for what he was.

These were happier times. Charles had for some years devoted himself to the rebuilding of London, so much of which had been destroyed during the great fire. One of his passions was a love of architecture, and he spent hours with his architect, Christopher Wren, whose work was now transforming London. Instead of the overhanging gables, which had almost met across the narrow streets, we now had wide thoroughfares, and the wooden houses, which had been so easily burned, were replaced by brick and stone. Fifty-three churches had already been built, as well as many houses. The building of the great cathedral had begun and Charles was interested in the construction of a Royal Observatory at Greenwich.

London was growing into a fine city. We heard that all over Europe people were talking of the beauty of its buildings and the speed with which the old city was being transformed.

Charles said we were fortunate to have such a fine architect as Wren; and I think we were lucky to have a king who cared so much about the grace and beauty of buildings, so that he could work in close cooperation with such a man.

Charles took his saunters in the park and was as merry as he had ever been. There was laughter about him and people walking past saluted and cheered him.

It was more than twenty years since he had returned, and they loved him as much as they had on the May day when he had come home after his long exile.

I began to feel happy, with a serenity I had not known since before that day when Barbara Castlemaine had been presented to me.

The power of Titus Oates was waning fast and Charles had stood by me through my troubles. He had learned that he had a strong enough hold on the affections of his subjects to stand out against tyranny. He was their King and they wanted his benevolent rule to continue.

It would have been wonderful to record that I had attained perfect happiness, but the Duchess of Portsmouth had returned to court, radiant after the Bourbon waters. Charles found her irresistible; and, of course, through all our troubles, there had been Nell Gwynne.