Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

by Виктория Холт

  “Ross, you are a good fellow. What says he?”

  “He insisted that there were no marriage lines. He asked me indignantly if I were suggesting that he should forge them.”

  “And … now he has promised to produce them?”

  “He is dead.”

  “Then what good is he?”

  Ross smiled slowly. “Friends of mine—and yours—are ready to swear that, as he died, he murmured of a black box which contained marriage lines proving that Lucy Walter was the wife of your father.”

  “Ross, you are the best friend a man ever had …”

  “I looked on you as my son when I became your governor in the house of my lord Croft. There is nothing I would not do to give you your heart’s desire.”

  “I thank you, Ross; I thank you. But my father lives … What will he say of this … black box?”

  Ross was silent for a while; then he said: “The King, your father, loves you. The country does not want a Catholic King. The Duke of York, in giving up his post as Lord High Admiral, has exposed himself as a Papist. Now there is this marriage. The King loves peace … He loves peace more than truth. He loves you. He loves all his children, but everyone knows that his favorite is his eldest son. It may be that he—and I, feeling as a father towards you, understand his feelings—would accept this tale of the black box for love of you and for love of peace.”

  Monmouth embraced his old governor.

  “Man,” he said, “you are my good friend. Never shall I forget it.”

  Ross fell on his knees and kissed the Duke’s hands.

  “Long live the Prince of Wales!” he said.

  Monmouth did not speak; his dark eyes glittered; he could hear the shouts of the people, feel the crown on his head.

  Rumor was raging through London as fiercely as, a few years before, the fire had raged—and, said some, as dangerously.

  The King was married to Lucy Walter. The Bishop of Durham died speaking of a black box … a black box which contained the fateful papers, the papers which would one day place the crown on the head of the Protestant Duke of Monmouth.

  “But where is the black box?” asked some. “Will it not be necessary to produce it?”

  “It is in the interest of many to keep it hidden. The Duke of York’s men will swear that it has no existence.”

  The country was Protestant and so hated the idea of a Catholic King. As for the wildness of young Monmouth, they would be ready to forget that. It was remembered only that he was young, handsome, and had acquitted himself with valor in the wars, that he was a Protestant and son of King Charles.

  Monmouth awaited his father’s reactions. He could not be sure what went on behind those brooding, cynical, and often melancholy eyes.

  He had asked to be formally acknowledged as the head of the Army.

  Meeting his uncle, he told him so. James, unable to hide his feelings concerning this nephew of his, knowing of the rumors which were abroad, gruffly told him that he thought he lacked the experience for the post.

  “It could not go to you, my lord,” said Monmouth with a smile. “You are disqualified under the Test Act. You know that all officers of the military services or civil ones must conform to the rites of the Church of England.”

  “I know this well,” said James. “But your present position gives you as much power as you need.”

  “I am sorry I have not your friendship and support,” Monmouth retorted sullenly.

  James flushed hotly. “Indeed you are not sorry.”

  Then he left his nephew.

  Monmouth sent for his servant, Vernon.

  “Vernon,” he said, “go to the clerks who are drawing up the documents which will proclaim me head of the Army. I have seen how these will be worded. The title of head of the armed forces is to go to The King’s natural son. Vernon, I want you to tell the clerks that you have had orders to scratch out the word ‘natural’ if it has been already put in; and if the papers are not completed let it be that the phrase reads: ‘The King’s son, James, Duke of Monmouth.’”

  Monmouth fancied that Vernon’s bow was a little more respectful than usual. Vernon believed he was in the presence of the heir to the throne.

  James, Duke of York, was with his brother when the papers were put before the King. James took them from the messenger and looked sadly at them.

  Charles was carelessly fond where his emotions were involved. Many believed, though, that Monmouth would do well in the Army. He had the presence, the confidence for it. Moreover his handsome looks and likeness to the King made people fond of him.

  He spread the papers out on a table.

  “Your signature is wanted here, Charles,” he said.

  Charles sat down and, as his eyes ran over the papers, the blood rushed into James’ head.

  He pointed to an erasure. The word “natural” had been removed.

  “Brother!” said James, his face stricken. “What means this?”

  Charles stared at the paper in astonishment.

  “It is so then,” said James. “This talk of the black box is no rumor. You admit that a marriage took place between you and Lucy Walter?”

  “There is no truth in that rumor,” said Charles. He called the man who had brought it to the chamber.

  “Who commanded that that word should be erased?” he asked.

  “It was Vernon, the Duke of Monmouth’s man, Your Majesty.”

  “I pray you bring me a knife,” said Charles, and when it was brought he cut the paper into several pieces.

  “It will have to be rewritten,” he said. “When that is done, I shall sign the paper giving my natural son the command of the Army.”

  Later that day, when he was surrounded by courtiers, ladies, and men from the Parliament, he said in a loud voice: “There have been rumors afoot of late which displease me. There are some who talk of a mysterious black box. I have never seen such a black box and I do not believe it exists’ outside the imagination of some people. What is more important, I have never seen what that box is reputed to contain, and I know—who could know better?— that these documents never were in existence. The Duke of Monmouth is my very dear son, but he is my natural son. I say here and now that I never married his mother. I would rather see my dear son—my bastard son, Monmouth—hanged at Tyburn than I would give support to the lie which says he is my legitimate son.”

  There was silence throughout the hall.

  Monmouth’s face was black with rage. But the King was smiling as he signed for the musicians to begin to play.

  Louise, walking in the gardens of Whitehall Palace, came upon the newly created Earl of Danby and graciously detained him. She had decided that the two men who could be of most use to her were Danby and Arlington. She had been eager to bring about the disgrace of Buckingham ever since he had humiliated her at Dieppe, but her nature was a cold one and she cared more for consolidating her position at Court and amassing wealth than for revenge.

  Danby, it seemed to her, must be her ally if she were to enrich herself as she intended to, for Danby was a wizard with finance and it was into his hands that the King would place the exchequer.

  Much as Louise delighted in her title of Duchess, there was one thing that was more important than any English title. It was at the French Court that she had suffered her deep humiliation, and one of her most cherished dreams was that one day she would return there to receive all that respect which had been denied her in the past. She would rather have a tabouret at the Court of Versailles, on which she would be permitted to sit in the presence of the Queen, than any English honors. The ducal fief of Aubigny had reverted to the crown on the death of the Duke of Richmond, on whose family it had been bestowed by a King of France as far back as the early part of the fifteenth century. Louise’s acquisitive mind had already decided that she must be granted the title of Duchesse d’Aubigny—for with it went the tabouret—and she would need Charles’ help to plead with Louis for the title; and if the pleas of a man who was rising, as
Danby surely would, were added to that of the King, it would be helpful, for Louis would be pleased to grant favors to those who held influential positions at the English Court.

  Arlington was ready to turn against Buckingham. Together they had supported the Dutch war, and together they had sought to make peace. The country was saying that both these activities had been conducted with incompetence and inefficiency. Therefore a man such as Arlington, to save himself, would be ready to throw the larger share of blame on his companion in misfortune. Buckingham had already done his best to weaken Arlington’s position by trying to persuade the King not to proceed with the proposed marriage between Arlington’s girl, Isabella, and Barbara’s son, the Duke of Grafton. He had held out a better match as bait—the Percy heiress—and Arlington was furious at Buckingham’s attempt to spoil the linking of his family with the royal one.

  But Louise felt that Danby was the man who could help her most. He was quiet, a man who would be happy to work in secret, and he had come to his present place by quiet determination, working by devious ways towards his goal. If he lacked altogether the brilliance of Buckingham, he also lacked the Duke’s folly which was ready to trip him at every step. As Sir Thomas Osborne, Danby had come to London when he was made member for York. He had first come to notice when he was appointed commissioner for examining public accounts some seven years before. Since then his rise had been rapid. He had been Treasurer of the Navy, Privy Councillor, and, with the reinstatement of the Test Act and the banishment of Clifford, he had become Lord High Treasurer.

  Louise believed that he would rise to even greater power. She feared him. He founded his policy, she had heard, on the Protestant interest and thus he was opposed to the French. This meant that she and he must necessarily be in opposite camps. Yet at this point their interests were similar. Buckingham was to blame for the alliance with France and the Dutch war. Buckingham was even suspected of having Catholic interests, for he had received many costly presents from Louis Quatorze, and all knew that Louis did not give his presents for nothing.

  Therefore she and Danby, who it would seem must follow diametrically different courses, could meet in one desire: to see the downfall of Buckingham. And Louise, ever fearful that she would fail to mold the King of England in the manner desired by the King of France, was ready to go to great lengths to secure the friendship of men whose animosity could ruin her. Her great dread was that she should be sent back to France without her tabouret—back to humiliation and obscurity.

  “I trust I see you well, my lord Treasurer,” said Louise.

  “As I trust I see Your Grace.”

  Louise took a step nearer to him and lifted her eyes to his face. “You have heard the sad news of your predecessor?”

  “My lord Clifford?”

  Louise nodded. “He has grieved greatly since he resigned his post in accordance with the Test Act. He died—some say by his own hand.”

  Danby caught his breath. It was into Clifford’s shoes that he had stepped. Was she warning him that a man held a high position one day and was brought low the next? He was bewildered. He could not believe that he could ally himself with the King’s Catholic mistress. Was she suggesting this?

  She smiled charmingly, and said in her quaint English: “There are disagreements between us, my lord Treasurer, but as we are both near the King, should we allow these to make us the enemies?”

  “I should be sad if I thought I were Your Grace’s enemy,” said Danby.

  Louise laid her hand very briefly on his sleeve. It was almost a coquettish gesture. “Then from now on I shall hope that we are friends? Please to call on me when you have the wish.”

  Danby bowed and Louise passed on.

  Shaftesbury had been dismissed. Clifford was dead. The Commons declared that the remaining members of the Cabal—Lauderdale, Arlington, and Buckingham—were a triumvirate of iniquity.

  The result of the Cabal’s administration was an unchristian war with Holland and an imprudent league with France. Protestant England had put herself on the side of Catholic France against a country which, entirely Protestant, should have been an ally. The King had been traitorously ensnared by pernicious practices.

  Charles remained aloof. He could not disclose the clauses of the secret Treaty of Dover; he could not come to the rescue of his politicians by explaining that it had been necessary at one time to accept bribes from France in order to save England from bankruptcy. That clause in the treaty, referring to his conversion to Catholicism to be proclaimed at an appropriate moment, meant that it must never be disclosed while he lived.

  If he attempted to defend his ministers, he could plunge his country into disaster.

  He could only look on with the melancholy smile which came to his lips at times such as these, and await results. He could not regret the replacement of Clifford by Danby; Danby, juggling with figures, was beginning to balance accounts as they never had been balanced before.

  So Lauderdale was indicted; Arlington followed; and Buckingham’s turn came.

  He was called to defend himself, which he did in person and, as ever being unable to control his tongue, answered questions put to him in his jaunty, witty, and fearless way. He spoke long of the misfortunes which had occurred during his administration of the Cabal, but declared that he felt it his duty to remind the assembly that this was not so much due to the administration as to those in authority over it.

  He could not resist adding: “I can hunt the hare with a pack of hounds, gentlemen, but not with a brace of lobsters.”

  As this last epithet was flung at the King and the Duke of York, it was hardly likely that the reckless Buckingham would receive much sympathy in the only quarter from which at this time he could have hoped for it. Yet it was typical of the Duke that he would fling away years of ambition and all his bright hopes for the future for the sake of giving his tongue full play.

  The result of this investigation was that Buckingham was dismissed, and the people clamored for peace with Holland. The clever young Prince of Holland asked for the hand of Mary, eldest daughter of the Duke of York, who, should the King and his brother fail to produce further offspring, would one day inherit the crown.

  Louise was flung into a panic by this suggestion. She knew that she must exert all her influence with Charles to have it quashed. Louis would consider she had indeed failed in her duty if there was a marriage between Holland and England.

  She talked to Charles. He was noncommittal. Easygoing as he always was, he was quick to sense the temper of the people. And the dissatisfaction with the Cabal had given rise to much murmuring among the people who knew that the King was involved, even as were his ministers. Charles wished to please those he favored, but not to the extent of angering his people against him.

  Terrified that she would cease to find favor with Charles, picturing Louis’ indifference if she returned humiliated to France, Louise turned in panic to Danby. She was ready to do anything—just anything—for a strong man who would help her hold her position at this difficult time.

  Buckingham’s health collapsed rapidly. He suffered, said his doctors, more from fever of the mind than of the body.

  Louise, watching, knew that the Duke had too many enemies for her to worry greatly about bringing about his downfall. Moreover she had more immediate troubles of her own.

  A few days after he had suffered his ordeal and while he was a very sick man, the guardians of the fifteen-year-old son of Anna Shrewsbury arranged that the boy should bring a charge against Buckingham of the murder of his father and the public debauchery of his mother.

  As the death of Shrewsbury had occurred six years before, and almost every man at Court was living in open adultery, this was dearly yet another of his enemies’ moves to destroy the Duke.

  He was aware that temporarily he was a defeated man, and he obtained absolution from the House of Lords only on paying a heavy fine, and promising never to cohabit with Lady Shrewsbury again.

  The greatest of his troubl
es then was the knowledge that, now he was a defeated man, Anna Shrewsbury was finished with him. She had been faithful to him for many years, and had even been known as the Duchess of Buckingham, while Buckingham’s wife had been called the Dowager-Duchess. Their relationship had seemed as though it would go on forever.

  Now he knew that she too had deserted him—for had she not done so, nothing would have kept her away from him nor him from her—he was as low as he had ever been. Charles, no doubt finding it impossible to forgive the reckless Duke for referring to him and his brother publicly as lobsters, deprived him of the Mastership of the Horse. There was one waiting to receive it whose handsome looks would well become it: the Duke of Monmouth.

  So Buckingham retired from Court. But his exuberant spirits would not let him stay long in exile. Little Lord Shaftesbury (who as Ashley had been a member of the Cabal and was now the leading light of the Opposition and secretly intriguing to legitimize Monmouth) made friendly advances; and Buckingham was already planning his return.

  Louise had not betrayed by one glance how delighted she was in the Duke’s misfortune.

  But Nell knew it—although she knew nothing of politics—and decided that, since Louise was the enemy of the fallen Buckingham, she would be his friend.

  SEVEN

  Nell was a little sad at the beginning of that year. She had seen the disgrace of my lord Buckingham who had seemed such a brilliant ornament at the Court, and although she never really gave her mind to politics, she knew that even if Louise had not brought this about, she had had a hand in it. She was aware too of the growing friendship between the Lord Treasurer, the Earl of Danby, and Louise. Nell firmly believed that, while these two held their present positions, she would remain Madam Gwyn and never become a countess; and, what was more important, her two little boys would never be anything but Charles and James Beauclerk.

  It was true that recently Charles had given her five hundred pounds for new hangings in her house, but even in this there was some cause for sadness. Charles was graciously apologizing for spending so little time with her.