The King’s mood changed again. He rose to end the audience, spoke a word here and there, bowed to others without speaking. Almost at once the room was empty except for Hyde, the two Ogilvys, Wilmot, a distant pair of gentlemen in waiting and Charles himself.
‘Go with my Lord Chancellor, Colonel,’ Charles said, passing in front of Alan and so cutting him away from his father’s side. ‘The journey you will make needs much care in the manner it is done. Our envoys must travel safely to perform their tasks securely. But we would have you observe to the full, that we may compare the news and views our messengers return to us, with the opinions and feelings of the lesser powers in those lands. My lord,’ he added, turning again to Wilmot, so that now Alan alone was behind him, ‘go you with them to discuss the ways the parties may follow. Colonel Ogilvy and you, my lord, should between you be able to advise my Lord Chancellor.’
The King stood still now, waving a hand to carry the other three forward to the door. As Alan made a quick, movement to follow, thinking he had been forgotten, Charles made a slight gesture and murmured ‘Stay!’ in a voice too low for the others to hear, but filled with that quiet command that had become an easy habit with him.
So Alan stood, wondering. During the whole audience he had been puzzled to know why he was there. After all, he had done so slight a service to the King on board the Surprise, when His Majesty was still practising the manner of a commoner, a lord perhaps, at best a mere country gentleman. Never a king. This day he had beer, fully regal, a monarch indeed. Alan waited.
‘The King beckoned him forward, then led him to the embrasure of one of the long windows. When he turned to him again Alan saw that Charles wore his former friendly look, his dark eyes were bright, his full mouth widely smiling.
‘I told you when you acted cabin boy to my friend Wilmot and me that you might serve me again, if occasion arose. A simple service as that was, but one to be done with discretion, with care, very quietly. Also the news of it brought to me in person, without giving any of it to another soul.’
Alan answered at once.
‘I am altogether at Your Majesty’s command.’
‘Good lad, good lad!’ Charles said gaily. ‘Just the answer I looked for. No questions, no doubts, no excuses, no price! Nay, do not look so shocked. The French are an avaricious race and the English throne is a pauper. Already our credit begins to close up, though our Royal Mother, being aunt to King Louis, has her allowance from him.’
‘My father, sir –’ Alan began, trying to explain that he wanted no hire but would serve the King in loyalty.
But Charles waved him to silence.
‘Nevertheless, for your own sake, boy, and to give you the necessary access to me again, I propose to engage you – without salary – as a page of the bedchamber, under the general direction of the Lord Chamberlain.’
His proffered hand seemed to imply a formal engagement, so Alan knelt swiftly to kiss it and rose feeling a glow of importance not spoilt by the sardonic gleam in the King’s eyes, for he knew Charles’s bitter humour was turned upon himself, not upon the young man he had just honoured. There was after all only two years difference in age between them; the tall young King had less than two inches advantage in height. For a second the eyes of the pair met. Alan longed to speak his full heart in words of comfort and hope. Surely this Prince, so full of courage, good sense and wit, was not doomed to pass his whole life in poverty, in exile. Surely his history would not repeat that of his sad aunt, the sometime Winter Queen of Bohemia, another exile.
But he dared not put into words a closeness of feeling and a condescension of pity no subject might display to the highest in the land. If that subject acknowledged that great one. As at that moment he did with the whole force of his young mind and heart.
Charles’s eyes softened, he smiled with genuine pleasure as he always did when he had won a simple allegiance, unblemished by ambition, false pride or vanity. He laid a hand gently on Alan’s shoulder and said, ‘It is very simple, Alan. I would have news of my son. He is with his mother, Mistress Lucy Walter, at The Hague. My Lord Chancellor brings me reports. The Duke of Monmouth is well. The Duke of Monmouth has the gripe, hath fallen and cut his knee, hath swallowed a button. But nought of his looks, his general welfare, his friends – the friends of his mother. Will you bring me true news of his welfare?’
Alan blushed violently, more on account of the ribald tales he had exchanged at Oxford with fellow students on the subject of the King’s affairs of the heart, than particularly because he was hearing of their first acknowledged byproduct from the child’s own father.
‘I will do so, sire,’ he managed to say in a fairly natural voice. ‘I ride into Holland with my father before the end of this week, unless his plan is changed following Your Majesty’s orders, given today.’
‘It will serve, it will serve.’ Charles said, suddenly grown impatient. He lifted his arms, yawning widely. ‘You may leave us now, Master Ogilvy,’ he pronounced, most fully again the King. ‘You may admit your new position in our household but tell no one of your errand.
We would have the news of our son undoctored, unbiased by our advisors’ wishes. You will provide it. We can trust you for that.’
When Alan had gone Charles stayed by the window of the great audience room until his gentlemen came forward. To minister to his wants, it was supposed; to guard his person, it was believed; to protect him from himself, Sir Edward Hyde piously wished, but scarcely hoped. To amuse and interest him, Charles demanded. Just now, his future or rather the possible plans for securing it having been discussed for several hours, his thoughts had turned by way of that early mistress and her boy to more ardent attractions and behind them to that urgent business of finding himself a suitable wife. Openly he still courted La Grande Mademoiselle, as she was called, cousin of young King Louis, but older than he. Older than Charles himself, indeed, her eyes upon successful, not exiled princes, so far without success, but she still hoped. Meanwhile Charles courted her, while he loved, or at any rate, desired that beautiful widow, the Duchesse de Chatillon. Should he make her the Queen of England? Would the English, so Protestant just now, accept another French Catholic Queen, or would that marriage extinguish his already dim hopes of a restoration?
Charles pondered these questions until his gentlemen came round him to learn his pleasure and to take him away to find it. At the end of the evening he hoped the lovely Duchess would help to distract him entirely from his many woes and cares and puzzles and grinding want, so that he might sleep in her arms at last a fulfilled and happy man in place of a struggling, exiled king.
Chapter Seven
It took Alan three months to discover the whereabouts of Lucy Walter. This was in part because he could not make his inquiries openly, but had to find those who had known her, or of her, when she had been the young King’s favourite. Charles had met her at The Hague while he was still Charles the First’s heir and not yet eighteen. But the King of England was by then a prisoner in his own country and a year later was dead upon a scaffold in Whitehall by the hand of his own people.
So the young Charles’s affair, ardent and innocent enough, though the Prince could not even then be considered wholly inexperienced, did not last for many months. King Charles the Second had matters of the first importance to occupy all his time and attention. His first concern from the very beginning of his exile, had been to recover his throne and his kingdom. So Lucy, expecting no better, was neglected during her inevitable pregnancy by the royal lover who had found such joy in her possession. She had hidden herself away with unexpected discretion until the birth of her son. Whereupon Charles, delighted with her, for he loved children, acknowledged the boy as his, named the infant at once James Scott, and made him Duke of Monmouth.
All very well, Alan found, but where were they now and what had become of that youthful idyll? Gone, he decided, as if it had never been, except for a number of sad, scurrilous tales of Mistress Lucy’s later behaviour, though none
of her exact whereabouts.
Colonel Ogilvy was mildly helpful, but Alan, dared not ask him too many questions, especially about matters in the United Provinces and Holland, since the latter had now lapsed into naval war with the English, only to feel at once the immense improvement in Cromwell’s fleet under Admiral Blake. The Dutch still had a superiority in the number of ships, but the new English vessels were larger, their armament heavier, their military complement no longer a rabble but well trained, well disciplined and eager to win in the battle of the Lord God, whom they were told was directly instructing his faithful servant, Oliver Cromwell.
This war was a disappointing setback to the hopes of the English loyalists in general. Though Alan, son of a known and much respected figure attached to the House of Orange, did not feel the handicap at first.
He gathered in time that Mistress Walter was still in Holland. Since the Lady Anne Ogilvy, his mother, was at the widowed Princess of Orange’s Court at The Hague, he was able to appear with his own family upon suitable occasions, while being perfectly free for most of the time to travel wherever rumour or more solid information led him.
In the end he traced the discarded favourite to Dordrecht and a tall house upon the central quay. Here she occupied three rooms upon an upper floor, with, the little Duke of Monmouth and his nursemaid, and an cider woman who lived with them on familiar terms but provided the food for all three, which she cooked in the kitchens at the basement of the house.
Mistress Walter was at this time twenty-two and her son three. The mother was still pretty though the fresh Welsh pink and white complexion had faded somewhat and the abundant black locks, as dark as Charles’s own, were poorly tended and dull for lack of washing and brushing. The little boy, on the other hand, was in fine health, as rosy as his mother was pale and very well attended by his nurse, who took great pride in his royal origin and in her innocence believed he might yet become heir to the English crown.
Alan presented himself at the house, showing the letter he bore to gain him an entrance. He found no difficulty. The elderly woman, hoping for an increase in her salary with this renewal of the King’s interest, took the messenger upstairs at once. In her enthusiasm her knock at Lucy’s door was brief, nor did she wait for an answer, but began to open it. So Alan was perfectly aware of a certain scuffle within and though he heard no second voice there was a sound of confused movement too great for a single woman’s making.
‘A gentleman come from His Majesty, madam,’ the woman said, ‘Did I not tell thee, my love, his neglect would be over just as soon as the affairs of State would allow?’
Motioning to Alan to go forward the old woman turned and began to descend the stairs again, while Alan moved into the room, took two steps forward and bowed deeply and respectfully.
He was not altogether surprised by the servant’s familiarity nor by the general air of disorder in the room and also in the person of the young woman who received him in a friendly way but with evident surprise.
‘But you are not –’ she began, then bit her lip and turned, away, but looked back again and smiled.
‘You expected another visitor, madam?’ Alan asked politely.
‘Yes, sir. That is to say, I have been warned –’
Again she broke off, frowning, but seated herself in an upright chair and waved Alan to another.
‘Mother Schik did mention His Majesty. You come to me from him? You have a letter, perhaps?’
‘No letter, madam. But my errand is direct from the King.’
Seeing her instant disappointment Alan felt a quick, surge of pity for her. So he went on in a gentle voice, attempting comfort, ‘His thoughts turn often to the little Duke, his son.’
‘But not to me?’
‘Naturally to you, madam, through his concern for you, too.’
‘As the boy’s mother. Nay, I am not bitter. In him that is natural. I have always understood it. You are to inspect us, I assume, and make a report?’
Alan flushed. Her manner was direct, abrupt, almost offensive. It was easy to realize how this would irritate Charles; not to the point of anger, he was too easy-going for that, too sure of himself now, perhaps always where women were concerned. But dangerous to her future unless she mended it.
It was, however, too early in their acquaintance to attempt to explain this to her. Besides, just then Alan felt his own inexperience most acutely. Mistress Walter was older than he, a woman with a child already three years old. Surely he would never dare to speak to her as the King had hinted; warn her to sink quietly into the background, away from all Court connections, all great ambitions, all thoughts of a grand marriage to follow that supreme position she had so briefly held. Already he thought he had confirmed the truth of the gossip he had heard; that she did not lack admirers, probably a lover.
He began to talk, about Charles’s present Court and those who formed it. Of how his brother Prince James was serving as a soldier with the French King Louis’s troops, of how his youngest brother Henry, Duke of Gloucester, had been allowed to leave England and was now with the widowed Queen, who was trying to make him turn to the Catholic religion, but the King would not allow it.
‘Yet His Majesty is three parts Catholic himself,’ Lucy protested. ‘Or was when I was close to him. Though since we were at The Hague and this is an altogether Protestant country, you understand –’
‘The King was brought up in the Church of England,’ Alan said firmly. ‘That is his church and he declares so continually. England is of that church, however much the Presbyterians and all those manifold mad sects rant to the contrary.’
‘Nevertheless –’ Lucy repeated, but a knock at the door, followed by a decent interval, brought the arrival of the Duke of Monmouth, pulling against the hand of his nursemaid.
He was a pretty child, with abundant dark curls flowing down over his shoulders on each side. He was simply dressed, but as a miniature gentleman, no longer in the long gown of the very young, though he was not much above three years old. He spoke in part English, part Dutch, which Alan did not perfectly understand. However his harangue, delivered in a loud, autocratic voice, was addressed in anger to his nurse. He ignored Alan altogether. He seemed to be continuing a quarrel, or rather an extended rebuke, begun elsewhere.
The nurse made no effort to control him, but appealed to his mother instead to scold him as he deserved. To Alan’s surprise Mistress Lucy merely laughed, calling to the boy to come to her and tell her what had upset him. Which he did, running into her arms and kissing her upon each cheek in turn. After which he caught sight of Alan, standing gravely behind her. He stood away himself, staring now.
‘Master Leslie?’ he said, inquiring. Then shook his head. ‘No Master Leslie.’
‘No, James,’ his mother told him. ‘This is not Master Leslie. This is Master Alan Ogilvy.’
‘Why did he say Leslie?’ Alan could not help asking. ‘Forgive me for asking, but my father, Colonel Francis Ogilvy, is connected in some sort with a branch of the clan Leslie.’
‘And Master George Leslie, as you must very well know is one of that family,’ Mistress Walter said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘My little son mistook you for a visitor who pays me the compliment of thinking I can give him information about the King and so comes to visit me.’
‘George Leslie, the spy!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘Here in Dordrecht?’
She paled a little.
‘You exaggerate, sir,’ she said coldly, realizing her indiscretion. ‘But little Jamie is right. Master Leslie came here a week ago and I expect him here again.’
She had expected him today, Alan thought, remembering the confusion on Mistress Walter’s face when the old housekeeper had announced him. Well, why not? A recent letter from old Mistress Leslie in Paternoster Row had told him how George had arrived a few hours after he himself had gone aboard his Dutch hoy in the Pool. George had been looking for him then. He would scarcely expect to find him here now. They would not recognize one another, nev
er having met. But Lucy Walter would not fail to introduce them, one to another, if only from a kind of malice, because in each she herself did not count for any purpose, any importance, but only as her fertility affected the royal succession or could be made to affect it, to blast it, rather. George Leslie’s purpose in life seemed to be aimed at destruction, in whatever direction he moved.
‘The little Duke of Monmouth, having decided that the strange man was not dangerous, now went up to him and reaching to his belt hauled down his sword scabbard to inspect it.
‘Too long for thee to handle, my little lord,’ Alan said, smiling down at the child. ‘But stand away a little and I’ll show thee how the blade draws.’
‘Nay, sir, forbear,’. Mistress Lucy entreated. ‘He’ll learn soon enough. There is too much of his father’s spirit here to be encouraged.’
Alan laughed and the child laughed with him. In another few minutes they had become friends, chasing each other about the room, while the nurse stood near the door, clapping her hands, only too pleased to have the awkward scene of her arrival with the boy forgotten. Mistress Walter, still frowning a little, moved out of the way of the couple to stand near the window looking down from time to time into the street.
It was while she was doing so that her expression suddenly changed to one of consternation. She exclaimed aloud:
‘Go, nurse!’ she cried. ‘Run to Mother Schik. Tell her to say I am from home. Quick! Go! This visitor must be delayed!’
The nurse girl, obviously confused, turned fumbling with the door handle in her agitation. The little Duke of Monmouth stopped in his game, which now took the form of riding on Alan’s back as he cavorted about the room. The child struggled to free himself, fell a few feet as Alan tried to swing him down and let out a great bellow, more of fear than pain.
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