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. “Bu
t 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 h
ad, 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.
The Three Crowns Page 3
