Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

by Виктория Холт

  “You cannot,” said a voice within him.

  But he could not shut out the thought of the glittering crown and the power that went with it.

  Charles had settled into a life of ease.

  Less vigorous than he had been, he had three favorites, and they were adequate. There was Louise—and he never forgot that it was Louise’s advice and her negotiations with the French which had brought him the pension enabling him to rule without a Parliament—and he looked upon Louise as his wife. It was Louise who received foreign visitors, for she understood politics as poor Catherine never could. Louise looked upon herself as Queen of England, and acted the part with such poise and confidence that many had come to consider her as such. She felt herself to be so secure that she did not hesitate to leave England and take a trip to her own country. There she had been received as a Queen, for the French King, even more so than the King of England, was sensible of her services. She had demanded the right to sit on a tabouret in the presence of the Queen of France, and this had been granted her. Louis had done great honor to her and everywhere she had been received with the utmost respect. Louise, practical as ever, had set about wisely investing the great fortune she had amassed while in England. This was her real reason for coming to France. And, strangely enough, on her return to England she had been received with more honor than ever before. The people of England, hearing of the homage paid to her by the King of France for acting so ably as his spy, were ready to accord her that respect which hitherto they had always denied her.

  Then there was Hortense—serenely beautiful, cultured, easygoing, very like the King in character—who was still the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, for her beauty was such that nothing seemed to mar it; and, although she took lovers and sat late at the basset table, she did all these things with such serenity, never departing from a mood of contentment, that there were no lines of dissipation to mark the beautiful contours of her perfect face. So lovely she was that men of all ages fell in love with her. Even her own nephew, Prince Eugéne de Savoy-Carignan, when he visited London, did so, and had fought a duel for her sake with Baron de Bainer who was the son of one of the generals of Gustavus Adolphus; in this duel Bainer was killed, and at the Court of Versailles there was amazement that a woman who was a grandmother could arouse such passion in the heart of a young man who was moreover her nephew. But Hortense went on calmly playing basset, taking lovers, receiving the King now and then; not seeking power as Louise did; content with her position as casual mistress, that she might not be denied the right to take another lover if so she wished.

  Then there was Nell. Nell’s role, Charles came to realize, was the more maternal one. It was to Nell he went for amusement and for comfort. Nell’s love was more disinterested than the others’. Nell loved him, not always as a lover, not as a King; but understanding that in him which—cynic though he was—had never quite grown up, she was his playmate; she was his mistress when he desired her to be; she was his solace and his comfort.

  Recently he had laid the foundation stone of Chelsea Hospital, which was to be a refuge for disabled old soldiers, and it was Nell who, with Sir Stephen Fox—for so many years Paymaster to the Forces—had urged him to this benevolent act. He smiled often remembering her enthusiasm and how, when she had seen Wren’s plans of the hospital, she had protested angrily that it was too small. Then with a roguish laugh she had turned to the King. “I beg Your Majesty to make it at least as big as my pocket handkerchief,” she had pleaded. He had answered: “Such a modest request could not be denied you.” Whereupon she confounded him—and Wren—by tearing her handkerchief into strips and making a hollow square into which she fitted the plans. Charles was so amused that he agreed to increase the size of the proposed hospital.

  He had come to know, in these years when he was aware of the slight ailments which must attack a man even as healthy as himself; that Nell was more important to him than any of his mistresses. Louise he admired as a clever woman who had risen from obscurity to be the power behind the throne; Hortense must be admired for her beauty; but it was Nell whom he could least bear to lose.

  But he was a fortunate man. There was no need to lose any one of them. His pension from Louis enabled him to meet his and his country’s commitments. He could dabble in scientific experiments in his laboratory; he could sit by the river and fish; he could go to the play with Louise on one arm and Nell on the other. He could spend his time between Whitehall and Windsor, Winchester and Newmarket.

  Many of his friends were no longer with him. Buckingham, after the defeat of the Country Party; had left public life and retired to Helmsly in Yorkshire. He regretted George’s gay company, but wherever George had been there also had been trouble. Rochester was dead. There would be no more witty verses stuck on bedroom doors; but those verses of his had been scurrilous indeed and had doubtless done much to dissatisfy the people. James, his brother, was back in England and, though he prophesied trouble for James when he came to the throne, and feared that James would not last long as King, he advised him now and then on ruling as he was ruling, keeping Parliament in recess and thus preventing that deadly rivalry between Whig and Tory which had almost brought the country to revolution. In any case he could tell himself that the ruling of the country would be James’ affair, and any trouble that ensued could not reach him in the grave. His dear son, Monmouth, realized now that he had been foolish. He knew that he could never have the crown. “Why you, Jemmy?” Charles had said. “Think of all the sons I have who might as easily lay claim to the throne.” And Jemmy had looked sheepish, while Charles put his arm about his shoulders. “’Tis my wish,” he had said, “that you thrust such thoughts from your mind since they can bring nought but suffering to you and to me.”

  Then Jemmy had looked at him as the young Jemmy had when he had plunged his little hands into his father’s pockets for sweetmeats. Charles remembered saying then: “Why, Jemmy, is it the sweetmeats you are glad to find, or your father?” And the young Jemmy had considered this and suddenly thrown his arms about his father’s neck. Jemmy, the young man, had not altered, thought Charles. He longs for a crown. But he knows it is dangerous longing.

  Thus was his state when he travelled down to Newmarket for the season’s races. The Duke of York was with him and they were seen together, the best of friends, the most loving of brothers. Charles wanted the whole country to know that, now that he had given up all hope of getting a son, his brother James was the only man who could follow him to the throne.

  They planned to leave Newmarket on a certain day, and the journey home would be, as usual, through Hoddesdon in Hertfordshire and past the Rye House.

  At the Rye House a group of men eagerly awaited the coming of the coach in which the royal brothers would be riding. All plans were completed. There was the cart which would be set across the road. There were the conspirators waiting in the Rye House. In London the Duke of Mon-mouth waited. He could scarcely contain his impatience.

  But the conspirators waited in vain for the coach to ride into the trap, for the day before Charles was to leave Newmarket there was a great fire in that town and many houses were burned down. That in which Charles and James were staying did not escape, and the King decided that they might as well set out for London a day before they had intended to.

  Thus, when they came to that narrow stretch of road through which it was only possible for one coach to pass at a time, they went straight through, having no idea that, in the house close by, their enemies were preparing to murder them on the following day.

  It was some weeks later when important documents were brought to Charles. It appeared that a letter from a certain Joseph Keeling to Lord Dartmouth had been discovered, and in this letter was set out an account of the conspiracy which had been planned to bear fruit near the Rye House. Some of the minor conspirators, then feeling that it might be gainful to expose the plotters now that the plot had failed, were ready to come forward, explain all that had been planned, and incriminate tho
se who has taken part in the plot.

  There had been much talk of such plots. Only a short while ago the country had been roused to fury by the Meal-Tub plot, which had been concocted by the Papists as a retaliation for all the Popish plots which had grown out of the fevered imagination of Titus Oates. In that case papers relating to the plot, which was to raise an army and set up a Presbyterian republic, were supposed to have been discovered in a meal-tub. Therefore it was felt that the King would laugh to scorn this discovery of a new plot unless there was really tangible evidence to support it. Fortunately some letters of Algernon Sydney, as well as that of Keeling, were discovered, and when these were brought to Charles he could not doubt the existence of the Rye House plot.

  Essex, Russell, and Sydney, with others, were arrested. But there was one name concerned in this which filled Charles with horror. There was no doubt that murder had been intended, and Jemmy was involved; Jemmy was one of the conspirators who had plotted the murder of his father.

  The country was roused to fury. The death of all the traitors was demanded. The King was as popular now as he had been on the day of his restoration. Easygoing and affable, his people delighted in him, for he was never too proud to speak to the humblest of them, man to man; that was what they loved best in him. They laughed at the gay life he led. Why should he not? they demanded. Who would not support a seraglio if it were possible? All feared his death, for it was realized that he had but driven the threat of civil war underground. It was Charles with his disregard of Parliaments, his determination to keep England at peace, and living on the bribes of Louis, who was responsible for the peaceful state now enjoyed.

  Russell and Sydney were executed. Essex took his own life in prison, and a new Lord Chief Justice was appointed to mete out justice to these men. His name was George Jeffreys and he had a reputation for severity.

  The Rye House plot sealed Charles’ triumph, for the Whig party was now completely out of favor. Nothing could have been more opportune than the discovery and frustration of such a plot.

  Charles was safer than he had been since the early days of his Restoration; but his triumph was a bitter one.

  He could not keep his eyes from that name which occurred again and again in the documents: James, Duke of Monmouth. James … Little Jemmy … who had plotted to murder his own father.

  On the failure of the Rye House plot, Jemmy had hastily gone into hiding, but he was writing appealing letters to his father. “I was in this plot, Father,” he wrote, “but I did not understand they meant to kill you.”

  Then how else, my son, said Charles to himself, could they have put you on the throne?

  He knew that, had he cared, he could have drawn Jemmy out of his hiding place. He could have put Jemmy in the Tower with those other would-be murderers. But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not shut out of his mind the memory of little Jemmy, bouncing on his mother’s bed, holding up imperious arms to his father.

  He did not want to know where Jemmy was. If he did he must take him from his hiding place and put him in the Tower.

  It was to Nell he turned for comfort. Nell was ashamed and angry because at one time she had helped “Prince Perkin;” she had kept him in her house and asked the King to see him. Now she realized she had preserved him that he might live to attempt to take his father’s life.

  “I want no more of him,” said Nell; yet she could understand the King’s grief. He loved the boy. He was his son. He was as dear to him as little Lord Burford.

  Louise expressed anger against Monmouth, but the King sensed her pleasure. There were secrets in Louise’s eyes, and Charles knew that at one time she had entertained hopes that her son, the Duke of Richmond, might be a possible heir to the throne. Louise was afraid because he had come near death, but that fear was really for the security of her own position.

  Hortense expressed horror in her serene way. But Hortense was too careless of the future even to ponder what would become of her should her benefactor die.

  And there in Charles’ hands was the letter from Jemmy.

  “What good can it do you, Sir, to take away your own child’s life that only erred and ventured his life to save yours?”

  That made the King smile. It was Jemmy’s assurance that he had entered into the plot only to save the conspirators from violence. He would never have agreed to murder the father who had done everything for him.

  “And now I do swear to you that as from this time I will never displease you in anything, but the whole study of my life shall be to show you how truly penitent I am for having done it. I suffer torments greater now than your forgiving nature would know how to inflict.”

  The Duke of York came to him as he sat with the letter in his hand.

  “James,” said Charles, “I have here a letter from Jemmy.”

  James’ face hardened.

  “Oh, I know you find it hard to forgive him,” said Charles. “He is but a boy. He was carried away by evil companions.”

  “Evil, indeed, since ’twas murder they plotted.”

  “He had no intention to murder. He was there to restrain the others from violence.”

  “Then,” said James grimly, “he knew not the nature of the plot.”

  “I like not to see this enmity between you two, James. I think of when I am gone. Why, brother, if you persist in your religion, I give you but four years as King—and mayhap then I am being over-generous. Peace between you and Jemmy would be a beginning of better things.”

  “You would call him back?” said James incredulously. “You could find it in your heart to forgive him when he has stood beside those who plotted to take your life!”

  “He is my son,” said Charles. “I cannot believe he is all bad. He was led away. And I do not think he intended to murder his father.”

  “I think he intended to murder his uncle!”

  “Nay, James. Let us have peace … peace … peace. Meet the boy halfway. If he begs humbly for your pardon, if he can assure us that he had no intent to murder …”

  James smiled wanly. Charles would have his way. And James understood. He was a father himself.

  Charles embraced his son. The young Duke had been brought secretly into the Palace, and Charles had prepared a letter which he would require Mon-mouth to sign.

  “Father,” said the young man with tears in his eyes.

  “Come, Jemmy,” said Charles. “Let bygones be bygones.”

  “I would never have let them kill you,” sobbed Jemmy.

  “I know it. I believe it. There! Sign this, and I will see that a pardon is issued to you.”

  Monmouth fell to his knees and kissed his father’s hand.

  “Jemmy,” said Charles, “you do not remember, but when you were a small boy you tried to catch hold of a burning log. I stopped you in time and I did my best to make you understand that if you attempted to touch the fire you would be badly hurt. You did understand. I am telling you just that now.”

  “Yes, Father, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Now you must leave me,” said Charles. “It would not be well for you to be discovered here now. The people do not forgive you as readily as your father does.”

  So Monmouth left his father, but, even as he moved quickly away from the Palace, he was met by some of his old friends. They knew where he had been and what he had done, and they pointed out to him that he had deserted those who had supported him and sought to put him on the throne, and once the confession he had signed was made public none of his supporters would ever plan for him again. He would be deemed but a fair-weather friend. Indeed, by signing the letter his father had prepared for him he had gone over to the enemy.

  Monmouth, hot-blooded and impetuous, went back to Whitehall.

  He faced his father. “I must have that confession,” he said.

  “Why so?” asked Charles coldly.

  “Because it would do me great harm if it is known I signed it.”

  “Harm you to have it known
that you did not plot against your father’s life?”

  “I must have it,” persisted Monmouth.

  Charles handed him the paper. Monmouth grasped it, but as he lifted his eyes to his father’s face he was looking at a new man. He knew that Charles had thrown aside his illusions, had forced himself to accept his Jemmy for what he was—the son who would have murdered the father who had raised him up to where he was, and had done nought but what was for his own good; and this son would have murdered that father for his crown.

  “Get out of here,” said Charles.

  “Father …” stammered Monmouth. “Where should I go?”

  “From here to hell,” said Charles.

  He turned away, and the Duke crept out into the streets. He was holding the confession in his hand.

  There were crowds in the streets. They were talking of Rye House. He listened to them. He took a look at his father’s Palace, and he knew that at this time there was no place for him in England.

  That night he took ship for Holland.

  Charles no longer thought of Monmouth. The Rye House plot had lost him his son, but it had brought an even greater power to him and with that power was peace. He was ruling as he believed a King, endowed with the Divine Right, should rule. His brother, the Duke of York, was reinstated as Lord High Admiral and, as James would not take the Test, Charles merely signed an order that, as brother to the King, he should be exempted from this.

  Then began the happy months. His private life was as peaceful as his public life. All his children—with the exception of the one whom he had loved best—brought great pleasure to him.

  He looked after their welfare, delighted in their triumphs, advised them in their troubles. He took charge of his brother’s children’s future, and married Anne to the Protestant George of Denmark—a not very attractive young man, no gallant, no wit, no scholar; but as his chief interest in life seemed to be food, Charles doubted not that Anne would be satisfied with him. He was over-fat, but Charles merrily advised him, “If you walk with me, hunt with me, and do justice to my niece, you will not long be distressed by fat.”