Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

by Виктория Холт

  He did not frown as he usually did when she used that name. Instead he took her hand and kissed it. “Nell, for the love of God, help me. The King has refused to see me.”

  “Oh, Perkin, it was wrong of you to come. You know His Majesty forbids it.”

  “I had to come, Nell. How can I stay away? This is my home. This is where I belong.”

  “But if you are sent abroad on a mission …”

  “Abroad on a mission! I am sent abroad because my uncle must go.”

  “Well, ’tis only fair that if one goes so should the other.”

  “My uncle goes because the people force him to. You have seen they want me here. Did you not hear them shouting for me in the street?”

  Nell shook her head. “All these troubles! Why cannot you all be good friends? Why are you always seeking the crown, when you know your mother was no better than I am. I might as well make a Perkin of little Burford.”

  “Nell, my mother was married to the King.”

  “The black box!” said Nell scornfully.

  “Well, why should there not have been a black box?”

  “Because the King says there’s not.”

  “What if the King tells not the truth?”

  “He says it all the same, and if he says ‘no black box,’ then there should be none.”

  “Nelly, you’re a strange woman.”

  “Strange because I don’t bring my little Earl up to prate about a black box which carries my marriage lines?”

  “Don’t joke, Nell. Will you keep me here? Will you let me stay? ’Twill only be for a short while, and mayhap you can persuade the King to see me. I’ve nowhere to go, Nell. There’s no one I can trust.”

  Nell looked at him. Dark hair, so like my lord Burford’s. Dark eyes … big lustrous Stuart eyes. Well, after all, they were half-brothers.

  “You must be well-nigh starving,” said Nell. “And there’ll be a bed for you here as long as you want it.”

  Monmouth stayed in her house, and the whole of London knew. It was typical that the King, knowing, should have said nothing. He was glad Nell was looking after the boy. He needed a mother; he needed Nell’s sharp common sense.

  Nell pleaded with Charles to see his son.

  “He grows pale and long-visaged, fearing Your Majesty no longer loves him.”

  “It is well that he should have such fears,” said Charles. “I will not see him. Bid him be gone, Nelly, for his own sake.”

  Nell was universally known now as the “Protestant whore.” In the turmoil that existed it was necessary to take sides. She was cheered in the streets; for the London mob, fed on stories of Popish plots, looked upon her as their champion.

  They loved the King, for his easy affability was remembered by all, and in this time of stress they sought to lay blame for everything that happened in his name on the people who surrounded him. The Duchess of Portsmouth was the enemy; Nell was the friend of the people.

  One day, as she was riding home in her carriage, the mob surrounded it, and, believing that it was Louise inside, they threw mud, cursed the passenger, and would have wrecked the vehicle.

  Nell put her head out of the window and begged them to stop. “Pray, good people, be civil,” she cried. “I am the Protestant whore.”

  “’Tis Nelly, not Carwell,” shouted one and they all took up the cry: “God bless Nelly! Long life to little Nell.”

  They surrounded the coach, and they walked with her as she was carried on her way.

  She was stimulated. It was pleasant to know that Squintabella, from whom it had been impossible to turn the King’s favor, was so disliked and herself so popular. Nell enjoyed dabbling in their politics, even though she understood so little. Still she had understood enough to keep her place; she knew that she was no politician; she knew that the King could not discuss politics with her as he could with Louise. As she had said on one occasion: “I do not seek to lead the King in politics. I am just his sleeping partner.”

  So she was carried home.

  The troublous winter had passed into spring and now it was June. Nell never forgot that June day, because some joy went out of her life then, and she knew that no matter what happened to her she would never be completely happy again.

  A messenger arrived at her house. Her servants looked subdued and she knew at once that something had gone wrong and that they were afraid to tell her.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “A messenger,” said her steward, Groundes. “He comes from France.”

  “From France. Jamie!”

  “My lord Beauclerk was suffering from a sore leg.”

  “A sore leg! Why was I not told?”

  “Madam, it happened so quickly. The little boy was running about happily one day, and the next …”

  “Dead,” said Nell blankly.

  “Madam, all was done that could be done.”

  Nell threw herself onto a couch and covered her face with her hands. “It is not true,” she sobbed. “There was nothing wrong with Jamie. He had a cough at times, that was all. Why was I not told? … My little boy, to die of a sore leg!”

  “Madam, he did not suffer long. He died peacefully in his sleep.”

  “I should not have let him go,” said Nell. “I should have kept him with me. He was only a baby. My little boy …”

  They tried to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. She drove them all away. For once Nell wanted to be alone.

  Her little James, Lord Beauclerk, for whom she had planned such a glorious future, was now dead and she would never see those wondering dark eyes looking at her again, never hear the baby lips begging her to dance a jig.

  “I let him go,” she said. “I should never have let him go. He was only a baby. But I wanted to make him a Duke, so I let him go, and now I have lost him. I’ll never see my little lord again.”

  They sent Lord Burford in to comfort her. He wiped her eyes and put his arms about her.

  “I’m here, Mama,” he said. “I’m still here.”

  Then she held him fiercely in her arms. She did not care if he was never a Duke. The only important thing was that she held him in her arms.

  She would keep him with her forever.

  Nell shut herself in with her grief. Life seemed to have little meaning for her. She blamed herself. She had so wanted the child to be educated like a lord. How thankful she was that she had kept one of her sons at home.

  She was still mourning the death of James when the news of another death was brought to her. It was that of the Earl of Rochester. Rochester had been a good friend to her; his advice had always been sound; and because he was merry and wicked and, although three years older than she was, had seemed but a boy to her, she grieved for him. It seemed a sad thing that he, after only thirty-three years of life, should have died, worn out by his excesses. Poor Rochester, so witty, so brilliant—and now there was nothing of him but the few verses he had left behind.

  Death was horrible. Her mother was gone, but she was old and Nell had never loved her. It was a marvel that the gin had not carried her off long before. But these deaths of such as Rochester and little Jamie moved her deeply. She might laugh; she might dance and sing; but she was aware of change.

  She was glad she had known nothing of that fever which had attacked Charles so recently. There had been no need to feel anxiety then, because he was well again before she heard of it. But it could happen suddenly and mayhap next time it would not end so happily.

  Rochester … Jamie … She could not forget.

  Charles, sharing her grief in the loss of their son though not by any means feeling it as deeply as she did, was sad to see the change in her.

  He wanted his merry Nell back again.

  He took her to Windsor and showed her a beautiful house not far from the Castle.

  This was to be Burford House, and it was the King’s gift to Nell. It was a delightful place. “And so convenient to the Castle,” said the King with a smile.

  It wa
s impossible not be charmed with the house. It seemed a fitting residence for my lord Burford. And Nell showed her gratitude by trying to dismiss all thoughts of her lost child from her mind. She had the interior of Burford House decorated by Verrio, the Court painter, who was also working on the Castle at this time. And Potevine, her upholsterer in Pall Mall, furnished the place to her satisfaction. The gardens, facing south, were a delight, and she and the King planned them together, with my lord Burford running from one to the other, happy to see his mother more like herself, and his father with her in the new home.

  With the terror at its height, the Whigs made an effort to force Charles to legitimize Monmouth. Thus only, they argued, could the King protect his own life and save his people from the Catholic plotters.

  Charles, in the House of Lords, patiently pointed out that what they asked of him was illegal. He assured them that he intended to take great care of himself and his people.

  It was pointed out to him that laws could always be changed in emergency.

  “If that is your conscience,” said Charles, “it is far from mine. I assure you that I love my life so well that I will take all the care in the world to keep it with honor. But I do not think it is of such great value after fifty to be preserved with the forfeiture of my honor, my conscience, and the law of the land.”

  Monmouth was present and Charles watched the young man as he spoke. He saw the bitter look in Monmouth’s face; and he thought: I was a fool to think he loved me. What did he ever love but my crown?

  The King won the day. But Shaftesbury would not give in. He had gone so far he could not draw back and he knew he had proved himself to be such an enemy to the Duke of York that he must at all cost prevent his coming to the throne. He now tried to bring a new bill to force Charles to divorce the Queen. Charles retaliated with his old gambit: the dissolution of Parliament.

  Louise meanwhile had been in constant touch with the new French ambassador, Barrillon, who had replaced Courtin. She believed she saw a chance to reinstate herself with Charles.

  She had made herself aware, during the recent years of terror, of every twist and turn in the complicated policy of the King and Parliament. Now that Danby was a prisoner in the Tower she had turned her attention to Lord Sunderland, one of the most important men in the country. She had used all her wits to save herself and had found it convenient to turn to anyone who she thought could be of the slightest use to her. She even helped Shaftesbury to reinstate himself; she made friendly overtures to Monmouth, though she secretly hoped that her son, the Duke of Richmond, might be legitimized and named heir to the throne; but she said nothing of this to Monmouth.

  Louise was desperate and, being full of crawling as well, she began to sidle back to the King, and her ability to discuss with intelligence any new political move made him seek her company. He was visiting her every day, although he was spending his nights with Nell. Louise did not greatly care that this should be so, because she was beginning to realize that if she were clever enough both Louis and Charles could come to look upon her as a person important to the policies they wished to pursue. For Charles she was that one to whom he could confide what he wished for from the King of France; to Louis she was the person who wielded an influence over the King of England which she could use as he bade her.

  She sought out the King very soon after the dissolution of Parliament and, seeing that she wished to speak with him alone, he allowed her to dismiss all those about them.

  One of his little dogs leaped into his lap, and he fondled its ears as they talked.

  “What great good fortune,” said Louise, “if it were never necessary to reassemble Parliament!”

  “I agree with all my heart,” said Charles. “But alas, it will be necessary ere long to do so.”

  She had moved nearer to him. “For what reason, Charles?”

  “Money,” he said. “I must have money. The country needs it. I need it. The Parliament must assemble and grant it to me.”

  “Charles, what if there were other means of filling your exchequer … would you then think it necessary to call the Parliament?”

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, but he was alert.

  “If I could make certain promises to Louis …” she began.

  “There have been promises.”

  “Yes, and the Dutch marriage and your failure to confess yourself a Catholic angered Louis.”

  Charles shrugged lightly. “I was forced into the first,” he said. “The people wished it. As for the second—that is something my people would not tolerate.”

  “And you yourself, Charles?”

  “I am an irreligious fellow. I cannot conform, you know. I think that the Catholic Faith is more befitting to a gentleman than gloomy Presbyterianism certainly. But I am my grandfather again. England is worth a principle, as Paris was with him.”

  “In the Treaty of Dover you promised to proclaim yourself a Catholic.”

  “At the appropriate time,” said Charles quickly.

  “And that will be …?”

  “When my people will accept a Catholic King.”

  “You mean … never as long as you live.”

  “Who can say? Who can say?”

  Louise was silent for a while. Religion, as with his grandfather who had saved France from the disaster into which religious conflict was plunging the nation, would always be for Charles a matter of expediency. She must shelve the great desire to fulfill that part of her duty to France. But she must seek to bind Charles closer to the country of her birth, not only to please the French King, but to make her own position secure.

  “If you had money,” she said, “if you had, say, four million livres over three years you would be able to manage your affairs without calling Parliament.”

  “You think Louis would pay …”

  “On conditions which me might arrange …”

  Charles put down the lapdog and held out his hand. “Louise, my ministering angel,” he said, “let us talk of those conditions.”

  Before the next Parliament was called Charles was to receive £200,000 a year for a promise of neutrality towards Louis’ Continental adventures. Charles saw his chance to rule without a Parliament, which in the past he had needed merely to vote him the money he required for governing the country.

  When the new Parliament met, the King’s expression was inscrutable.

  He called to the Lord Chancellor to do his bidding, and the Lord Chancellor declared that the Parliament was dissolved.

  Charles left the chamber, where everyone was too astonished to protest. When he called to his valet to help him change, Charles was laughing. “You are a better man than you were a quarter of an hour since,” he said. “It is better to have one King than five hundred.”

  He continued in high good humor. “For,” he said, “I will have no more Parliaments, unless it be for some necessary acts that are temporary only, or to make new ones for the general good of the nation; for, God be praised, my affairs are now in so good a position that I have no occasion to ask my Parliament to vote me supplies.”

  Thus Charles, true ruler of his country through the French King’s bribes, determined not to call a Parliament for as long as he lived. Nor did he.

  Now he began to deal with the terror. Shaftesbury was sent to the Tower. Oates was arrested for slander. Monmouth was arrested and, although he was soon released, and Shaftesbury escaped to Holland, gradually there was a return to peaceful living.

  TEN

  In a house not far from Whitehall a little group of men sat I huddled about a table. They spoke in whispers and every now and then one of their number would creep to the door and open it silently and sharply, to make sure there was no one listening outside. At the head of the table sat a tall handsome young man whose brilliant eyes were now alight with ambition. Monmouth believed that before the year was out he would be King of England.

  He listened to the talk of “Slavery” and “Popery,” from which these men were swearing Eng
land should be freed forever. Popery and Slavery had special meanings; one referred to the Duke of York, the other to the King.

  Monmouth was uneasy. He hated Popery. But Slavery? He could not stop thinking of eyes which shone with a special affection for him, and he pretended to misunderstand when they talked about the annihilation of Slavery.

  Rumbold, one of the chief conspirators, was saying: “There could not be a spot more suited to our purpose. My farm—the Rye House—is as strong as a castle. It is close to the road where it narrows so that only one carriage can pass at a time. When Slavery and Popery ride past on their way to London from the Newmarket races we will block the way.”

  Colonel John Rumsey said: “We might overturn a cart. Would that suffice?”

  “Amply.” Rumbold looked round the table at the men gathered there: Richard Nelthorpe, Richard Goodenough, James Burton, Edward Wade, and many more—all good countrymen; and the nobility was represented by the Earl of Essex, Lord William Russell, and Algernon Sydney.

  Essex said: “We would have in readiness forty armed men. They will quickly do their work.”

  “And should there be trouble?” asked Captain Walcot, another of the conspirators. “What if the guards come to the aid of Popery and Slavery?”

  “Then,” said Rumbold, “we can retire to the Rye House. As I said, it is as strong as a castle and can withstand a siege until the new Government is set up. My lord Monmouth will be in London.”

  “And,” said Sydney, “he will but have to go into the streets and proclaim himself King.”

  They were all looking at the young Duke, but Monmouth did not see them. He was remembering a room in a foreign house, a blowsy and beautiful woman upon whose bed he had climbed. He remembered playing soldiers with her sweetmeats; he remembered the arrival of a tall man who had tossed him to the ceiling and caught him as he fell. He remembered his own choking laughter of excitement; he remembered that wonderful feeling—the thrill of being thrown, and the certain knowledge that those hands which caught him would never fail.

  Now they were asking him to aid in the murder of that kind father.