Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

by Виктория Холт

  “Squintabella will, if she wishes to. Mayhap she will not consider a little onetime orange-girl from Cole-yard a worthy adversary. But listen to me, Nelly. For this time make no demands upon the King. Administer to his peace. Laugh for him. See that he laughs. He will come to you for refuge, as a ship comes into harbor. Squintabella will not rage and storm as Barbara raged and stormed, but yet I fancy he will have need of refuge.”

  Nell was silent for a while. Then she looked at the handsome dissolute face of my lord Rochester and said: “I cannot understand, my lord, why you should be so good to me.”

  Rochester yawned. He said: “Put it down, if you will, to my dislike of Squintabella, my desire for His Majesty’s peace and enjoyment of the most charming lady in London, and my pleasure in helping a fellow wit.”

  “Whichever it should be,” said Nell, “I’ll follow your advice, my lord, as far as I’m able. But since the days when I sat on the cobbles in Cole-yard, I have never been in control of my tongue. And, as I know myself; I am certain I shall continue to ask favors for my young Charles until he is a noble duke.”

  “Aye!” cried Rochester. “Go your own way, Nelly. There is one thing that’s certain. ’Twill be a way no other went before.”

  So Nell continued at the eastern end of Pall Mall. The King came less frequently. Will Chaffinch regretted that his purse was not as deep as he would have liked, and Nell had developed extravagant tastes.

  She would not dress young Charles in garments unsuited to his state. She had never been thrifty; debts began to mount.

  One day she said to Rochester: “I cannot keep my little Charles, in the state to which I intend he shall become accustomed, on what I get from Chaffinch.”

  “You could remind the King of his responsibilities,” suggested Rochester. “Remind him gently. Be not like Barbara with her demands.”

  “I’ll not be like Barbara,” said Nell. “And my son shall not be dressed in worsted. Nothing but silk shall touch his skin. It’s going to be a duke’s skin before he dies, and I want to make it duke’s skin from the start. He was born high, and he’ll stay high.”

  “Nell, I see plans in your eyes. What mad pranks do you plan?”

  “Since what Chaffinch gives me is not enough, I must work for more.”

  “You would take a lover?”

  “Take a lover! Nay, one man at a time was ever my way. I have my friend the King, and we have our child. We are too poor, it seems, to keep him in the state due to him. Therefore I must work.”

  “You … work!”

  “Why not? I was once an actress, and it was said that many people crowded into the theater just to see me. Why should they not again?”

  “But now you are known as the King’s mistress and the mother of his son. King’s mistresses do not work. They never have.”

  “This one will set a fashion,” said Nell. “If his father is too poor to give young Charles his due, his mother shall not be.”

  “Nay, Nell. It is unheard of.”

  “From tomorrow it shall not be. For then I go back to the stage.”

  FIVE

  James, Duke of Monmouth, was whipping himself to a rage. He strutted about his apartments before those young men whose pleasure it was to keep close to the King’s son and applaud him in all that he did.

  Monmouth was handsome in the extreme. He had inherited his father’s physique and his mother’s beauty; and there was just enough of the Stuart in his features to convince everyone that he was the King’s son. All knew of the King’s devotion to this young man, the liberties allowed him, the King’s unending patience; for it had to be admitted that Monmouth was an arrogant fellow, proudly conscious of that stream of royal blood which flowed in his veins. At the same time he bore a great grudge against that fate which had made him an illegitimate son of such an indulgent father.

  There was a hope, which never left him, that one day the King would legitimize him. There were many to surround him and tell him that this would be so, for the Queen’s pregnancies continued to end in miscarriages, and the dislike of the country for the King’s brother’s religion was growing.

  James, Duke of York, was suspect. He had not proclaimed himself a Catholic, but it was clear by his absence from the church that he was uneasy in his mind concerning his religion, and rumor ran riot. It was for Mon-mouth and his friends to foster those rumors.

  In the meantime Monmouth gave himself up to pleasure. He was a glutton for it. He had his father’s interest in women, but he lacked his father’s good-natured tolerance. Charles had the gift of seeing himself exactly as he was; Monmouth saw himself larger than life. Charles had had no need to bolster up the picture of himself, since his forbears were Kings of Scotland, England, and France. He was entirely royal. Monmouth had to link his royal ancestors with those of his mother; and, although he was the King’s son, there were many who declared he would never wear the crown. There was a burning desire within him to override those who would stand in the way of his ambitions. This colored his life.

  His education had not been of the best; he had left the environment of a simple country gentleman to become a petted member of his father’s Court. His head was not strong enough for him to imbibe such a strong draught and remain sober.

  So he strutted, raged, posed, and made many enemies; and those who were his friends were in truth either enemies of the Duke of York or those who thought to curry favor with the King because of the love he bore his son.

  Monmouth’s time was devoted to fortune-tellers, looking after his appearance, collecting recipes for the care of his skin, and keeping his teeth white and his hair that lustrous black which was such a contrast to his smooth fair skin; soldiering attracted him; he wished to be a famous soldier and to make great conquests; he pictured himself riding through the streets of London with his military glory like a halo about his handsome head; for thus, he believed, the people would realize his worth and, when they cried “Down with the Catholic Duke of York,” they would add, “Up with the Protestant Duke of Monmouth!”

  It was seven years since he had married the little Countess of Buccleuch, a very wealthy Scottish heiress whom his father had been pleased to bestow upon his beloved Jemmy. Monmouth had been fourteen then; Anne, his little bride, twelve. He remembered often how his loving father had merrily attended the ceremony of putting them to bed together, yet insisting on the ceremony’s stopping there, since the pair were so young.

  It had proved a far from happy marriage. But Anne Scott was proud. Monmouth thought her callous. She gave no sign of any distress, which her husband’s wildness caused her, and some said she was as hard as the granite hills of her native land.

  Monmouth was pursuing a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber, Mary Kirke. It was not that Mary appealed to him more than any other; but he had heard that his uncle, the Duke of York, was enamored of the lady and, in his slow and ponderous way, was attempting to court her.

  That was enough to inspire young Monmouth’s passion, for it was necessary for him continually to flaunt what he felt to be his superiority over his uncle. He must do it in every possible way, so that all—including James, Duke of York—should realize that, should King Charles die without legitimate heirs, James II would not be James, Duke of York, but James, Duke of Monmouth.

  Now, as he walked about his apartment, he was ranting to his companions on what he called an insult to royalty.

  Sir Thomas Sandys was with him; also a Captain O’Brien. He had called these men in because he wished them to help in a wild plan which was forming in his mind. His great friends, the young Dukes of Albemarle and Somerset, sprawled on the window seat listening to Jemmy’s ranting.

  “My father is too easy-going by far!” cried Monmouth. “He allows low fellows to insult him—and what does he? He shrugs his shoulders and laughs. It is all very well to take that attitude, but insolence should be punished.”

  “His Majesty’s easy temper is one of the reasons for the love his people bear him,” suggested Alb
emarle.

  “A King should be a King,” said Monmouth boldly.

  None spoke. Monmouth, as beloved son, had a right to criticize his father which was denied to them.

  “Have you fellows heard what this insolent Coventry said in the Parliament?”

  All were silent.

  “And who is this John Coventry?” demanded the young Duke. “Member for Weymouth! And what is Weymouth, I pray you tell me? This obscure gentleman from the country would criticize my father and go free. And all because my father is too lazy to punish him. ’Tis an insult to royalty, I tell you; and if my father will not avenge it, then should his son do so.”

  The Duke of Albemarle said uneasily, “What was said was said in the Parliament. There, it is said, a man has a right to speak his mind.”

  Monmouth swung round, black eyes flashing, haughty lips curled. “A right … to speak against his King!”

  “It has been done before, my lord,” ventured Somerset. “What this man Coventry did was to ask that an entertainment tax should be levied on the theaters.”

  ” ’Twas a suggestion worthy of a country bumpkin.”

  “He proposed it as a means of raising money, which all agree the country needs,” said Somerset.

  “My good fellow, the King must be amused. He loves his theaters. Why should he not have his pleasures? The theaters give much pleasure to His Majesty.”

  “That was said in Parliament,” said Albemarle grimly.

  “Aye,” cried Monmouth. “And ’twas then that this John Coventry—Sir John Coventry—rose in his seat to ask whether the King’s pleasure lay among the men or the women who acted therein.”

  “’Twas an insult to His Majesty, ’tis true,” admitted Albemarle.

  “An insult! It was arrogance, lese majesté. It shall not be permitted. All the country knows that the King finds pleasure in his actresses. There are Moll Davies from the Duke’s and Nell Gwyn from the King’s to prove it. Coventry meant to insult the King, and he did so.”

  “His Majesty has decided to allow the insult to pass,” said Albemarle.

  “But I shall not allow it to pass,” cried Monmouth. “I shall make these country bumpkins realize that my father is their King, and any who dare insult him shall live to regret that day.”

  “What does Your Grace plan?” asked Sir Thomas Sandys. “That, my good friends, is what I have assembled you here to discuss,” said the Duke.

  The King was very uneasy. He sought out his brother James in his private apartments.

  James was sitting alone, a book before him.

  James, thought Charles, so tall and handsome—far handsomer than I—and clever enough in his way; why is it that James is a fool?

  “Reading, James?” said Charles lightly. “And the book?” He looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Dr Heylin’s History of the Reformation. Ah, my Protestant subjects would be pleased to see you reading such a book, James.”

  James’ big dark eyes were puzzled.

  He said: “I find much food for thought ‘twixt these pages.”

  “Give over thinking so much, James,” said Charles. “It is a task ill-suited to your nature.”

  “You mock me, Charles. You always did.”

  “I was born a mocker.”

  “Have you read this book?”

  “I have skimmed its pages.”

  ” ’Tis worth more than a skimming.”

  “I am glad to hear you say so. I trust this means your feet are set in what my Protestant subjects would call the path of the just.”

  “It fills me with doubts, Charles.”

  “Brother, when I die you will inherit a crown. The managing of a kingdom will take every bit of that skill with which nature has provided you. You will be at your wits’ end to keep the crown upon your head, and your head upon your shoulders. Remember our father. Do you ever forget him? I never do. You are over-concerned with your soul, brother, when your head may be in danger.”

  “What matters a head where a soul is in the balance?”

  “Your head is there for all to see—a handsome one, James, and that of a man who may well one day be King. Your soul—where is that? We cannot see it, so how can we be sure that it has any existence?”

  “You blaspheme, Charles.”

  “I’m an irreligious fellow; I know it. ’Tis my nature. My mind is a perverse one, and to such as I am faith is hard to come by. But put away the book, brother. I would talk to you. ’Tis this affair of Coventry.”

  James nodded gloomily. “A bad affair.”

  “Young Jemmy grows too wild.”

  “The fellow will live?”

  “I thank God that he will. But those wild young men have slit his nose and the Parliament is filled with anger.”

  “’Tis to be understood,” said James.

  “I am in agreement with you and the Parliament, James. But my Parliament is displeased with me and it is a bad thing when parliaments and kings are not of one accord. We have a terrible example before us. When I came home I determined to live in peace with my subjects and my Parliament. And now young Jemmy has done this. He was defending my royalty, he proclaims.”

  “That boy has such a deep sense of Your Majesty’s royalty, largely because he believes himself to have a share in it.”

  “’Tis true, James. There are times when young Jemmy gives me great cause for anxiety. The Parliament has passed an act whereby any who shall put out an eye, cut a lip, nose, or tongue of His Majesty’s liege people or in any other manner wound or maim any Parliament man, shall be sent to prison for a year, besides incurring other heavy penalties.”

  “’Tis just,” said James.

  “Aye, ’tis just. Therefore I like not to see young Jemmy conduct himself thus.”

  “A little punishment, inflicted by Your Majesty, might be useful.”

  “Indeed it might. But I was never a punishing man, James, and I find it hard to punish those I care for as I do for that boy.”

  “Nevertheless he will bring trouble on himself, and on you one day.”

  “That is why I wish you to help me, James. Could not you two be friends? I like not to see this strife between you.”

  “’Tis your natural son who causes the strife between us. He fears I shall wear the crown to which, in his heart, he believes himself to have prior claim.”

  “There is only one thing which can make you two become friends, I fear; and that is a family of healthy sons for me, so that there is no hope for either of you to wear the crown.”

  “Charles, there are some who say you love that boy so much that you would make him your heir in all things.”

  “’Tis true I love the boy. He is my own flesh and blood. There are a thousand things to remind me of that each day. He is my son—my eldest son. He is handsome, he delights me. I’ll deny it not. But you too, brother, are our father’s son and you are my heir. Never would I make Jemmy legitimate, while there is one who, it is right and proper, should take my place. If I die childless, James, you are the heir to the throne. I never forget that. Light-minded though I may be, on this point I am firm and strong. But there is one other matter I must settle with you. It is this dabbling with the Catholic Faith.”

  “We cannot control our thoughts, brother.”

  “Nay, but we can keep them to ourselves.”

  “I could not be false to what I believed to be the true religion.”

  “But you could keep your thoughts to yourself, brother. Remember our grandfather, Henri Quatre. You’re his grandson no less than I. Think of the control he kept on his religion, and because of this a country, which had known disastrous war, at last knew peace. England is a Protestant country—as firmly Protestant as France in the days of our grandfather was firmly Catholic. England will never again accept a Catholic King. If you would have peace in England when I am gone, you must come to the throne a Protestant.”

  “And if my heart and mind tell me the Catholic Faith is the true one?”

  “Subdue the heart, d
ear brother. If you let the mind take control, it will say this: Worship in secret. Remain outwardly what the country wishes you to be. Remember our grandfather … the greatest King the French ever had. He put an end to civil war, because he, who had been Huguenot, professed to be a Catholic. Stop this flirting with the Catholic Faith, James. Show yourself with me in the church when the occasion demands it. Let the country see you as a good Protestant. Then, brother, we shall more quickly put an end to this unhealthy fostering of young Jemmy’s ambitions. Do this—not for my sake—but for your own and that of an England you may one day rule.”

  James shook his head gravely. “You know not what you ask, brother. If a man follows the Catholic Faith, how can he go to a Protestant church and worship there?”

  Charles sighed wearily.

  Then he shrugged his shoulders. James was a fool … always had been a fool and, he feared, always would be. Charles could console himself with the thought that whatever trouble James brought on himself he, Charles, would be in his grave and not concerned with it.

  He turned to a happier subject. “How fares your family?”

  James’ face lightened. “Mary is solemn as ever. Anne grows plump.”

  “Come, take me to them. I would have them know their uncle forgets them not.”

  In the Duke’s apartment Charles met Anne Hyde. Anne’s welcome was fond, and not entirely so because her brother-in-law was King. Anne was a clever woman, and she and Charles had ever been good friends. Anne did not forget that, when all had deserted her soon after her marriage and Henrietta Maria was demanding that she be ignored, it was Charles the King who had been her best friend.

  “Your Majesty looks in good spirits,” she said.

  “’Tis the prospect of talk with you,” said Charles, ever gallant even to the over-fat and ageing. “Od’s Fish! James is a gloomy fellow with his holy problems. Where are these children of yours?”

  “I’ll send for them,” said Anne. “They’ll be eager to come, now they know Your Majesty is here.”

  Charles, looking at Anne, thought she was more sallow than usual; her very fat seemed unhealthy.