Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

by Виктория Холт

  The Middleton affair had collapsed unexpectedly when Montague, its instigator, who was suspected of being Jenny Middleton’s father, was recalled to England. He was in deep disgrace because he had seduced Anne, Countess of Sussex (the young daughter of the King and Barbara) while they were both in France. As Montague had previously been Barbara’s lover, Barbara was furious with the pair and had lost no time in acquainting the King with Montague’s defection. The resulting disgrace of Montague meant that all connected with him were out of favor; thus the Middletons found it necessary to leave Court in a hurry; and Nell was safe. Only she herself was sublimely ignorant of the danger through which she had passed.

  She was a Whig because her friends were Whigs. Buckingham and Rochester had been good to her, and Nell was the sort never to forget a friend. She was fond of Monmouth because he reminded her of her own little Charles, and he was her children’s half-brother. She always felt that she wanted to ruffle that black hair and tell Prince Perkin to enjoy himself and not worry so much about whether he would inherit a crown. He seemed to forget that, if he ever received it, it could only be at the death of that one who, Nell believed, must be as beloved by his son as he was by her—King Charles, the fount of all their bounties.

  She enjoyed life as best she could taking into account the absence of little James. She had a bonfire on November 5th, just outside her door in Pall Mall, and there she had a Pope to burn with the longest red nose that had ever been seen. The people rejoiced, calling her the “Protestant whore.” And she was one of the few people at Court who was not in danger from Titus Oates.

  Little Charles ran excitedly from the bonfire to his mother. He was throwing fireworks of such beauty that few had seen before.

  “Now watch, good people,” cried Nell. “My lord Burford will throw a few crackers.”

  So Lord Burford let off his fireworks and threw squibs at the long red nose of the burning Pope, and all the people about Nell’s door that night rejoiced in her position at Court. They remembered that those who were poor had no need to ask help twice from Nell Gwyn. “Long life to Nelly!” they cried.

  Nell went into her house that night when the celebrations were over, and as she herself washed the grime from the little Earl’s face, he noticed that she was crying; and to see Nell cry was a rare thing.

  He put his arms about her and said: “Mama, why do you cry?”

  Then she hugged him. She said: “It has been a good day, has it not, my lord Earl? I was wondering what my lord Beauclerk was doing in the great French capital. And I was crying because he was not here with us.”

  Little Lord Burford wiped away his mother’s tears. “I’ll never go,” he said. “Never … never. I’ll never go to France.”

  The fury continued, and Charles temporized. He gave way to demands. He did all he could to save Danby, but was forced to submit to his imprisonment in the Tower. He found it necessary to dismiss the Duke of York and send him into temporary exile in Brussels. Louise, sick both mentally and physically, could not make up her mind whether or not to leave for France. Hortense continued to play basset and amuse herself with a lover. The people realized that Hortense should not give them cause for concern. It was Louise, the spy of Catholic France, who was the real enemy of the country.

  There was talk of the Queen’s attempt to poison the King. Charles characteristically intervened and, although he would have welcomed a new wife and a chance to get a son which he felt would have solved most of his immediate troubles, gallantly stood by the Queen and saved her life.

  Nell continued to receive the Whigs at her house. She was cheered wherever she went. People crowded into a goldsmith’s shop, where the goldsmith was making a very rich service of plate, admired this greatly and were pleased because they believed it was to be presented to Nell. When they discovered it was for Portsmouth, they cursed the Duchess and spat on the plate.

  Nell was immersed in family affairs. Rose had married again on the death of John Cassels. This time her husband was Guy Forster, and Nell was working hard to get a bigger pension for Rose and her husband.

  While Nell was at Windsor news came to her of her mother’s accident.

  Madam Gwyn had moved to Sandford Manor where, at the bottom of her garden, was a stream which divided Fulham from Chelsea. One day she had wandered out to her garden and, well fortified with her favorite beverage, had slipped and fallen into the stream. It was a shallow brook but, being too drunk to lift herself out of it, she had lain facedown and drowned.

  Nell hurried to London where Rose was waiting for her. They embraced and wept a little.

  “’Tis not,” said Nell, “that she was a good mother to us, but she was the only mother we had.”

  So Nell gave the old lady a fine funeral and many gathered in the streets to see it pass. Madam Gwyn was buried in St. Martin’s Church, and Nell ordered a monument to be erected over her grave.

  Whigs and Tories gathered in the streets. The Whigs called attention to the virtues of Nell; the Tories jeered. There was a new spate of Tory lampoons on Nell’s upbringing in her mother’s bawdy-house.

  Nell snapped her fingers and went back to Windsor to join the King.

  Charles knew that he was passing through the most dangerous time of his life. As an exile he had longed to regain his kingdom, but then he had been young. Now he was aging; he had enjoyed almost twenty years of that kingdom, but he knew that if he did not walk with the utmost care he would lose it again; and he wondered whether, if he lost it, he would ever have the strength to recover it.

  He tried to lead the life he loved—sauntering in his parks, his dogs at his heels, feeding his ducks, exchanging witty comments as he went. He sat for long hours fishing on the banks of the river at Windsor. He wished that he could prorogue Parliament and prevent its ever sitting again. If he had enough money with which to manage the affairs of the country, he believed he could rule in peace; he could put an end to this terror which hung over his country. He would demand freedom of thought in religious matters for all men. He saw no peace for any country when there was religious conflict. He wished to say: Think as you wish on these things, and let others go their way. He himself would never feel bound to any religion; he merely wished for freedom for all his subjects.

  He wanted peace, and while Whig was at Tory’s throat, and vice versa, there would never be peace. Let a pleasure-loving man such as himself rule; let the people take their pleasures as he did; give him enough money to fit out a navy which would hold all enemies from his shores, and there would be peace and plenty throughout the land.

  But this terror had come upon the country, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He was powerless in the hands of his Parliament; he was caught between the Whigs and Tories, the Protestants and the Catholics.

  James had reproved him for wandering too freely in his parks alone. “Would his little spaniels protect him from an assassin’s bullet?” James demanded. “Do not worry on that score,” Charles had said. “They will never kill me to make you King.”

  He had said it with a laugh, but there was a great sadness in his heart. He feared for James; he greatly feared for James.

  Oh, James, he mused again and again, if you would but turn from your holy saints, if you would but declare yourself a Protestant, England would accept you as my successor, and young Jemmy’s nose would be out of joint. All this unrest would die down, for it flows out of the curse of this age—religious conflicts, and the curse of Kings: the inability to get sons.

  He went to Nell for comfort.

  Young Charles—my lord Burford, thought the King with a chuckle—came running to greet him.

  “It is long since you have been to see me, Papa,” said Charles.

  “’Tis but a few days.”

  “It seems longer,” said the boy.

  Charles ruffled the hair so like his own had been when he was a small boy roaming in the grounds of Hampton Court or lying on the banks at Greenwich watching the ships sail by.

&nbs
p; “It was wrong of me.”

  “You should pay a penalty for your sins, Father.”

  “What would you suggest for me?”

  “Stay all the time.”

  “Ah, my son, that would be my pleasure, and penances are not for the pleasure of the sinner, you know. You and I will go to Portsmouth to watch the launching of one of my ships, shall we?”

  Charles leaped into the air. “Yes, Papa. When? … When? …”

  “Very soon … very soon … I’ll tell you something else. Ships have names, you know, just as boys have. What shall we call this one?”

  Little Charles looked shyly at his father, waiting. “Charles?” he suggested.

  “There are so many Charleses. Who shall say which is which? Nay, we’ll call her Burford.”

  “Then she will be my ship?”

  “Oh, no, my son. All those which bear our names do not necessarily belong to us. But the honor is yours. It will show the world how much I honor my son Burford. ’Twill make your mother dance a merry jig, I doubt not.”

  “Shall we tell her?” asked small Charles with a laugh.

  “Come! We’ll do so now.”

  And hand in hand they went to find Nell.

  Charles, determined to follow the old life as far as possible, gave up few of his pleasures. He could not stop the execution of the accused, though he had managed to save the Queen. The mob had allowed him that, for such was his charm that he had only to appear before them to subdue their anger, and he had gone in person to Somerset House to bring Catherine to Whitehall at the very time when the mob was howling for her blood. But he could not save others, for Titus Oates, it seemed, was King of London during those days of terror.

  So he sauntered and fished and played games, as he had always done. He had forgotten that he was fifty, he had enjoyed such robust health that he seemed to have a notion that he always would.

  He had played a hard game of tennis and, walking along by the river, he had taken off his wig and jacket to cool down.

  This he had done effectively enough at the time, but when he went to bed that night he became delirious and his attendants hurried to his bedside, to find him in a high fever.

  Shaftesbury, Buckingham, and the whole of the Parliament were filled with consternation. If Charles should die now, there could be no averting civil war. James would never stand aside, and, although Monmouth had his supporters, there were many who would die rather than see a bastard on the throne.

  James’ friends sent word to Brussels, telling him that the King was on the point of death and that he should return immediately. James left Brussels at once, leaving Mary Beatrice there and taking with him only a few of his most trusted friends—Lord Peterborough, John Churchill, Colonel Legge, and his barber.

  He dressed himself in simple dark clothes and wore a black periwig, so that on his arrival in England none would recognize him. This was very necessary, for with his brother, as he believed, dying, his life would be worth very little if he fell into the hands of his enemies.

  James believed that a great ordeal lay before him and, as John Churchill advised him, it was imperative that he should be at hand when his brother died, that he might be proclaimed King before Monmouth could be helped to the throne. James was very sad. He was a sentimental man and very fond of every member of his family. It seemed a terrible thing that a Stuart should be forced to fly the country while his brother was reigning King. Time and time again Charles had said to him: “Give up your popery, James, and all will be well.” But, thought James, my spiritual well-being is of greater importance than what happens to me here on Earth.

  He prayed and meditated on the future as he made the crossing in a French shallop, and when he arrived at Dover none knew that the Duke of York had come home.

  Reaching London, he spent a night in the house of Sir Allen Apsley in St. James’ Square, and Sir Allen immediately brought his brother-in-law, Hyde, to him with Sidney Godolphin.

  “It is necessary, Your Grace,” they told him, “to make all haste to Windsor where the King lies. He is a little better, we hear. But for the love of God ride there, and ride fast. As yet Monmouth and his followers know nothing of His Majesty’s indisposition.”

  James set out for Windsor.

  Charles’ barber was shaving him when James burst in.

  He rushed to his brother and knelt at his feet.

  “James!” cried Charles. “What do you here?”

  “But you are yourself, brother. I had heard you were dying.”

  “Nay, ’twas but a chill and touch of fever. The river breezes cooled me too quickly after tennis. And kneel not thus. Let me look at you. Why, James, did you think to find me a corpse and yourself a King?”

  “Brother, I rejoice that it is not so.”

  “I believe you, James. You have not the art of lying. And indeed you are wise to wish it at this time. I dare not think what would happen if I were so inconsiderate as to die now. I should leave the affairs of this country in a sorry state. Think of it, brother: The English persecute the Jesuits and they owe my life, and what is more their concern the peace of their country—if this present rule of Titus can be called peace—to the Jesuits’ powder, quinine. I swear this drug has cured me.”

  He asked after Mary Beatrice and life in Brussels.

  “’Tis a sorry thing that you must be an exile, James,” he said. “It would seem our family is cursed to be exiles. But, James, if you persist in acting as you have, and you should come to the throne, I’d not give you four years to hold it.”

  “I would hold it,” said James, “were it mine.”

  “You must leave the country ere it is discovered that you returned.”

  “Brother, is it justice, I ask you, that I should be exiled? Monmouth remains here. You know that were it not for Monmouth there would not be this trouble. This illness of yours has brought home to me how dangerous it is for me to be so far away when Monmouth is so near.”

  Charles smiled wryly. James was right. It was unhealthy to have Mon-mouth in England during the Popish terror. Monmouth should go to Holland where he had so distinguished himself against the Dutch; and Catholic James should go to Protestant Scotland. It might be that both these men—both dearly beloved, but both recognized as sadly foolish—should learn something they both needed to learn, against a background which should be alien to them.

  Shaftesbury and his Whigs were determined on the downfall of the Duke of York. They did not wish Monmouth to remain abroad and, believing that the King’s love for his eldest son was as strong as ever, they brought him secretly back from Holland.

  Monmouth was nothing loath. He was now certain that he was to wear the crown. It was true he had been sent to Holland, but that was only that the King might have an excuse to be rid of the Duke of York. The foolish and criminal exploits of his youth had been forgiven him. He knew how to placate the King, and Charles was never annoyed with him for long at a time.

  It was the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, and the Whigs had chosen this occasion as an opportunity for staging a demonstration which they believed would induce the King to legitimize Monmouth and make him his heir. It was easy to whip up the people of London to a state of excitement. They had already been shown the villainy of the papists by Titus Oates, according to whom new plots were continually springing up. It was therefore not difficult to rouse them to fury, and they were soon parading the streets holding aloft effigies of the Pope and the Devil which it was their intention to burn.

  For several days these scenes took place; then they gave way to rejoicing. Charles, watching from a window of Whitehall, having heard the bells ring out, saw his son riding triumphantly at the head of a procession, holding himself as though he already wore the crown.

  He stopped at Whitehall, and a message came to Charles that his dearly beloved son craved audience.

  Charles sent back a message.

  “Bid him go back whence he came. I have no wish to see him. I will deprive him o
f all his offices since he has disobeyed my wishes in returning to England when I commanded him to stay abroad. Tell him, for his own safety, to leave the country at once.”

  Monmouth went disconsolately away.

  Charles heard the crowds cheering him as he went. He shook his head sadly. “Jemmy, Jemmy,” he murmured, “whither are you going? The path you are taking leads to the scaffold.”

  Then he recalled long-ago days in The Hague, when he had lightly taken Lucy Water as his mistress. From that association had sprung this young man, and in him had been born such ambition as could set a bloody trail across this fair land and plunge it into civil war as hideous and cruel as that which had cost Charles’ father his head. And all for the sake of a brief passion with a light-o’-love.

  I must save Jemmy at all costs, Charles decided.

  Nell was giving my lord Burford his goodnight kiss when she was told a visitor wished to see her.

  She hoped it was my lord Rochester. She had need of his cheering company. Charles was melancholy. It was due to all these riots in the streets, all this burning of the Pope and the Devil. Poor Charles! She wished everyone would go about his business and let the King enjoy himself.

  The visitor was shown in. He was wearing a long cloak which he threw off when they were alone.

  “It’s Perkin,” cried Nell. “Prince Perkin.”