Charles had offered £500 reward for anyone bringing the murderer of Godfrey to justice, although he half suspected that the man had been murdered by Titus’ agents for the purpose of rousing the mob to fresh fury, for it seemed that whenever this showed signs of lagging, some such incident would take place, some new plot would be discovered.
It was then that William Bedloe made himself known and came before the Council with a terrible tale to tell.
Bedloe was a convict, and he had met Titus when they were both in Spain. At that time Bedloe had been living on his wits and posing as an English nobleman, with his brother James acting as his manservant. He was handsome and plausible, and had managed during his free life to live at the expense of others, but he had served many sentences in Newgate and had just been released from that prison.
He was attracted by the King’s promised reward of £500 and by the fact that his old friend Titus, whom he had last known as a very poor scholar of dubious reputation in Valladolid, was now fêted and honored with three servants at his beck and call and several gentlemen to help him dress and hold his basin whilst he washed.
Bedloe did not see why he should not share in his friend’s good fortune, so he came forward to offer his services.
It seemed to Catherine that she was always waiting for something to happen; she was afraid when she heard a movement outside her door. She believed that these men were preparing to strike at her, and she was not sure when and how the blow would fall.
It was dusk, and she had come from her chapel to that small chamber in which her solitary meal would be served. And as she was about to sit at her table, the door was thrown open and two of her priests came in to throw themselves at her feet.
“Madam, Madam!” they cried. “Protect us. For the love of God and all the Saints, protect us.”
They were kneeling, clutching at her skirts, when she lifted her eyes and saw that guards had entered the chamber.
“What do you want of these men?” she asked.
“We come to take them for questioning, Madam,” was the answer.
“Questioning? On what matter?”
“On the matter of murder, Madam.”
“I do not understand.”
“They are accused of being concerned in the murder of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey.”
“But this is not true. It is quite ridiculous.”
“Madam, information has been laid with the Council that may prove them guilty.”
“You shall not take them,” cried Catherine. “They are my servants.”
“Madam,” said the guard who was spokesman, “we come in the name of the King.”
Her hands fell helplessly to her side.
When they had taken the two priests away, she went into her chapel and prayed for them.
Oh, these terrible times! she mused. What will happen next? What will happen to those two servants of mine? What have they done—those two good men—what have they done to deserve punishment, except to think differently, to belong to a Faith other than that of Titus Oates?
She was on her knees for a long time, and when she went back to her apartment she was conscious of the tension throughout her household.
She was aware of strained and anxious faces.
Walsh and le Fevre today. Who next? That was what all were asking themselves. And every man and woman in her service knew that if they were taken it would be because, through them, it might be possible to strike at the Queen.
They trembled. They were fond of their mistress; it would be the greatest tragedy in their lives if they should betray her in some way. But who could say what might be divulged if the questioners should become too cruelly determined to prise falsehood from unwilling lips!
“There is nothing to fear,” said Catherine, trying to smile. “We are all innocent here. I know it. These cruel men, who seek to torture and destroy those of our Faith, cannot do so for long. The King will not allow it. The King will see justice done. They cannot deceive him.”
No! It was true that they could not deceive him; but he was a man who loved peace; he was a man who had wandered across Europe for many years, an exiled Prince; he was a man whose own father had been murdered by his own countrymen.
The King might be shrewd; he might be kind; but he longed for peace, and how could they be sure whether he would bestir himself to see justice done?
And at the back of Catherine’s mind was a terrible fear.
She was no longer young; she had never been beautiful. What if the temptation to put her from him was too great; what if the wife they offered him was as beautiful as Frances Stuart had been in the days before her disfigurement?
Who could tell what would happen?
The Queen of England was a frightened woman during those days of conspiracy.
The Duchess of Buckingham brought her the news. She and Mary Fairfax had always been great friends, for there was much sympathy between them. They were both plain women and, if one had been married to the most charming man in England, the other had been married to one of the most handsome.
Mary Fairfax knew that her husband was one of the queen’s greatest enemies; she loved her husband but she was too intelligent not to understand his motives, and she could not resist coming to warn the Queen.
“Your Majesty,” she cried, “this man Bedloe has sworn that Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey was murdered by your servants.”
“It cannot be true. How could they do such a thing? They were nowhere near the place where his body was found.”
“They have trumped up a story,” said Mary. “They declare that Godfrey was invited to Somerset House at five o’clock in the afternoon, and that he was brought into one of the rooms here and held by a man of my Lord Bellasis’ whilst Walsh and le Fevre stifled him with the aid of two pillows.”
“No one can believe such a tale.”
“The people believe what they want to believe at a time like this,” said Mary sadly. “They say that the body lay on your back staircase for two days. Many have been arrested. The prisons are full. The crowds are congregating outside and shouting for them to be brought out, hung, drawn and quartered.”
The Queen shuddered. “And my poor innocent priests …?”
“They will prove their innocence.”
“These lies are monstrous. Will no one listen to the truth?”
“Your Majesty, the people are treating this man Oates as though he is a god. They are arresting all sorts of people. Do you remember Mr. Pepys of the Navy Office, who did such good service at the time of the great fire? He was taken up, and God alone knows what would have become of him had not one of his accusers—his own butler—come suddenly to his deathbed and, fearing to die with the lies on his lips, confessed that he had borne false witness. He is a good Protestant. Then why was he taken? Your Majesty might ask. Merely because he had been in the service of the Duke of York who thought highly of him.”
“No one is safe,” murmured the Queen. “No one is safe.”
She looked at Mary and was ashamed of herself for suspecting her. But the thought had crossed her mind then; how could she be sure who was her friend?
Who was this man Bedloe who had sworn he had seen the body of a murdered man on her back stairs? Had he been here, disguised as one of her servants?
How could she know who were her enemies; how could she know whom she could trust?
In the streets they were saying that the Queen’s servants were the murderers of the City magistrate; and since these men were the Queen’s servants, that meant that it was at the instigation of the Queen that the man had been murdered.