The Three Crowns

THE FAMILY OF YORK

In the nursery of their grandfather’s Twickenham mansion the two little girls of the Duke and Duchess of York played contentedly together. Three-year-old Mary and one-year-old Anne were completely ignorant of the reason why they had been sent to Twickenham; they did not know that the capital of their uncle’s kingdom was becoming more and more deserted every day, that the shops of the merchants were gradually closing, that people walked hastily through the narrow streets, their mouths covered that they might not breathe the pestilential air, their eyes averted from those tragic doors on which red crosses were marked. They did not know that the King and the Court had left the capital and by night the death cart patrolled the streets to the cry of “Bring out your dead.”

They were, Mary told Anne, in Grandpapa Clarendon’s house because it was in the country which was better than being in the town.

Anne listened, smiling placidly, not caring where she was as long as there was plenty to eat.

Mary watched her cramming the sweetmeats into her little round mouth, her fat fingers searching for the next before the last was finished.

“Greedy little sister,” said Mary affectionately.

Mary had felt conscious of being the elder sister ever since she had stood sponsor for Anne at the latter’s baptism. That occasion had been the most important of her life so far and remained her most vivid experience. Her father had impressed upon her the significance of her role and she had stood very solemnly beside her fellow sponsor, the young wife of the Duke of Monmouth, determined then that she would always look after Anne.

Looking after Anne was easy, for there was nothing Anne liked so much as being looked after. Everything Mary possessed she wanted to share with Anne. She had told her sister that she might hold her little black rabbit, stroke its fur, even call it her rabbit if she wished. Anne smiled her placid smile; but in fact she would rather have a share of Mary’s sweetmeats than her toys and pets.

Mary thought Anne the prettiest little girl in the kingdom, with her light brown hair falling about her bright pink face, and her round mouth and plump little hands. She herself was darker, less plump and more serious. Having to look after Anne had made her so.

Two of the nursery women stood in a corner watching them.

“Where would you find a prettier pair in the whole of England?” one demanded of the other.

“It’s small wonder that their parents dote on them.”

“Mary is the Duke’s favorite.”

“And Anne the Duchess’s.”

“Often I’ve seen my lady Duchess take the pretty creature on to her lap and feed her with chocolates. It’s easy to see from where the little lady Anne gets her sweet tooth.”

The two women put their heads closer together. “My lady Duchess is become so fat. If she does not take care …”

The other nodded. “The Duke will look elsewhere? He does that already, but never seriously. She leads him by the nose.”

“She’s clever, I’ll admit that. It surprises me that she gives way to her love of eating. Did you see the new traveling costumes they were wearing when they left London? The Queen looked well enough in hers … but you should have seen my lady Castlemaine. She was magnificent! Velvet coat and cap … like a man’s … and yet unlike and somehow being more like a woman’s garb for being so like a man’s. Most becoming. But our Duchess! I heard some of them sniggering behind their hands. More like a barrel than a Duchess they were saying.”

The other said: “I wonder when the Court will return to London?”

They were both sober.

“I hear it grows worse. They say that now grass grows between the cobbles.”

They looked at each other and shivered.

Then one said solemnly: “We are fortunate to be here in the country.”

“It’s a little too near London to please me, for they say it is spreading.”

“Where will it end? Do you believe it is because God is angry with the King’s way of life?”

“Hush your mouth. It won’t do to say such things.”

“Well, married three years and no sign of an heir and now this terrible plague. Why if our Duke and Duchess were to have a boy, do you realize he could be King of England? Imagine us. In the nursery of the King of England.”

“And if they shouldn’t and the King not either … well, then, our little Lady Mary would be Queen.”

They stared at the children with fresh respect.

The one grimaced. “That’s if we all survive this terrible plague.”

“Oh, we’re safe enough in Twickenham.”

A third woman joined them. It was obvious from her expression that she brought news which she knew was of the greatest importance.

“Haven’t you heard. Yesterday one of the stewards complained of pains. He’d been to the City.”

“No! How is he now?”

“I heard that he was most unwell.”

The two women looked at each other in dismay; the shadow of the plague had come to pleasant Twickenham.

That night the steward died, and the next day two more of the Earl of Clarendon’s servants fell sick. Within a few days they too were dead. Twickenham was no longer a refuge. The plague had discovered it.

When the Duke and Duchess came in haste to Twickenham there was a tremor of excitement all through the house. The Duke went straight into the nursery and picking up Mary kissed her tenderly before looking earnestly into her face.

“My little daughter is well?” he asked anxiously. “Quite well?”

“Your Grace,” said her nurse, “the Lady Mary is in excellent health.”

“And her sister?”

“The Lady Anne also.”

“Begin preparations without delay. I wish to leave within the hour.”

The Duchess was fondling Anne, feeling in the pockets of her gown for a sweetmeat to pop into that ever ready mouth.

“Well, there is no time to be lost,” said the Duke.

He looked at the Duchess who had sat down heavily with Anne on her knee. She held out her arms for Mary who ran to her and was embraced while her Mother asked questions about her daughter’s lessons. But Mary sensed that she was not really listening to the answers.

The Duke watched his wife and their two daughters, and in spite of his anxiety and the need to hurry he had time to remind himself that he was pleased with his marriage. Not that he was a faithful husband. Charles was furious with him at the moment, because he had tried to seduce Miss Frances Stuart whom Charles’s roving eyes had selected for his own. There was not much luck in that direction, either for himself or Charles, he feared. Arabella Churchill was more amenable, so was Margaret Denham. Ah, Margaret! She was an enchanting creature. Eighteen years old and recently married to Sir John Denham who must have been over fifty and looked seventy. Denham was furious on account of this liaison, but what could he expect? The King had set the tone at Court, so no one expected his brother to live the monogamous life of a virtuous married man.

Anne objected of course, but mildly. Anne was clever; her only folly seemed to be her over-indulgence at the table. Nor was her desire to gratify a perpetual hunger obvious at the table only. In her apartments there were boxes of sweets in most drawers and on tables so that she found them at her elbow wherever she happened to be.

He had not been so unwise after all when he married Clarendon’s daughter, although Clarendon was fast falling out of favor. Poor old man! He had suffered real terror at the time of the marriage and now declared that his fortunes had begun to sink ever since his headstrong daughter had married the heir presumptive to the throne.

Anne had been upbraiding him for blatantly indulging in his affair with Margaret Denham when news had reached them of the outbreak of plague in Twickenham. That had sobered them both. Of what importance was her obesity, greed, and dominating ways, or his unfaithfulness compared with the safety of their children!

Perhaps more than anything in the world, he mused, he loved his elder daughter.

“Mary,” he said, “come here, my child.”

He noticed with pleasure how eagerly she came to him.

“My darling,” he said, “you are a big girl now, old enough to understand a great many things.”

He lifted her on to his knee. She was delighted by the satin of his coat, the lace ruffles at his neck and sleeve, his long dark curls which seemed all the more wonderful because they could be taken off and put on a stand.

“We are going away, Mary.”

“Now?”

“We are leaving in an hour. You will like to be with me … and your mother?”

“Anne is coming?”

“Certainly. You do not think we would leave Anne behind?”

She laughed with happiness; and he put his lips to the smooth cheeks. He told himself that he would rather anything happened to him than that that delicate cheek should be raged by plague spots, and a sense of urgency seized him. Every moment might be important. He would not rest until they were far away.

“Where are we going, Papa?”

“To York, my dearest, they are preparing for our departure now.” He called to the nurse: “Is the baggage ready? Then begin to prepare the children. It is a long journey to York.”

“But Papa,” said Mary, “you are York.”

He patted her head; even in his haste marveling at her. What Charles would give for a child like this! he thought. Even though she is a girl.

“My love, York is also a city … our city. And from there I shall be near the fleet and we will watch out for the wicked Dutchmen and keep them from our shores.”

“Tell me about the Dutchmen, Papa.”

“Later,” he said. “When there is time. Now we are leaving at once. See, your nurse is waiting to dress you for the journey. Why, my little one, you and I will have many a talk in the days to come. I want you to know about what is happening to our country. You must never forget that you are my daughter and His Majesty’s niece.”

Mary remembered and believed herself to be the luckiest little girl in England. Her father was the best man in the world; her mother was the best mother; and in addition, she had for an uncle the one to whom everyone must bow and, she was certain although she believed it might be a secret between them, to her he was not a great King at all, only Uncle Charles, who could make her laugh and all the time wished she were his daughter instead of her father’s.

It was a happy family that stayed at York during those months which followed the retreat from Twickenham.

There was reconciliation between the Duke and the Duchess, for the Duke was not near enough to his mistresses to pay court to them, which was a matter of great satisfaction to the Duchess, and since the Duke was ready to concede to her in everything but his affairs with women, the household was harmonious.

They both agreed that it was like returning to those first weeks of marriage when it had seemed the whole world was against them and they had determined to stand together whatever the consequences.

Together now they supervised the education of Mary, who, they believed, was very intelligent. The Duke liked to have her with him when he received officials from the Navy and he would often call attention to her.

“I tell you this,” he said one day to Samuel Pepys, who had come to see him with some Navy estimates, “the Lady Mary of York understands much of what you are saying.”

It was an exaggeration, but Mary always listened attentively, for her greatest joy was in pleasing her father.

She worked hard at her lessons so that she could have his approbation and looked forward to those hours when he came to the nursery to be with her. Often when Anne was with her mother, Mary and her father would be together, and the Duke’s servants said that their master loved his daughter Mary beyond everything in the world.

One day he came to her a little sadly, and lifting her on to his knee and putting his cheek against her hair, told her that he would have to leave her. “But only for a little while,” he consoled.

“Oh, Papa,” she answered blankly and he wept as he kissed her.

“Listen, my little one,” he went on, “Uncle Charles is in Oxford and I have to join him there because that is where the Parliament is. There is much work to do when you are a King and the brother of a King. Do you understand?”

She nodded, lacing her fingers in his and gripping them as though to indicate that she would not let him go without a struggle.

“That is good because you will have to understand the duties of kingship. Why, my love, it could so come about that you might one day be a Queen of England … a Queen in your own right, sweetheart. Think of that.”

“And Anne?”

“Oh, Anne is your little sister. You are before her. But Uncle Charles has no son.”

She was puzzled thinking of handsome Jemmy, whom she loved so much and who was known as Monmouth. She had thought he was Uncle Charles’s son.

“No, he has no sons who could inherit the throne,” went on her father, “so therefore if Uncle Charles died I should be King. And if I were to die …” She looked alarmed and he kissed her tenderly. “I shall not for years and years … but one day I shall be a poor old man and you will be a woman with husband and children of your own. Then, my love, if Uncle Charles had no children at all and you did not have a little brother, you could be Queen of England.”

It was all very complicated to her, but he was glad he had told her; it was as well to learn as early as possible what part one might have to play in the country’s affairs.

Then he changed the subject abruptly; he told her wonderful stories of how he had been a soldier in Europe and he and Uncle Charles had been two wandering exiles because the wicked Oliver Cromwell had driven them from England. He had many exciting adventures to relate; but what Mary liked best was the story of how the people decided that they wanted no more of the puritan rule and sent to Europe for the Princes. She liked to hear how he and Uncle Charles came back to England, how the bells rang out and the people strewed their way with flowers while they danced in the streets and laughed and embraced each other because England had ceased to be a somber place.

“They knew Uncle Charles would make them laugh again,” said Mary.

Her father nodded. She was right. Charles had made them laugh at his witticisms, at his careless good nature, at his never ending adventures with women.

When James left soon for Oxford, Mary missed him sadly, discovering that she loved him better than anyone in the world—better than her mother, better than cousin Jemmy, better even than Anne.

Each day Mary hoped to hear that her father would be with them; she worked hard at her lessons, wishing to surprise him, and her mother was proud of her, but Mary knew that secretly she loved Anne best, although the child never made any effort to win affection; she smiled placidly at everybody, and grew fatter every day.

There were occasions when the Duke paid a visit to York and they were the happiest days for Mary. She would be at his side all through the day; and even when important people came to see him she was not dismissed. He would hold her on his knee while he talked; and she listened because she knew that was what he wanted her to do. Thus she learned a little about the wicked Dutchmen who were threatening England on the high seas; she also heard news of the terrible plague.

One day her mother sent for the little girls and taking Anne on her lap and drawing Mary into the crook of her arm, she said: “How would you like to go back home?”

Home? But this was home. Home was where her mother was, where her father came when he could escape from his duties.

“You are going to have a very happy time,” explained the Duchess, popping a sweet into Anne’s mouth. “You are going to live in Richmond Palace, where a nursery is being prepared for you, and you will have a lady governess and other little girls to be your companions.”

Mary was a little puzzled; but her mother was smiling while Anne contentedly crunched, and later when she heard the servants talking about it and understood how happy they were to be going, as they said, “home,” she was happy too.

Lady Frances Villiers, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Suffolk who had married Colonel Edward Villiers and given him a family, was congratulating herself on her appointment.

“For,” she told her husband, “it seems clear that the King will never have an heir; and in that case the most important children in the country will be under my care.”

The Colonel agreed that the position looked promising for the future.

“Edward and Henry are well placed at Court,” went on Lady Frances, “and the girls will now have their opportunity. They will be close companions of the Lady Mary and the Lady Anne, and I shall impress upon them the importance of making that friendship firm.”

“I am sure you will, my dear,” her husband answered.

“In fact,” went on Lady Frances, “I shall speak to Elizabeth without delay.”

She sent one of her maids to find her eldest daughter and when Elizabeth stood before her she surveyed her with a certain uneasiness. Elizabeth was disquieting. Although only ten years old, she seemed already wise; she would be the eldest in the royal nursery and for that reason, as well as because of her character, would attempt to take charge.

“Elizabeth,” said her mother somewhat peevishly. “Stand up straight. Don’t slouch.”

Elizabeth obeyed. She was graceful, but there was a cast in her eyes which gave her a sharp yet sly look.

“The Lady Mary and the Lady Anne will soon be arriving. I trust you realize the honor which the Duke and Duchess are bestowing on you by allowing you to be their companion.”

“Is it an honor?” asked Elizabeth.

Yes, she was sharp, alert, and a little insolent.

“You are foolish. It is a great honor as you know well. You know the position of the Lady Mary.”

“She is only a little girl … years younger than I.”

“Now you are indeed talking like a child. The King is without heirs; the Lady Mary is the Duke’s eldest daughter and he has no son. If the King has no children and the Duke no son, the Lady Mary could be Queen.”

“But the King has sons, and they say …”

“Have done,” said Lady Frances sharply. “You must remember that you are in the royal service.”

“But I do not understand. We are the Villiers.”

“Then you are more foolish than I thought. Even a child of your age should know that every family however important must take second place to royalty.”

“Yet they say that my cousin Barbara Villiers is more important than Queen Catherine.”

She was indeed sly? And how old? Not eleven yet. Lady Frances thought that a whipping might be good for Miss Elizabeth. She would see.

“You may go now,” she said. “But remember what I have said. I should like you and the Lady Mary to be friends. Friendships made in childhood can last a lifetime. It is a good thing to remember.”

“I will remember it,” Elizabeth assured her.

Lady Frances, her daughters ranged about her, greeted the Princesses as they entered the Palace.

She knelt and put her arms about them. “Let us forget ceremony for this occasion,” she cried. “Welcome, my Lady Mary and my Lady Anne. I think we are going to be very happy together as one big family.”

Mary thought they would be a very large family. There were six daughters of Lady Frances: Elizabeth, Katherine, Barbara, Anne, Henrietta, and Mary. Barbara Villiers was a name Mary had often heard whispered; but she did not believe that this little girl was that Barbara whose name could make people lower their voices and smile secretively.

Lady Frances took her by the hand and showed her her apartments. Anne’s she was relieved to find were next to her own. Lady Frances seemed kind but Mary wanted to be back in York with her own mother and the possibility of her father’s coming any day; she was disturbed because she sensed change, and she did not like it. Anne was not in the least worried; she believed that she would be petted and pampered in Richmond as she had been in York.

Mary was not so sure. She was constantly aware of Elizabeth Villiers, who was so much older than she was, seemed so much wiser, and was continually watching her, she was sure, in a critical manner.

Those days became faintly uneasy; and it was mainly due to Elizabeth Villiers.

Supper was being prepared in the King’s apartments. Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, would be his chief guest; Rochester, Sedley, and the rest would be present; and it would be one of those occasions on which the King could indulge his wit, and afterward they would all leave except Barbara with whom he would spend the night. A pleasant prospect, particularly for a man who had known exile.

It had been said that “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” he ruminated, which was true enough. Not that he was a man to worry unduly. He had had enough of cares and intended to enjoy life, but there was one anxiety which haunted him; he had made a declaration never, if he could help it, to go a-wandering again, and there had been more determination and sincerity behind that declaration than there often was in his utterances.

He could laugh at himself—seeing in the King of England a sinful man. I should be a good King, he thought, if women were not so important to me. But his need of them had been born in him, as it was in James. James would be a contented and happy man, if it were not for women.

We are as we are because we must be, mused Charles. And he tried to remember the stories he had heard of his maternal grandfather, who it had been said was the greatest King the French had ever known; yet he too had had this failing.

It was well enough to love a woman—even if she were not one’s wife. Another French King, Henri Deux, had proved that in a most sober relationship with Diane de Poitiers. But this was different. This was not a woman; it was women. And while he was entertaining Barbara he was thinking of Frances Stuart and the pretty little actresses of Drury Lane—and others. He was thinking too of his poor sad little wife Catherine who had had the misfortune to fall in love with him before she had given herself time to discover the kind of man her husband was.

The trouble was that he was so fond of them all; he hated hurting them or displeasing them; he would promise anything to make them smile, unfortunately promises should be redeemed. Perhaps one of the reasons why he clung to Barbara was that she was ready to rage and scream rather than weep and plead.

These were frivolous thoughts at such a time. His reign had been far from peaceful; what if the people decided that kings brought a country no better luck than parliaments? There was war with the Dutch and it was but a short time ago that his capital city had been devastated by the great plague, when death had stalked the streets of London, putting an end to that commerce on which he had relied to bring prosperity to the land. It had been one of the greatest disasters the country had known; and the following year another—almost as terrible: the great fire.

He knew the people asked themselves: “Is this a warning from heaven because of the profligate life led by the King and his Court?” In the beginning they had loved the pageants, the play, and the magnificence of gallants and ladies. They had said: “Away dull care! Away prim puritans! Now we have a King who knows how to live and if he makes love to many women that is the new fashion.” What amorous squire, what voluptuous lady, was not amused and delighted by such a fashion? “Take your lovers! It is no crime. Look at the King and his Court. It is the fashionable way of life.”

But no one had laughed at the plague and fire and these disasters had revived the puritan spirit. There were still many puritans in England.

But when they had seen the King and the Duke of York working together during the great fire—going among the people, giving orders, they had loved them. It was comforting to contemplate that one only had to appear to win the people’s cheers. In secret they might deplore his way of life but when he was there with his smiles, his wit and, most of all, his cameraderie, he was theirs. To the men he implied: “I am the King, but I am only a man and you are a man also.” To the women: “I am the King, but always ready to do homage to beauty in the humblest.” They adored him, and it was due to that quality known as the Stuart charm.

Poor James, he had missed it. James was too serious. In some ways a pale shadow of brother Charles; in others quite different. James lacked the light touch.

He was relieved that James would not be with him tonight, for James had no place at these amusing little supper parties.

“I would to God Catherine would get a son,” thought the King. “For if she does not then it is brother James who will wear the crown after me and I wonder whether the people are going to love him as they should.”

A smile touched his lips as his thoughts immediately went to Jemmy—beautiful Jemmy, who was wild as all young men must be, and who was ambitious, which was natural too. It was a pleasure to see that young man in the dance—leaping higher than the others—always seeking his father’s attention as though he wanted proof of his affection at every moment of the day. As if he needed it. It was his and he should know it.

“Though, would he be so eager for that affection if I were plain Master Charles Stuart?” There was no need to answer that question. He appealed to women almost as much as they appealed to him; but how many of his easy conquests did he owe to his crown? Most of them, he thought with a wry smile. Young Charles Stuart, the exile wandering through Europe looking for men, money, and arms, had not been so successful as the middle-aged King; and the answer: The Crown! The irresistible Crown!

As the King sat brooding he heard a commotion outside his apartments.

“Let me in!” cried a voice. “I demand to see the King. For the sake of his soul … let me in.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. Surely not another fanatic come to warn him of the fires of hell. He hesitated; then as the voice continued to shout he left his apartment. On the staircase an elderly man was struggling in the arms of his guards. There could not be much to fear from such a creature, he was sure. He said: “Release the fellow. Then perhaps he will tell us what his business is.”

“I come to warn Your Majesty.”

“A familiar occupation of my subjects,” murmured Charles lightly, wondering where he had seen that face before; if the features had not been distorted in madness, he believed he would have recognized him.

“I am the Holy Ghost come down from Heaven.”

“Then I should say I am pleased to make your acquaintance and accept the fact that since you are holy and I am merely royal you are entitled to disturb my peace.”

“I am the Holy Ghost!” cried the man, beating his chest.

“Poor fellow,” said Charles. “He is indeed distressed.”

“Mad, Your Majesty.”

“What has brought you to this state?” asked Charles gently.

“My wife,” said the man. “She is young … scarce eighteen.”

“I see that like myself it is long since you were that age.”

The King’s tone seemed to calm the man for he nodded soberly.

“And she is unfaithful.”

“A common failing and to be expected, when eighteen mates with …” The King came closer and peered into the man’s face.

One of the guards asked His Majesty’s pleasure with regard to this disturber of his peace.

“Treat him gently,” said the King. “He is much distressed.”

“It’s the royalty. It bemuses them,” murmured the madman.

Charles was puzzled; he knew the background of all his present mistresses and did not believe one of them could possibly be this man’s wife.

“Pray tell me your name,” he said.

“I am the Holy Ghost.”

“Where do you live?”

“In my house in Scotland Yard.”

“Scarcely a fitting domicile,” murmured Charles.

“He comes quite openly. The whole household knows. They laugh behind my back.”

“An embarrassing situation for a celestial being.” Charles signed to the guards. “Take him away. Take him to his home and let me know who he is. Perhaps I will speak to his pretty young wife.”

One of the guards said: “Your Majesty, he is Sir John Denham.”

“John Denham of a surety. Now I remember. Our Irish poet. He was loyal to our cause. And now he has come to this through marrying a young wife. Well it is a folly many commit and suffer for. Take him quietly to his home.”

Now it was clear to Charles. As he returned to his apartments he remembered that the royal lover was his brother James whom everyone knew had taken Margaret Denham, this man’s young wife, to be his mistress. The whole Court would now be talking of how the liaison between Margaret Denham and the Duke of York had driven poor John Denham mad. How like James to involve himself in such a scandal.

There was something ineffectual about James. He was a good fellow—affectionate, sentimental, and doomed to attract trouble because he simply did not know how to live. He mismanaged his life. Why had James not come to see him earlier when he was summoned? Charles had wanted to settle the unfortunate affair of Clarendon and who could explain what had to be explained more tactfully than the old man’s son-in-law. There again James was a fool. His marriage was one of love, he had declared; he would have no one but Clarendon’s daughter and she, of course, was very eager to have him—not only because of his royal blood and the fact that he was heir presumptive to the throne, but at the time of that trouble she had been growing bigger every week. Clarendon’s daughter and a commoner! James would always be in trouble.

And now the husband of his mistress was going about declaring he was the Holy Ghost and the reason was that James had made him a cuckold.

Charles was feeling exasperated with James when a message was brought to him that his brother was asking for an audience.

Charles commanded that he be brought immediately.

“Well, brother?” he said.

James bowed stiffly; then his manner relaxed. He was not unlike Charles, not so tall but even so more than medium height; and he had a natural dignity. His features were similar; the difference was in their manner. The King was natural, at ease, lazily charming; James was reserved; he was considerably more handsome than Charles, but completely lacked his brother’s charm. Charles was nonchalant; James was very serious; Charles succeeded in winning his subjects’ affection without trying. James tried hard and did not often succeed. He had been popular when he had resounding successes at sea, but that popularity waned with failure, whereas Charles never lost the acclaim of the people in spite of his scandalous behavior. The Duke of Buckingham had said of them: “Charles could if he would, and James would if he could!” A remark which many believed summed up succinctly the differences between the brothers.

“I believe Your Majesty wishes to discuss the vexatious matter of my father-in-law,” said James.

“Ah,” retorted Charles, “what a family you have married into!”

James retorted: “And what a Chancellor Your Majesty has got yourself.”

“Methinks he will be Chancellor little longer, for the truth is his behavior and humor have grown insupportable, and I can no longer endure it, finding it impossible to live with.”

“Yet,” said James, “he is a man who has done good service.”

“And he is your father-in-law.”

James snapped his fingers.

“Your wife will not be pleased.” Charles smiled. “But then there are other matters in which you displease her, so I believe.”

“What can Your Majesty expect? I am your brother.”

Charles smiled lazily at James. “I should expect you to give a good account of yourself to your little friends,” he said. “I would not have it otherwise. Wives alas can be demanding.”

“I think the Duchess and I understand each other.”

“Then you are indeed a fortunate man, for a wife who understands and smiles at her husband’s peccadilloes is beyond rubies. But the lady’s father?”

“This is the end, is it not?”

“There is no other way, brother. He has been a good minister in the past … and that I remember. But he has become overbearing. He works against me and the Parliament. Many are calling for his blood. I shall try to save him from his enemies … if that is possible. But I want him to go, James. Tell him that I want no more of him. Persuade him to go quietly and his reward shall be to live in peace.”

“I shall speak to him.”

“Speak gently, for he is an old man. But tell him to go … while he can.”

“I shall do my best.”

“And there is one other matter. The husband of a friend of yours called on me this day. The Holy Ghost. Have you the honor of his acquaintance?”

James looked puzzled.

“Investigations proved my visitor to be come not from the celestial regions but from Scotland Yard. His name is Denham. Can you enlighten me?”

“Denham?” said James. “Margaret’s husband.”

“An Irish poet who has been a good friend to our father and ourselves. We should remember our friends, brother.”

“I have naught against him. I scarce know the fellow.”

“It is understandable since you know his wife very well. A strong friendship with a lady often means one of slightly less warmth with her husband.”

“She is but eighteen …”

“A delectable age!”

“And he is fifty and looks seventy. What can he expect marrying one so young?”

Charles smiled cynically at his brother.

“Alas,” he said, “the people expect you to conduct your affairs with discretion.”

“Your Majesty’s affairs are …”

“Not always discreet. The King’s prerogative, brother. Remember you are not yet King.”

“And you are asking me …”

“Only to have a little care. I liked not the look of our friend Denham. He was a sick man with a purpose in his eyes. I am warning you to be discreet. That is all.”

“I will go along to Scotland Yard. I will discover what this means.”

“Then I pray you go quietly, for the sake of your Duchess. I trust the lady is well. And the children?”

James’s face lightened up at the thought of his daughters. They were well, he told Charles; and he began to enlarge on the cleverness of Mary, to which Charles listened indulgently. He was fond of his nieces, particularly Mary, and his was too generous a nature for envy. Although he earnestly wished for legitimate heirs he did not grudge James his.

“I begin to despair of sharing your good fortune,” he said ruefully. “The Queen cannot get children. So James, you should prepare yourself to take on my burden in due course.”

“Not before I am an old man myself, I trust.”

“Do you, James? Have you no desire to wear the crown?”

“I would leifer see Your Majesty with a healthy son.”

“Would to God Jemmy were legitimate.”

He was still hankering after making Monmouth legitimate, thought James. One of the grudges Charles had against Clarendon was that the old man had stood out against Monmouth’s legitimization.

“Doubtless Jemmy shares your feelings on that score,” added James.

Charles grimaced. “Forget not what I have told you. Speak to your father-in-law. Show him the wisdom of graceful retirement. It is so much more dignified to step into obscurity than to be forced into it … or worse.”

“I will do my best.”

“My good brother, I know you will. Now I would have you leave me for the hour grows late and my guests will arrive and you, I know, have your own friends awaiting you.”

As James left his brother, he was thinking of what he would say to his father-in-law. Poor old man, his was a familiar fate. He had too much power and believed himself invincible. He had angered Monmouth by standing against his legitimization; he had made an enemy of Lady Castlemaine by trying to turn the King from his immoral way of life. A man could not afford to make powerful enemies; and his self righteousness and sanctimonious manners had in time antagonized the King. So with his ministers baying for Clarendon’s blood on one side, and his beloved bastard and his demanding mistress on the other, it was inevitable that Clarendon’s end should be in sight.

He would try to persuade him to go quietly which was the best course open to him—and although it would anger his enemies, the King would be pleased. Whatever else Charles was, he was kind; he never wanted revenge; he had loathed the act of taking the bodies of the Roundhead leaders from their graves and submitting them to insults. He had never wanted revenge on his enemies. “Enough,” he would cry. “Have done.” But if he were kind he was also lazy. He would give Clarendon the chance to save himself from his enemies and if the old man obstinately refused to, then that would be his affair.

Tonight, of course, he would forget Clarendon’s imminent fall and all unpleasantness in the company of Lady Castlemaine. He remained enamored of that virago although it was difficult to see why. And he had still made no progress with Frances Stuart, for which James was thankful, although he himself was in the same position with regard to this most beautiful and aloof young lady at his brother’s Court.

He was going straight to Scotland Yard. He must see Margaret. He must discover what this account of her husband’s calling himself the Holy Ghost was all about. Was Denham going mad? And were his enemies going to blame him for this? Were they going to say that the scandalous behavior of the Duke of York with Denham’s wife had unbalanced the old fellow? In that case almost every husband at Court should be unbalanced. It was absurd.

Margaret would reassure him; she always did. She was so young and gay and she made him feel so. His affair with her was common knowledge and he had not cared except that he would have preferred to keep it secret from his wife. But Anne had learned by now that she must accept his infidelities; it was inconceivable that the Duke of York, brother to that greatest of libertines, King Charles II, should not have a mistress or two.

Arriving at Scotland Yard, he made his way to the house of Sir John Denham, where he was conducted to his mistress’s apartments. When they had embraced she told him that Sir John had been strange lately, that he had sworn vengeance on her and her lover and that appearing before the King as the Holy Ghost seemed to be his idea of discomfiting them.

James found the youthful charms of his mistress so delightful that in her company it seemed of little importance what her husband did.

Sir John Denham appeared quickly to recover from his brief aberration. He begged the King’s pardon which was readily given; and the Duke of York continued his visits to Scotland Yard, a situation to which Sir John seemed to have become reconciled.

James felt triumphant. He conducted his affairs, he believed, as successfully as his brother. Barbara Villiers created scandal enough and so did the playgirls, but he at least had chosen his mistresses from a higher social scale than the latter.

His Duchess was angry, but that was natural. He would give way to her in some ways and she must perforce give way to him in others. For one thing, she was reading books, constantly talking with priests, and was arousing suspicions that she was leaning very close to Catholicism. That would scarcely bring her popularity and was a more serious matter than taking a mistress or two.

James’s visits to Scotland Yard were growing more and more frequent. He was deeply involved with Margaret and now that her husband had, as he said, overcome his folly and accepted this truly natural state of affairs, there was no need for them even to be discreet. Lady Denham was the Duke’s mistress and that was an end of the matter.

But one day when he made his way to the Denhams’ residence he was met by one of Sir John’s servants who attempted to bar his way.

James was astounded; then it occurred to him that the fellow did not recognize him.

But he did, for he stammered: “Your Grace … you should not go up there …”

Should not mount the stairs to his mistress’s room when she was expecting him, when he had been there a hundred times!

“Stand aside, fellow,” he began; then he noticed that the servant was trembling and trying to tell him something.

“Your Grace … a terrible tragedy …”

“Lady Denham?”

“Your Grace … Lady Denham is … dead.”

“Dead! It’s not possible. I saw her yesterday. How can it be?”

“They say, Your Grace, that it was chocolate. A poisoned cup of chocolate.”

The Duke pushed the man aside. He ran to his mistress’s room and throwing open the door stood aghast, staring at the bed.

Several people, who were in the room, stood aside as he slowly advanced and stood looking down at his murdered mistress.

The great topic of conversation at Court and in the streets was the Denham affair. Rumor ran wild. Sir John Denham had poisoned his wife because she was unfaithful to him with the Duke of York. The Countess of Rochester, another of the Duke’s mistresses, had poisoned her because of jealousy on account of the Duke of York. No matter what the rumor, the name of the Duke of York was always mentioned and because of this there was greater interest in the affair than there would otherwise have been.

A few puritans condemned the Duke of York and the manners of the Court, but those who were in favor of the new freedom—and these were the majority—turned suddenly against Sir John Denham, who had married a young woman and murdered her, her only sin being that she was in the fashion.

As a result, crowds gathered outside Sir John’s house brandishing sticks and knifes.

“Come out, John Denham,” they chanted. “Let’s see how you like the same medicine that you gave to your wife.”

When Sir John’s life was in danger as if by magic all signs of his madness disappeared. He had the rumor circulated that if he lived long enough he would give his wife a magnificent funeral at St. Margaret’s Westminster at which burned wine would be distributed to all who cared to partake of it.

Public feeling toward Sir John immediately changed. He now became a generous man, a wronged husband. The Duke of York was the real villain of the story—he and Sir John’s slut of a wife. Those who had previously waved threatening weapons, now drank his burned wine and commiserated with him. But there had to be a culprit, for someone, the crowd was certain, had put poison into Lady Denham’s chocolate. There had been rumors of the Duchess’s jealousy, so what more natural than that a jealous woman should seek to rid herself of her rival? This was the best story so far. An erring husband; a jealous wife.

The people were eager to believe they had discovered the murderess. It should be the Duchess of York.

The elder Villiers girls were whispering together, every now and then glancing at Mary who sat with her sister Anne trying to interest her in writing her name. Anne was smiling as Mary guided her hand. She did not greatly care for the task, but she loved to be with Mary and tried to do all she could to please her and their heads were close together as they bent over the table.

“There were such crowds,” whispered Elizabeth. “They were going to kill him. And they would have … if he had not promised them wine at the funeral.”

“It would have served him right,” put in Katherine.

“Oh no, it wouldn’t. It wasn’t his fault. He was just angry.”

“But if he poisoned her …”

“Don’t talk so loudly.” Significant glances were sent toward the Princesses at the table. Anne did not hear them; the tip of her tongue slightly protruded from the corner of her mouth showed that she was trying hard to do what was expected of her. Mary was listening intently, because she knew by the tone of Elizabeth’s voice that she was talking of something which was unpleasant and which in some obscure way, concerned her, Mary. “Our mother would punish you if she knew you talked of such matters … especially …” A quick look in the direction of the two at the table.

So it is before us, that she must not speak of this, thought Mary.

“If a wife takes a lover,” went on Elizabeth speaking very distinctly, “her husband has a right to poison her, even if …”

“But the people are angry that he poisoned her?”

“Don’t interrupt. Even if her lover was … someone in a high position.”

“But if …”

“Katherine! You know you must not speak of it … here.”

Mary leaned over her sister so that Anne’s soft hair caressed her cheek. How happy she would be, she thought then, if there was no one in her nursery but her dear sister. They could have been happy together—perhaps Barbara might stay with them. Barbara was the Villiers girl she liked best, and was more gentle than the others.

“No, Anne,” she said, “that is not good. Just look at that second ‘n’.”

Anne put her head on one side and smiled adoringly at her sister.

“You do it, Mary. You do it so beautifully.”

Mary wrote “Anne” firmly in the script of which she was rather proud.

“It’s a much nicer name when you write it,” commented Anne, snuggling close to her sister. “I don’t think I should learn to write it when you do it so well.”

“Oh, Anne, you are lazy!”

The Villiers girls were still whispering together; but Mary wanted to go on laughing with Anne; she wanted to shut her ears for fear she heard so much of what they were saying that she understood. She was sure it was unpleasant.

The Duchess of York was a proud woman. The passion which had inspired the Duke to shut his eyes to all obstacles when he married her, had perhaps made her expect too much from their marriage. She had certainly gained a great deal for, as wife to the heir presumptive, she was a powerful woman and as it was said that she led the Duke by the nose in all things but his codpiece, her significance was accepted by all.

But her pride was deeply wounded by his constant love affairs. She was a fool to expect fidelity perhaps; but he might have used a little discretion. Of all his mistresses there was one who stood most firmly in his affections; and it was this very firmness which infuriated Anne. Arabella Churchill was a woman to be reckoned with. She was ambitious, Anne was sure; and the fact that she was no real beauty, made her all the more to be feared.

Lady Southesk, Anne had forgiven him. The woman had, as Anne had remarked cuttingly to her husband, “passed through the hands of so many gentlemen that she must be slightly soiled by now.” Anne would not demean herself by showing jealousy of such a creature whose powers to amuse must surely be short-lived.

Frances Jennings had succeeded in giving Anne a few anxious moments when the slut deliberately dropped the Duke’s love letters to her at the feet of the Duchess. There was Elizabeth Hamilton and of course Margaret Denham who had come to an end which was unfortunate for her; but none of these worried the Duchess as the Churchill woman did. She was ambitious that one; already she had induced James to look after her family. George Churchill had been found a place in the navy and John in the army.

She might rail against James; he would listen patiently, perhaps promise to mend his ways; but of course he had no intention of keeping that promise for more than a few hours.

If she had the time and inclination for such an adventure she would take a lover. She almost had a few years ago. Henry Sidney was one of the most handsome men in the Court; he had been Groom of the Bedchamber and when he had become her Master of Horse Anne had been thrown constantly into his company. How wounded she had been at that time, knowing that her husband was turning more and more to his mistresses and understanding that she would never be able to divert his attention from them! It had been more difficult in those days to accept humiliation.

And how furious James had been when he suspected Sidney of being her lover! How he had ranted and raged—which was so unlike him. His jealousy had been gratifying but he refused to agree that what was acceptable in a husband should be in a wife; and Sidney’s handsome face had not appeared at Court for a long time. The plague had followed quickly on that affair, but Anne was sure that Henry Sidney remained in the Duke’s mind, as memorable a disaster as the great sickness.

She was thinking of this as she sat alone in her bedchamber, asking herself whether the recent Denham tragedy would make James a little more careful in his choice of mistresses when she noticed a paper which had evidently been thrust under her door.

Going to it and, bending carefully as she must on account of her weight, she picked it up, and taking it to the window read it. As she did so the color came into her white flabby face. It was a verse … a lampoon directed against her, telling of her jealousy, of the Duke’s preference for another woman which had caused her to have a dose of poison put into that woman’s chocolate.

This was too much. To endure his infidelities was one thing. To be accused of poisoning his mistresses was another. If it had been Arabella Churchill there might have been some reason in it. But to dare to accuse her of murdering the insignificant Margaret Denham was beyond endurance.

Grasping the paper in her hand she went along to her husband’s apartment. Mary was with him, but she scarcely saw the child.

“Look at this,” she said, thrusting the paper into his hands.

James read it; and before he spoke he caressed his daughter’s head.

“Go now, my dear,” he said, giving her a little push toward an ante chamber.

When Mary had disappeared Anne said: “This is more than I will endure.”

James lifted his shoulders. “There are always these lampoons.”

“They would not be if your conduct did not give the writers what they are looking for.”

“They would always find something.”

“I suspect Rochester to be the author of this.”

“That man! I would my brother would dismiss him from the Court.”

“Dismiss his boon companion. He would rather see you gone, James … you with your scandals and your follies.”

“I doubt I’ll ever make a scandal as great as my brother’s.”

“He is the King. He can keep twenty mistresses at a time and the people will applaud him. You, my dear Duke, do not enjoy the people’s indulgence to that extent. And when your mistresses are murdered—well, that is a serious matter. Charles has not been involved in that sort of scandal.”

“You are shouting,” said James. “You will be heard.”

“Those who listen will only hear what they already know.”

“I forbid you to talk in this way.”

Anne laughed. “You forbid me. It is no use trying to cover up your indiscretions by playing the great duke and stern master. It will not do. I shall not endure these humiliations.”

“You have not always been so virtuous yourself, if I remember rightly. What of Henry Sidney?”

“Henry Sidney. He was merely my Master of Horse.”

“And of you it seems.”

“A fabrication which existed in your mind. It was so convenient to delude yourself that your wife was unfaithful—since you had deceived her with … how many? Or would it be impossible to count?”

“You are overwrought.”

“I have just been accused of murder. What are you going to do about that?”

“I tell you, there will always be lampoons. They are written daily about Charles and Barbara Castlemaine.”

“I do not think they have been accused of murder.”

“Oh, come, that suggestion is not serious.”

“Adultery. Lechery. They are to be expected in this Court. In fact, if one is not a lecher or an adulterer one is considered old-fashioned, behind the times. But murder has not yet been judged a virtue.”

“Anne, be calm.”

“I do not feel calm.”

“We cannot talk with ease until you do.”

“And you would rather leave me until I am calm? That is a good excuse. You would rather be off with that sly-eyed Churchill woman. Very well, go to her. I’ll warrant she has thought up some new request to ask of you in exchange for her favors.”

“Is that what Sidney did? What did you have to grant him for his?”

“You are insulting.”

“And are you not?”

“I have reason to be. Oh, you make a great show of being an irate husband. Banishing poor Sidney from the Court. It was such a shocking thing he did. Smiled at your wife. Showed her some pity because she must continually suffer the degradation of her husband’s infidelities paraded daily before the Court under her very nose with little regard for her feelings …”

In the anteroom Mary listened. She did not want to listen; but her father had forgotten that the door through which she had gone led only to the anteroom and once there, there was no escape.

She wished they would not talk so loudly. As she listened she kept seeing Elizabeth Villiers’s sly face. Elizabeth was right then. There was a shocking scandal about her father and her mother.

It was so hard to believe. A short while ago he had been laughing with her; she had sat on his knee and he had been telling her stories of his adventures as he loved to. Now he was quite different. She could not believe that the kind and gentle man was the same one who was shouting at her mother. To discover that people could change so quickly was alarming; it made the world seem an insecure place.

She did not want to hear their quarrels; she did not want to know of them; she wanted to live in a world where there were only herself and her sister Anne, where everything was pleasant and comfortable, and there were no grown up people with their sly furtive secrets which she only half understood.

She was afraid that one of them would come into the anteroom and find her there. She would not be blamed because they rarely blamed her, they were always kind to her; it seemed that it was only to each other that they were unkind. But she knew instinctively that they would be upset if they knew she had overheard their conversation, and that was why she remained.

After a long time they seemed to tire of the quarrel. She heard the door open and shut, and she wondered whether her father was now alone.

She opened the door of the anteroom cautiously and looked out. With great relief, seeing that the apartment was empty, she tiptoed away.

A postmortem showed that there was no poison in Margaret Denham’s body but the rumors still persisted and many were certain that the Duchess of York had murdered her for jealousy.

Sir John Denham continued to write his pieces which gave pleasure to certain members of the Court. It was beginning to be said that the affairs of the Duke of York were as notorious, though not nearly so skillfully managed, as those of his brother.