The Three Crowns

FAITH AND DEATH

It was the thirtieth of January, a very solemn day for members of the royal family and therefore throughout England.

Mary knelt on the window seat watching the snowflakes falling down. Every now and then the bells could be heard. All over the country they were tolling for Charles the Martyr.

Mary did not know why her grandfather was a martyr; she only knew that she had to be very solemn when she spoke of him. Her father’s eyes grew very bright when he mentioned Charles the Martyr; and she did not like to ask questions because it saddened him to talk of the subject. She had heard whisperings about the Dreadful Day. In Whitehall she averted her eyes at a certain place because that was where it had happened. It was a dreadful shadow which hung over the family, and which must never be mentioned all the year, only on that cold and dismal day which was the thirtieth of January.

Mary breathed on the glass and rubbed a hole in the mist. It was very cold outside. Perhaps one day she would ask her father to explain. It would be when he was in a merry mood. Then perhaps he would tell her quickly and it could be forgotten.

She started suddenly because someone was standing behind her, and turning she saw Elizabeth Villiers, smiling her secret sly smile.

“How long have you been standing there?” demanded Mary.

“Does it matter?”

“I asked you a question.”

“I know, and I asked you one.”

“It is not good manners to answer a question with a question.”

Elizabeth laughed; she had a habit of laughing at ordinary remarks as though they were foolish in some way which Mary was too young to understand.

“When I was riding this morning I saw the King with my cousin, Barbara Villiers,” volunteered Elizabeth.

Mary sighed. Elizabeth brought her cousin Barbara Villiers into the conversation whenever possible. When she called her sister Barbara she always called her Barbara Villiers, although the others were merely Katherine, Anne, or whatever the case might be. Mary herself had never seen Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, but she was constantly hearing of her; and she was a little tired of the woman.

“My cousin Barbara is more important than the Queen.” “My cousin Barbara only has to say what she wants and it is hers.” “The King loves my cousin Barbara more than anyone on earth.” “My cousin Barbara is really Queen, not that dull old Catherine.”

Mary did not believe that. She loved her Aunt Catherine who was always kind to her; and she loved Uncle Charles; and when she saw them together they always seemed to be fond of each other and no one ever suggested—certainly not Charles—that Catherine was not the Queen.

“You are always talking of your cousin Barbara Villiers,” said Mary, turning back to the window.

“Well, would you rather talk of Margaret Denham who was killed because of your father?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are a baby. You don’t know anything. You don’t really know why everyone is so glum today. All you know is that it’s because it’s the thirtieth. It’s silly anyway to pretend to be sad. It was all a long, long time ago. Before I was born.”

“What was?”

“The execution. That’s what they’re supposed to be remembering. But they are only really pretending to be sad.”

“When was it?”

“Don’t you know?” This was one of Elizabeth’s favorite remarks. She could never tell anything without prefacing her revelation with an incredulous observation on one’s ignorance. On this occasion Mary was too curious to pretend.

“No, I don’t know,” she said.

“They took him to the banquetting hall and chopped off his head.”

“Who?”

“Charles the First. Your grandfather, of course.”

“Who did?”

“The Parliament, of course.”

“They didn’t.”

“They did.” Elizabeth smiled knowledgeably. “It’s what they do to Kings and Queens when they don’t like them,” she said maliciously.

Elizabeth knew when to make an exit. She retired, leaving a very uneasy little girl kneeling at the window seat. There was no pleasure now in looking out of the windows and trying to count the snowflakes. Every time a bell tolled she shivered. The world had become very insecure. Mary’s imagination was showing her her grandfather, who looked like her father or her Uncle Charles, only much older; his head was not on his shoulders. It rolled in the snow making it red instead of white. She pictured the crowds watching and they were whispering about her grandfather and her father. Margaret Denham had died because of her father—her good kind father who would never hurt anyone. What did it mean? There was so much in the world that she could not understand and Elizabeth was telling her that the world could be a frightening place.

A terrible place indeed where the people cut off the heads of Kings.

Elizabeth’s voice kept coming back to her.

“It’s what they do to Kings and Queens—if they don’t like them.”

James Scott, who had been known as Fitzroy and Crofts and was now the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, rode from Whitehall to Richmond on his way to visit his uncle the Duke of York, whom he would always loathe because he believed that but for him the King might have been persuaded to legitimize him.

The King had said: “Now, Jemmy, ride over to Richmond where your uncle James is with his family. Make yourself pleasant. I like not quarrels in families.”

Monmouth had scowled; he knew his father was very indulgent toward him and he exploited this; but there were occasions when Charles reminded him that he was the King and then Monmouth knew it was wiser to obey.

So here he was, riding over to Richmond, in order to make himself pleasant to his uncle and his fat wife.

There was one burning passion in Monmouth’s life and that was to be King of England. It seemed so cruel to him that merely because his father had omitted to marry his mother he should be set aside. Why should James’s children—those two girls and the sickly boys, whom everyone said would never reach maturity—come before him, simply because their father had married their mother. That marriage might so easily not have taken place, but Anne Hyde had been more fortunate than Lucy Walters.

There were some who whispered to him that there had actually been a marriage—those he called his friends. Yet his father had not denied it but considering how at one time he had longed to make him legitimate, would he not have been delighted to admit he had married Lucy Walters if this had been the case?

Monmouth believed he would have made a perfect Prince of Wales. The King doted on him, forgave him his misdeeds, had bestowed on him titles and a rich heiress. In fact, Charles had given him everything except the one thing he wanted: to be heir to the crown.

People bowed to him as he passed. He was such a handsome fellow, so charming, so personable. The gay son of a gay king. His spirits rose for he was certain that the people wished he was Prince of Wales too. The Duke of York was not popular—or at least not as his father was; and who would better follow his father than his father’s son?

Of course life in every other respect was good. He was eighteen, rich, honored wherever he went, the companion of the King, flattered, attractive to women; and although he was not clever or witty like the King and his friends, they excused that on account of his youth. He was clearly the King’s son; tall, dark, yet he had inherited his mother’s beauty; what he had taken from his father was a love of racing and women; he was no coward; he was generous. No one could doubt he was the son of his father.

And now to Richmond. On what excuse? He was not going to let James think that he had come over to curry favor. What did he care for James? James was not very popular at the moment. The Denham affair was still remembered and whenever it was talked of James’s name was always mentioned.

He would talk of the ballet he was planning for the King’s pleasure and tell them he hoped the Duke and the Duchess would take part, slyly suggesting the part of some sylph for the Duchess. That would be a good joke against her. As for James he should have the part of a libertine with sly references to his prowess which he would not see but the clever Court wits would soon understand.

When he reached Richmond Palace he did not ask to be conducted to the Duke of York’s presence. It occurred to him that James might refuse to see him, or even make him wait. The Duke of Monmouth would accept no such insult from the Duke of York. Therefore he waved aside the Duke’s servants and said he was in no hurry. Thus, left to himself, he came to the children’s apartments and wandering in found Mary and Anne were with the Villiers girls. It appeared that the eldest of these girls was in charge. The Duke was not attracted by her; she was too plain, and there was a slight squint in her eyes. But his cousins were charming, particularly Mary, who rose at the sight of him and flushing a little came forward. It irritated him that her rank should be considered higher than his when she was merely the daughter of the Duke of York, and he was the son of the King. Yet because her father had married her mother.… It was the old complaint which made him almost sick with anger.

“It is my cousin!” cried Mary, her dark almond-shaped eyes betraying her pleasure. She was an enchanting child and Monmouth, who always found beauty irresistible, knelt, and taking her hand kissed it.

“Come here, Anne,” commanded Mary, and her sister waddled over to him. She was remarkably plump and even as she greeted her cousin she was sucking a sweet.

“I trust I see you well,” he said.

“We are well thank you, cousin,” answered Mary gravely. “And we trust you are also.”

Elizabeth Villiers was pushing forward. A pox on her! thought Monmouth. These Villiers give themselves too many airs.

“I was passing,” he said pointedly, “and I thought it would be pleasant to call on my cousins.”

Elizabeth looked angry, her sisters watched her, ready to take their cue from her. Mary was not one to harbor grudges, but since Elizabeth had worried her with references to her father and grandfather she was glad to be relieved of her company; and she could not resist a glance over her shoulder as Monmouth took her hand and that of Anne and led them to a window seat.

Monmouth, ever conscious of his birth, was ready on every occasion to assert his royalty and now implied that he regarded the Villiers girls merely as attendants on the King’s nieces. It was an insult for which Elizabeth would never forgive him.

As Mary sat on the window seat with Anne, their cousin between them, she noticed that the Villiers girls had disappeared.

“When are you coming to Court?” asked Monmouth.

Mary said that neither her father nor her mother had told her.

“Do they have plenty to eat at Court?” asked Anne, and Monmouth described the Whitehall banquets for Anne’s delight.

Then he turned to Mary. “But you would rather dance, I’ll swear.”

Mary admitted it.

“Then you must come to Court and we will dance together. I will tell them to devise a ballet in which you shall join.”

“Oh my lord Monmouth,” cried Mary, “that would be wonderful.”

“I’m your cousin,” he replied. “You should call me Jemmy, as my father does.”

“Cousin Jemmy,” repeated Mary looking happily into his face, which she thought was the most beautiful she had ever seen. He was grown up, yet not old. His skin was fresh and smooth, his eyes flashing and deeply set. He was kind, too.

“Always at your service,” he said, standing up and bowing. Then he took her hand and made her dance a few steps.

“You would be a good dancer,” he told her. “You must ask your father to have you taught.”

“We are to be soon.”

He whispered: “Before your sister grows too fat.”

“I am always telling her she eats too much,” Mary whispered back.

They laughed together; it was so pleasant sharing a joke with Cousin Jemmy.

He showed her how to dance as they did in the ballet while Anne remained on the window seat; she was not interested in dancing; nor was she so taken with Cousin Jemmy who had brought her no sweetmeats when all the visitors who wished to please her brought them for her.

As for Mary she clearly adored her cousin and he was delighted with her. She was a pretty creature, so innocent and unaware of her rank. He was certain that if he told her she took precedence over him she would not know to what he referred, and when he explained, assure him that he was certainly more important than she was. She soothed his mood, and to his surprise he found that his visit to the Duke of York’s house in Richmond was more pleasant than he had believed it could be.

As they danced and smiled at each other Mary suddenly grew serious. He asked her if anything troubled her and after a moment’s hesitation she said: “Cousin Jemmy, could you tell me about my grandfather?”

He looked at her in some astonishment. Then he said: “Oh, he lives in France now. He felt it was best to leave England for a while.”

“I don’t mean Grandfather Clarendon but Grandfather Charles the Martyr. They cut off his head didn’t they … because they didn’t like him?”

“Some didn’t like him. It was the wicked Parliament men. They cut off his head and afterward were made to wish they hadn’t.”

“They were very wicked, were they?”

“Very wicked.”

“Cousin Jemmy, no one will cut off Uncle Charles’s head … or my father’s?”

Cousin Jemmy laughed, not as Elizabeth laughed, but to show that what she suggested was not possible. She felt very relieved.

“Lady Denham died because of my father …” she began.

“Why,” said Jemmy, “you have been listening to the scandalmongers. There are always plenty of them about. The thing to do is to let what they say go into one ear and out of the other.” As he said this he was laughing; and somehow only to look at Cousin Jemmy’s kind face—which must also be the most handsome in the world—was a comfort.

Mary found that it didn’t matter what Elizabeth said about kings or her father; Elizabeth was not important now that Cousin Jemmy was her friend, and that made her very happy. Whenever she was frightened or bewildered she would remember Jemmy; perhaps she could tell him what puzzled her and she was sure he would always be able to explain it.

Jemmy took her hands and twirled her round; she was laughing and a little breathless but so happy.

She was thinking how different everything seemed since he had come; as for Monmouth, he was asking himself why they had not married him to Mary. If Charles had no legitimate heirs and James’s sickly boys died, this girl could one day be Queen. If he had been her husband would they have been ready to waive his illegitimacy?

This thought made him warm toward the enchanting little creature who so adored him.

When James, Duke of York, entered the apartment, he saw the Duke of Monmouth dancing with his daughter, and Mary so evidently enjoying the boy’s company. There was nothing which could have endeared him more to his nephew than this friendliness toward his favorite daughter.

Monmouth felt that visit to Richmond was well worthwhile. Effortlessly he had made peace with James; and it was pleasant to be adored by the Lady Mary of York who could, in certain circumstances, become the Queen of England.

The Duchess of York lay on her bed, where she now spent a good deal of her time. Many thought her indolent physically, although mentally alert. She was growing more and more unwieldy and she knew that she would continue so unless she cut down the consumption of sweet things. A cup of chocolate! How soothing to the nerves! How comforting the hot sweet drink which helped to divert the thoughts from the dull nagging pain which she was feeling more and more frequently in her left breast.

She was afraid of that pain; it had been slight at first—just a twinge which she had felt for the first time during a Court Levee; she had forgotten it until a month or so later when she had felt it again. Now scarcely a day passed when she was not given a twinge to remind her that all was not well.

When one was young it was natural to believe that one would live forever. Death seemed so far away as to be an event which overtook others; but recurring pain brought death nearer, and to contemplate death meant that one grew more and more concerned with the hereafter. She was beginning to believe that the Catholic Faith was the true one.

For this reason she often slipped out of the Palace of Whitehall or Richmond or wherever she should happen to be to visit Father Hunt, a Franciscan who talked with her, gently and persuasively and after each meeting with the friar she felt closer to Catholicism.

It was dangerous. The people of England were firmly Protestant. The memory of the Smithfield fires was too recent; and some old men had heard their fathers talk of those days when the island had been under the shadow of an attack from Spain, when it had been feared that the ships of the Armada, which were being assembled to attack England, came not only with guns and weapons of war but the rack and all the Inquisition’s instruments of torture. “Never shall the Inquisition come to these shores!” said the English; “The Church of England for us. No popery!” The Sovereign of England was head of the English Church and the English wanted no direction from Rome.

It was a dangerous matter therefore when the wife of the man who might well be the King of England should become a Catholic. Yet, if one believed one had discovered the truth, what was to be done? Worship in secret was the answer—as thousands were doubtless doing at this time.

A difficult problem, but at least one which turned her mind from the nagging pain in her breast.

She wanted to talk with James of her religious feelings and wanted to share this new experience with him, for she believed that he, like herself, would find much to attract him in Rome. But she was uncertain and this was a dangerous matter.

Her women came in to help her to bed. Indolently she allowed them to disrobe her and put on her night clothes. She lay lazily on her bed when they had left her, thinking of the meeting with Father Hunt tomorrow, and the points she would raise with him; and at the same time hoping that the pain would not begin for she fancied it was growing more acute.

She slept and dreamed that a woman had come into her room, a shadowy form which glided to the bed and looked down at her. In the woman’s hand was a cup of chocolate.

Anne rose on her elbows and cried: “You are Margaret Denham risen from the grave.”

With that the figure disappeared and Anne was staring into the darkness not sure whether she had been dreaming this or whether the apparition had actually been in the room. It was so vivid that she made up her mind that she had actually been visited by Margaret Denham’s ghost.

She felt the heat on her chin and putting her fingers to it found they were wet.

She began calling for candles and in a short time several of her women were hurrying into the room. They gasped when they saw the blood on her face.

“Your Grace, what has happened?” cried one.

“Margaret Denham has been in this room,” answered Anne.

“She … has harmed Your Grace?”

Seeing that there was blood on her sheets Anne recoiled from it in dismay.

By this time the commotion had awakened the Duke in the nearby chamber and he came hurrying in and when he saw the blood on the Duchess’s face he cried out in dismay and taking her in his arms demanded to know what had happened.

“Margaret Denham came to me. This is the result.”

The Duke called for more candles, and saw that the blood was coming from the Duchess’s mouth. When closer examination proved that she had bitten her tongue, there was great relief in the apartments.

“It was the fright, Your Grace,” said one of her women.

“Her Grace has had a bad dream,” said the Duke. “Awaken one of the physicians and send him here.”

When the doctor came he was able to assure the Duke and Duchess that no harm was done; she had bitten her tongue, which would be a little sore, particularly when hot food was taken, but it would quickly heal.

The blood had been washed from the Duchess’s face and hands; the sheets had been changed and she lay back while the Duke sat by her bed watching her.

“I fear,” said James, “that you have had this evil dream because Margaret Denham has been much on your mind.”

“She will not be forgotten it seems.”

“Nonsense. In a few months no one will remember her name.”

“Oh, James, make sure that there are no more Margaret Denhams.”

“My dear, how could I know that she would die in such circumstances?”

“It would have been of no account how she died if you had been a faithful husband to me.”

James sighed. “That is a matter we have discussed many times before, Anne. Let us have done with it.”

“It was as though she were here … in this room, James. As though she upbraided me.”

“You are not well. I have noticed that you have been looking tired of late.”

“There is nothing wrong with me.” Her hand imperceptibly touched her breast.

He leaned over and kissed her. “Oh, Anne,” he said, “if you were a humble merchant’s wife and I that merchant, it would have been different.”

“Being humble would not have changed your nature, James. There is a wildness in you … a need for women which is paramount to all else. You inherited it from your grandfather who, I have heard, had more mistresses than any King of France. What more could be said?”

“Yet,” said James, “there is no other that can claim my heart but you.”

“Spoken like a Stuart.” She laughed. “I’ll swear Charles is saying the same at this moment to one of his ladies.”

“But I mean it, Anne.”

“Stuarts always mean what they say … when they say it.” She lay against him. “It is good to have you with me, James. There is much of which I would speak to you.”

He kissed her and she was aware of the passion which was so ready to be aroused. Perhaps it was not for fat Anne Hyde, the mother of his children (two only of whom were strong and healthy and they girls), no, not for that Anne Hyde, but for the young girl whom he had met and loved at Breda, the girl whom he had seduced, making marriage a necessary but still a greatly desired event.

This was how it should have been for all the years of marriage—James forgot his mistresses; Anne forgot the recurring pain in her breast, the secret visits to the priest. Though fleetingly she assured herself that soon she would discuss her views with James, for she wanted to share her faith with him as she had shared her life.

But for that night they were merely lovers as they had been in the days at Breda.

After that night the Duke and Duchess of York were more often in each other’s company than previously. The Duchess’s influence over her husband appeared to have increased and although James visited his mistresses occasionally, he was devoted to his wife. As for Anne, she was more interested in discussing religion than any other subject and it was remarked that in conversation she seemed inclined to veer toward Rome.

James’s great interest was, as it always had been, the navy; he had won great honors at sea but when de Ruyter, the Dutch commander, sailed into the Medway and destroyed several of the King’s ships, including the Royal Charles, and then had the temerity to sail up the Thames as far as Gravesend, the efficiency of the Duke of York began to be doubted.

Clarendon, who had once seemed all powerful, was in exile; and now the Duke of York, whose wife was suspected of being a Catholic, was showing signs of following her lead.

In the midst of rumors and suspicions James had a slight attack of smallpox and as soon as he was ill his virtues were remembered rather than his faults; the Duchess who was expecting a child in three months’ time was constantly with him; and they both prayed for a son because Charles was hinting once more that he would like to legitimatize Monmouth.

Monmouth was the darling of the King and the Court. He often visited Richmond, to the delight of Mary; but what he was most interested in was the health of the Duchess. She had been looking strained and tired of late; her skin was growing sallow, and some of her attendants had reported that she was suffering occasional pain.

If the child was stillborn, reasoned Monmouth, his father might well prevail on his ministers to have him, Monmouth, legitimatized.

“And that,” he repeated to himself again and again, “would be the greatest day of my life.”

He could never see the Crown and the ceremonial robes without picturing himself wearing them and thinking how well he would become them! If only James had no children! The little Prince was sick and it was hardly likely that he would live. The girls were so healthy though—particularly Mary. Anne of course was such a little glutton that she might burst one day through overeating; she was like a ball as it was. And the Duchess did not look like a healthy mother-to-be. There was great hope in Monmouth’s heart that summer.

He was looking about him for friends who would help him to what he so passionately desired, men such as George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham—a wit, a rake, but a shrewd man, and one of the King’s favorite companions. He was a man fond of intrigue and had recently hoped to make Frances Stuart the King’s mistress and govern through her. No plan was too wild to interest him. He had just left the Tower whither he had been sent for fighting with the Marquis of Dorchester—an ungainly scuffle, with Buckingham taking possession of Dorchester’s wig and Dorchester pulling out some of Buckingham’s hair in retaliation. Later he had again been sent to the Tower for, it was said, dabbling with soothsayers concerning the King’s horoscope. But Charles could always find reasons for forgiving those who amused him, and he did not like such as Buckingham to leave him for too long at a time.

Buckingham was no friend of James, Duke of York. Could it be that he might be a friend of Monmouth’s?

He must find powerful friends. Clearly if the King had no male heir and James neither, it would be to his benefit; and when the King died and it was James’s turn? Well, would the people of England accept a Catholic King? Monmouth was certain they would not. Therefore he would show them that he was staunchly Protestant. He would begin now, laying his plans, forming friendships with men such as Buckingham who would be of use to him, letting the people know that if they did not want a Catholic King there was a good Protestant waiting to serve them—the only reason why he was not proclaimed the heir, being the fact that his father had failed to marry his mother—and some said that this was a falsehood.

All through those summer months Monmouth waited for news of the Duchess’s accouchement. It was a sad day for him when he heard that she had been brought to bed of a boy.

The Duchess of York was on her knees in the small antechamber and with her was Father Hunt. They prayed together for a while and when she rose the priest said to her: “I thank God that you are now rid of doubt.”

“I thank Him too,” she answered. “I will never now falter. Coming to understanding has given me great comfort.”

“You will find greater comfort.”

“Father, this is something I have told no one yet. I fear I have not long to live.” She touched her breast. “I have a pain which grows more agonizing with the passing of the weeks. I have known others who have had such a pain. It increases and in time kills.”

“Then, Your Grace, it is good that you have come to understanding in time.”

She bowed her head in assent. “Father, I have talked to my husband of the doctrines of our Church and I know him to be interested. Before I die I should like to bring him to the truth. There are also my children.”

“Your Grace, this is a matter for great delicacy. Speak to your husband, but use caution. Your children, it would be said, belong to the state and as this state is not yet ready to come to the light, it is necessary to exercise great caution.”

“Rest assured I shall do so,” replied the Duchess.

She left the priest and went to her apartments; and later when the Duke came to her she told him that she wanted to speak to him very seriously.

“James,” she said, “I have become a Catholic.”

He was not surprised; she had betrayed her leanings to him many times. In fact, the Catholic religion appealed to him; he liked its richness, its pomps and mysteries. He had often thought how comforting it would be to confess his sins and receive absolution; and when one sinned again to know that one had but to repent and do penance to wipe out the sin. The less colorful Protestant church was not so appealing. His mother had been French and a Catholic; his grandfather had been a Huguenot, it was true, but he had changed his religion when it was expedient to do so with the remark which had never been forgotten that Paris was worth a Mass. Charles was like that. He would change his religion for the sake of peace. But James was different. He was idealistic and a man who could not see danger when it was right under his nose. Perhaps he even found a thrill in courting danger. Perhaps the very fact that he knew the disquiet which would arise through the country if one so near the throne became a professed Catholic, made the proposition the more irresistible.

He took her hands and they talked long and earnestly.

“I will instruct you in the doctrines, James,” said Anne. “I am sure you will want to be converted as I have been.”

It was a new bond between them. Since his attack of smallpox they had become closer, and when they had lost their newly-born son their grief had been great, but it was a shared sorrow and his amorous adventures outside the marriage bed had never been fewer.

“We must be careful,” he said. “This must be a secret between us. You will have to be cautious when you are with the priest. The people would be against us if they knew.”

“You in particular, James. For myself I do not believe I am long for this world. I have not told you before, but I think you should know now. I have a recurring pain in my breast and I know it is serious.”

He was horrified. “But the doctors …”

“They can do nothing. I know something of what this means. I did not want to tell you, but now you will understand my urgent desire to prepare myself. And I do not want to leave you, James, knowing that I did not share with you all that I have come to understand.”

They wept together, he deeply regretful of all the anxiety he had caused her, she sorry for her nagging sarcasm.

“We have been like two children lost in a wood,” she said. “But now we see a light.”

He demanded to know more of her illness and would not accept her pessimistic view.

He cares for me in very truth, she thought; and somehow the knowledge made her the more sorrowful.

“The light is the Holy Catholic Faith, James. Do not ignore it,” she entreated.

He told her that he loved her; that he had never regretted the decision he had made when all his family were against him. They would be together now … for the time that was left to them.

“Together in mind and body, James?” she asked.

“In all things,” he answered.

The Duchess and Duke came frequently to Richmond. They wanted, they said, to be together with their children.

Mary was horrified to find that her feelings had changed toward them. She could no longer relax happily in her father’s arms. When he took her on to his knee she could not help thinking of Margaret Denham who had died because of him. It was complicated and difficult to understand, but it was repellent. Her mother had changed. She had become grotesquely fat; her face was the color of uncooked pastry; and with her bloodshot eyes she was not an attractive sight. Mary could not help comparing her with some of the beautiful women she saw frequently.

Sometimes her father would declare that they were all going to be happy together. He would tell her, Anne and poor little Edgar, who was growing more weak every day, stories of his past; but somehow they no longer fascinated as they once had. Mary was beset by doubts that they were only true in part; that if one could look into them with the farsighted eyes of an adult one would discover something unpleasant.

One day the Duchess sent for Mary, and when she went to her apartments the little girl found her mother lying on her bed. Her face was sallow and the sight of her propped up on pillows with her hair falling loose about her shoulders made Mary want to glance away.

She took Mary’s hand and bade her sit on the bed so that they could be close.

“You are the eldest of the family,” she said. “Always remember that.”

“Yes, mother.”

“There is one thing I want you always to do for me. Look after Anne.”

“But …”

“I know you are thinking that you are only a little girl and that you have your father and me, but I am thinking of the future when we may not be here.”

Mary’s face puckered. “You are going away?”

“No, my dearest child, not now. I am thinking of the time ahead when perhaps it will be necessary for you to be a mother to your little sister and brother. You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Come and kiss me. It will seal our bargain.”

Mary hid her repulsion and solemnly kissed her mother.

Elizabeth Villiers saw Mary leaving her mother’s apartment. She looked at her slyly as though to suggest that she knew what had taken place. How could she? Mary asked herself. But she was beginning to believe that Elizabeth Villiers knew a great deal.

When they were alone together Elizabeth whispered: “Are you going to be one?”

Mary did not understand.

“It won’t be allowed,” Elizabeth went on virtuously. “We won’t let you … even if you want to.”

“I don’t understand you?”

Elizabeth put her lips close to Mary’s ear. “Your mother’s one. They are all saying so. They’re wicked. They all go to hell. That’s where your mother’s going.”

Mary was horrified. Had her mother not suggested that she was going away?

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “they frizzle like a sheep on the spit. The good angels turn them round to make sure they get thoroughly brown on all sides. That’s what happens in hell and they all go there.”

“You’re … hateful.”

“Because I tell you the truth?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you know anything?”

“Yes,” said Mary, “I know I hate you.”

“You mustn’t hate. You go to hell for hating.” Elizabeth made the movement of turning a sheep on a spit and there was an ecstatic light in her eyes.

“Stop it,” said Mary.

“That doesn’t stop. It goes on for eternity, and you know that means forever and ever … amen.”

Mary turned to go but Elizabeth caught her arm. “We won’t have Catholics here,” she said. “Your mother’s one. She tries to hide it but everybody … except you … knows it.”

Mary wrenched her arm free of her tormentor, and as she ran from her, heard Elizabeth’s taunting laughter.

She was puzzled and uneasy.

The King had heard the rumors of his sister-in-law’s conversion and guessed that James was following her lead; he himself favored the Catholic faith and would have proclaimed this fact but for the memory of those early wanderings of his. He was more realistic than James and understood the temper of the people better than his brother. James was a sentimentalist; Charles was never that.

Charles hated intolerance and he would have liked to bring some relief to his Catholic subjects. It would give him a great deal of pleasure to reunite England with Rome—providing of course the changeover would not bring about trouble, which was the last thing he wanted. But he was a King and a Stuart and in spite of his good nature and love of peace there was in him an innate belief in the Divine Right of Kings. Why be a King if one must be governed by a Parliament? How tedious constantly to be told that he could not have this or that grant of money! And he was a man who always had a demanding mistress at his elbow.

Every Stuart would be haunted throughout his life by the martyred King Charles I. They would always remember how, being in conflict with his Parliament, he had lost his head. No Stuart should ever run afoul of his Parliament, and yet how could he but help it?

The nation was behind him, and he was convinced that the people would never allow the head of the second Charles to roll, for his father—with all his nobility and virtuous ways—had never appealed to his subjects as his merry son had done.

Could he take a chance?

How many chances had he taken during the days of exile—and after? It was second nature to take chances.

He needed money—desperately; and the Parliament would not grant it to him, so his eyes were on France. His sister—his beloved Minette, the favorite of all his sisters, who was married to the brother of Louis XIV—had been in secret correspondence with him. Minette had assured him of Louis’s good will toward him; she had made him see that a French alliance was imperative. Imperative to the King or to the country?

“The King is the country,” said Charles to himself with a cynical smile.

Sir William Temple had formed an alliance with Sweden; but negotiations were going on with Spain at the same time—and of course France.

Colbert de Croissy, the French ambassador, had proposals to put before him; he brought letters from Minette; Louis was ready to pay the King of England handsomely for his cooperation, but it was an alliance which, for the time being, must be kept secret even from the King’s ministers.

What Louis wanted was alliance with England, and he would feel happier if this alliance were with a Catholic England. The King of England was half French; his mother had been a Catholic and it was natural that he should lean toward her religion. The King would be willing enough; but England was a Protestant country and the people would not easily be led to the Church of Rome. Still, a King could do much.

Charles knew that Louis wanted England to join forces with him for an invasion of Holland, and Charles to make public his conversion to the Roman Catholic Faith; he wanted the Church of England abolished and England to return to Rome. For these concessions he was ready to make Charles his pensioner, and was ready to supply men and arms should the English reject the Catholic faith.

Minette would soon arrive in England to persuade her brother, for Louis knew that Charles found it difficult to refuse the women he loved what they asked; and without doubt he loved his sister, perhaps more deeply—certainly more permanently—than any other woman.

So much desperately needed money, mused Charles, and all for a Mass.

He sent for James, for this was a point wherein they would be in sympathy, and as his brother came into his apartment Charles was struck by his pallor.

“You are not looking well, brother,” he said. “I trust naught ails you?”

“I was never the same since I threw off the pox, and since the boy went …”

Charles nodded. “And I hear sad news of my good sister Anne.”

“She spends most of her time at Richmond with the children now.”

“And on her knees, I hear.”

James looked at his brother sharply.

“Ah,” went on Charles, “it is unlikely that I should not be informed on such a matter. So the Duchess has now completely gone over to Rome?”

“She has not openly confessed to doing so.”

“Our lives are an open secret, brother. And you? You are still toying with the faith, I hear. Nay, do not look startled. I myself am in like case.”

James’s eyes shone with hope. “Then I am right pleased,” he said.

“You should more reasonably be disturbed. What think you the people of this realm will say to Catholic monarchs?”

“This is the true faith. We must stand by what is right.”

Charles raised his black eyebrows and smiled sardonically at his brother. “Nay, James,” he said. “This is a matter we take with caution. You should tread more warily. I am warning you. The Duchess goes her way; but is it for you, the heir presumptive to the Crown, lightly to follow?”

“It is not a matter of following,” cried James hotly. “It is a matter of seeing the truth.”

“The truth, brother, could be that, when your turn came, the people would have none of you.”

“Then … for the sake of what I believe to be the truth …”

“You would cast aside the Crown? It is not always so easy, brother. Men and women do not take this matter of worship lightly. They do not say I will do it this way and you that. No, they say my way must be your way.”

“The Catholic faith I am convinced is the true way.”

“Others have been convinced before you, James. And where has it led? Look back over the past. Weigh the blood which has been shed in the name of religion. You could not. It is too vast, brother, and there are no measures great enough. I should not care to see bloodshed in this country, and two brothers sent on their travels again.”

“What then, Charles?”

“I am warning you. Do what you must do in secret, ’tis better so … as yet. And warn the Duchess.”

“She is ill, Charles; to her the most important thing in this life is her leaving of it.”

“Brother, it may well be that before long I shall confess myself to be of our mother’s faith. It may be that under my rule England will return to Rome.”

James’s eyes were shining. “A glorious day for England!”

“So say you? And who else James, who else? How many of my now loyal subjects would, on that day, rise up against me. The English are a lazy people, James. They shrug aside what would make a civil war elsewhere; but when their rights are touched on, when they make up their minds to take a stand, they stand firmly … more firmly than any other people in the world. That is what we have to remember—unless we are prepared to gamble.”

“You were always a gambler.”

“But like all good gamblers I don’t take a risk until I see the chances of a win to be in my favor.”

“And so …”

“This is a secret, James. Our sister will shortly be coming to England. My sweet Minette, how I long to see her! It is so long since I have done so. She will be Louis’s ambassadress. Even my closest ministers will not know what the treaty contains.”

“And you will sign this treaty?”

“I shall think on it, James.”

“You need to turn to the truth, Charles … you need this fervently.”

“I need money even more,” answered Charles lightly.

Charles and James were more friendly than they had been for a long time. The plans which the King was considering and which were known to his brother brought them close together; but the fact of their sympathies in religion was an even closer bond.

James was reconciled to his brother’s flippancy, Charles to James’s sentimentality. They were bound together in a common endeavor: to bring Catholicism back to England and—though James did not feel as strongly about this as Charles—never to go wandering again.

They were together on a hunting expedition in the New Forest when a messenger from France presented himself to Charles.

It was clear from his attitude that he brought bad news; and when they heard it it stunned them.

Their mother, Henrietta-Maria, was dead.

They thought of her—the dynamic little woman, whom many people said had in a large measure helped Charles I to his end. James remembered her raging against his marriage, refusing to receive Anne, doing everything she could to make their lives wretched. Yet, she had been his mother and she had suffered deeply.

Charles thought of her as she had been in the days of his childhood. “Mam,” who had imperiously guided her children, and sought to rule their lives. He had never been her favorite, and on his restoration she had wanted to rule England through him. They had had their differences; but she was his mother. Then he thought of Henriette—his Minette—who had been the Queen’s favorite child. Poor Minette, what must she be suffering now! And his grief was more for his sister than for his mother.

The brothers returned to Hampton and the Court went into mourning.

There was mourning at Richmond too, where the Duchess remained with her little son and daughters.

Charles came to see them there; he told Mary how her grandmother had had to leave England and how her Aunt Henriette, who he hoped would shortly come to visit him in England, had escaped to France with her governess, Lady Dalkeith, dressed in tattered clothes, and how she had been called Peter by her governess during this perilous journey because she was too young to understand and referred to herself as Princess, which on her baby tongue might be mistaken for Peter.

Mary never tired of hearing stories of her family’s adventures; and indeed she believed that no other family could ever have experienced such stirring events.

Whenever Uncle Charles came, the occasion seemed a gay one, even when it was a time of mourning.

The Duchess was pleased to see the King’s interest in her eldest daughter. James loved the children too; they would have two powerful people to look after their interests, she thought.

And when she retired that night she said to herself: “Death is in the air.”

She was right. The following May Charles met his sister Henriette at Dover. There he secretly signed the treaty with Louis XIV, pledging himself to join France in an invasion of Holland and to confess his conversion to Rome. There was one clause which had decided Charles to sign. He could declare his conversion at a time of his choosing. That was what he clung to, for who was to say when was a good time to make such a declaration. It might well be that there would never be a good time.

But Louis would pay his pension all the same.

He was distressed that he could not spend longer with his beloved sister; but her husband the jealous Philippe, would not allow her to tarry even on the business of his brother, Louis XIV.

So Charles must content himself with this brief glimpse of his beloved sister; and even while he mourned to lose her, his eyes alighted on one of her beautiful maids of honor. Her name he learned was Louise de Kéroualle and she was a Breton; he begged his sister to leave her in England, but this Henriette told him she could not do because she was responsible to the girl’s parents.

However, Louise and Charles exchanged looks and he knew that when he sent for her she would come to him.

So Henriette left in triumph, having received the signature for which she had come, to return to the King of France whom she loved and to her husband whom she hated; and she was a little sad to be leaving the brother whom she loved, for she knew that for the sake of the King of France she had persuaded him to do a reckless thing.

Charles was gallantly gay, knowing that he would not suffer because he was determined not to. He would receive Louis’s money and keep his side of the bargain—in the words of the treaty—“when he considered the time had come to do so.”

It was not such a bad arrangement, to let the King of France finance him for the sake of a vague promise. The only risk was that what he had promised should become known to his subjects. But he doubted not that he would know how to deal with an emergency should it arise.

Henriette returned to France and almost immediately news came that she was dead. Poisoned, said the rumors, through drinking iced chicory water.

When Charles heard the news he went to his apartments and stayed there. Never had the Court seen the King so stricken, and there was an air of melancholy everywhere.

The Duchess of York murmured: “Another death in the family. Oh, yes, indeed, death is in the air.”

The Duke and the Duchess were reading letters which had been brought to them at Richmond, where they now spent the greater part of their time. The Duchess found it difficult to conceal her illness and kept to her apartments for days at a time. When the pain threatened she took sedatives containing opium and thus kept it at bay. But she knew that she was coming near to her end. For this reason her main preoccupation was with the future life. She was reading a letter from her father—a sad man in exile—for she had thought it necessary to tell him that she had become a Catholic.

He was disturbed. She knew that he believed the source of his troubles had been her union with the Duke of York, but she was convinced that this was not so. His overbearing manner, his criticism of the King’s way of life had become unsupportable to Charles; moreover it was natural that the King should want younger ministers, men such as Buckingham, more like himself.

She was a foolish woman, wrote Clarendon. She should take great care. In every way was the Church of England superior to that of Rome. He knew her obstinacy, however, and he could understand from the mood of her confession that she was convinced and would stand firm. Therefore he was giving her a word of advice. If she wanted to keep her children at her side, then she must keep also her secret. Once she confessed that she was a Catholic, the King would be forced by the will of the people to take them from her.

These words made her ponder, for she knew there was much truth in them.

In his apartments James was also receiving disturbing news. This had been carried to him by a Jesuit, Symond, who had brought it from Pope Clement IX.

James had wanted to know whether the Pope would give him a dispensation if he, a Catholic, kept his religion secret and worshipped openly in the Church of England.

The answer was No. As a true Catholic he must proclaim himself as such, no matter what worldly advantages were lost to him.

Neither the Duke nor the Duchess were enjoying reading their letters.

James had been ill and was now convalescing at Richmond and it gave him great pleasure when Mary sat in his bedchamber and read or talked to him. She wished that she could have been happier in his company; she could not understand why she did not feel—as she could only express it—comfortable. She had listened to conversations in the nursery and whenever she was with her father she remembered these; she had a vague and unpleasant idea of his activities, and inwardly she shrank from him because she could never rid herself of images which came into her mind.

Then there was her mother who seemed daily to grow more ugly. Mary promised herself that she would never eat to excess, for she believed that her mother’s bloated and unhealthy appearance was entirely due to the enormous amount of food she consumed. Anne, who had inherited her mother’s appetite, should be warned.

It was the earnest wish of the Duke and Duchess to live these weeks as a happy family, to prove to themselves that their efforts to marry had been well worthwhile. The Duke remained at Richmond, faithful to his wife; the Duchess had grown gentle and uncritical, in fact she was often too exhausted to be anything else.

But with the children—Mary, Anne, and little Edgar—she attempted at times to be gay; and sometimes they would play games together; but there was an unnatural gaiety about those games which Mary detected; and those weeks which should have been so happy were overshadowed for her by a lack of ease. A sense of doom hung over her family and because she did not understand why it was there, who had caused it to be there, and what it was, she was all the more fearful.

There was a hush throughout the Palace. Mary, Anne, and little Edgar were in the nursery with Lady Frances and the Villiers girls. Even Elizabeth was subdued.

The Duchess of York had given birth to a daughter who had been named Catherine after the Queen. The infant was weak, though still living, but the Duchess was sinking and there was little hope of recovery.

The gentle Portuguese Queen Catherine had come to her bedside and was with her now. The Duke was there too and there had been much mysterious comings and goings.

Mary with Anne and Edgar waited in silence to hear what was happening; all day long they waited and no one came to tell them.

The Duke knelt by her bedside, remembering moments from the past which now seemed to him to have contained complete happiness. Never again would she upbraid him for his infidelity; never would they talk together of the mysteries of faiths. His eyes were wet with tears. He wanted her to live, for he could not imagine life without her.

His recent illness had weakened him and he wept easily. He thought of the children in the nursery, Mary, Anne, Edgar, and the new baby who, like Edgar, already had the mark of death on her.

“James,” whispered Anne.

“My dearest?”

“Stay with me till the end.”

“I could not bear to leave you.”

“You must, James, soon, for the end is near.”

“Do not speak of it.”

“So you cared for me in very truth? Do not weep then, but rejoice. Soon I shall be past all pain.”

“You are content to go, my love?”

“The pain has been great, James, but I die in the true faith. Do not let anyone come to my bedside and attempt to dissuade me. I know the way I am going. It is the chosen way.”

“Have no fear,” said James.

“And you believe as I believe?”

“I do.”

“Then I am content.”

When a messenger had entered the room to say that Bishop Blandford was outside, James left the sickroom and went to him.

“Your Grace,” said Blandford, “I trust I am in time.”

“The Duchess cannot see you,” James replied. “She is a Roman Catholic and does not wish to be disturbed now with attempts to bring her back to the Church of England.”

“Your Grace, allow me to see her. I will not attempt to dissuade her. I will speak to her as to a Christian of either Church.”

“If you will swear to do this you may see her. I will not have her disturbed.”

The Bishop promised and went to the Duchess’s bedside.

When he had left, having kept his promise, James sent for Father Hunt and certain people whom he knew to be of the Catholic faith. The last rites were performed and when this was done the Duchess asked her husband to come near to her.

He was holding her in his arms, the tears streaming down his cheeks, when she died.

James asked that Mary be brought to him; he wanted to see his favorite child alone.

As soon as she entered the room Mary knew what had happened for he stood looking so lonely and desolate; and when he saw her he held out his arms.

“My dearest daughter, we are alone now. She has gone.”

He picked her up and rocked her in his arms as though she were a baby.

“I have my children,” he said. “Thank God she has left me them.” He began to talk about her mother, telling of her virtues and how they had loved each other with a rare devotion; he trusted that when Mary married she would make as happy a marriage as that of her parents.

As happy a marriage as that of her parents? But what of the rumors? What of Margaret Denham … and others? What of the quarrels she had overheard? Had he forgotten? Could it be that he was not truthful?

He talked of when she married. She knew in that moment that she never wished to marry. She would like to live forever with her dear sister Anne.

“I don’t want to marry, Father,” she said.

He smiled and stroked her hair.

“So you will stay with your old father and comfort him, eh?”

It was not what she had meant, but the thought seemed to please him so she said nothing.

The Duchess was buried in Henry VII chapel at Westminster, and it was noticed that the Duke of York looked more and more to his elder daughter for consolation.