The Merry Monarch's Wife

by Jean Plaidy

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

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

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

  There was anguish in his eyes.

  “You cannot sign it,” I said.

  “It is the law. He has been judged.”

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

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

  “But he is not guilty.”

  “They have judged him so.”

  “If you refuse to sign…”

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

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

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

  “It is the law.”

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

  He said: “Catherine, I must sign…”

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

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

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

  Then he took up his pen and signed.

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

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

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

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

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

  He lifted the axe and struck.

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

  WITH THE COMING OF SPRING there was more trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

  It was a slightly different version of the Popish Plot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Never while I am here.”

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

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

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

  “What shall you do?”

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

  “Will not Parliament then be in session?”

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

  I SOON LEARNED what he was going to do.

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

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

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

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

  He came to Whitehall where I was waiting for him.

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

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

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

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

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

  People were waiting for what could come next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I do know that.”

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

  “No, he does love you.”

  “But he loves my crown more.”

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

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

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

  “Knowing it to be lies…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And kindly?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  I found her presence disturbing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She bowed her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  DEATH IN WHITEHALL

  THE PRINCESS ANNE, DAUGHTER OF THE DUKE OF YORK AND Anne Hyde, was now eighteen years old and a possible bridegroom had been found for her.

  Anne had been very sad at the departure of her sister, Mary, but that was some five years ago, and during that time her friendship with Sarah Jennings had grown even stronger. Sarah had now married John Churchill but had remained in attendance on Anne. Indeed, Anne would not hear of her going and had created such a scene when it was suggested, that it was decided that Sarah must stay.

  Sarah herself was not averse to this. I was sure she enjoyed her position. I had seen right from the first that she was one of those people who enjoyed dominating others—particularly when they were in a position higher than her own.

  There had been talk of a union between Anne and Prince George of Hanover, a proposition which did not greatly delight Anne. She had heard rumors that he was a boorish young man who spoke no English. Moreover, she would have to leave England and, as Sarah was married to John Churchill, how could she accompany her?

  This she confided to me, for I was on good terms with her. She was delighted when George of Hanover married Sophia Dorothea of Celle, so that she need concern herself with him no longer.

  “They have now found Prince George of Denmark for me,” she told me. “I think I shall like him better. Besides, he will have to stay in England and so I shall not have to go away. Sarah could scarcely go to Denmark.”

  Her conversation was filled with comments about Sarah.

  I was glad for Anne. She was a pleasant girl…comfortable…homely in a way. There was nothing haughty about her. I found her easier to get on with than her sister Mary had been. There had been rumors of some sort of romance between her and John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave. Charles had not approved and Mulgrave had been exiled from the court for some time. However, Anne seemed quite ready now to accept Prince George.