Now as he answered her his voice was hard and angry. “I don’t know what stake you have in this, madame, but I’ll warrant you it’s a big one. You’d never be so zealous in another person’s cause otherwise. But I’m heartily sick of listening to you. I’ll make my own decisions without the help of a meddlesome jade!”
They were walking along the south-east side of the Privy Garden, where it was flanked by a row of buildings containing apartments of several Court officials. The day was hot and still and many windows were open; several ladies and gentlemen strolled in other nearby walks or lounged on the grass. Nevertheless Barbara, growing angry, raised her voice.
“Meddlesome jade, am I? Very well, then—I’ll tell you what you are! You’re a fool! Yes, that’s what you are, a fool! Because if you weren’t you wouldn’t allow yourself to be ruled by fools!”
Heads turned, faces appeared at windows and then hastily retreated out of sight. All the Palace seemed suddenly to have grown quieter.
“Govern your tongue!” snapped Charles. He turned on his heel and walked off.
Barbara opened her mouth, her first impulse being to order him back—as she might once have done—and then she heard a snicker from somewhere nearby. Swiftly her eyes sought out the mocker, but all faces she met were veiled, innocently smiling. She swept her train about and started off in the opposite direction, rage swelling within her until she knew that she would burst if she did not break something or hurt someone. At that moment she came upon one of her pages, a ten-year-old boy, lying on the grass singing to himself.
“Get up, you lazy lout!” she cried. “What are you doing there!”
He looked at her in amazement, and then hastily scrambled to his feet. “Why, your Ladyship told me—”
“Don’t contradict me, you puppy!” She gave him a box on the ear, and when he began to cry she slapped him again. She felt better, but she was no nearer the solution of her problem.
The council-room was a long narrow chamber, panelled in dark wood and hung with several large gold-framed paintings. There was an empty fireplace at one end, flanked by tall mullioned windows. An oak table extended down the center and surrounding it were several chairs, high-backed and elaborately carved, with turned legs and dark red-velvet cushions. Until the councillors came it looked like a suitable place to do state business.
Chancellor Clarendon arrived first. His gout was bad that day and he had had to leave his bed to attend the trial, but he would not have missed it had his condition been a great deal worse. At the door-way he got out of his wheel-chair and hobbled painfully into the room. Immediately he began to sort over a stack of papers one of his secretaries laid before him, frowning and preoccupied. He took no notice of those who came next.
After a few moments Charles strolled in with York at his side and several busy little spaniels scurrying about his feet. One of them he held in his arms, and as he paused to speak for a moment with Sir William Coventry his hand stroked along the dog’s silken ears; it turned its head to lick at him. The dogs were not affectionate but they seemed to know and love their master, though the courtiers were often bitten for trying to strike up a friendship with them.
Presently Lauderdale, the giant Scotsman, arrived and stopped to tell Charles a funny story he had heard the previous night. He was a very inept raconteur, but Charles’s deep laugh boomed out, amused more by the Earl’s crude eccentricities than by what he was saying. York, however, regarded him with contemptuous dislike. Now he went to sit beside the Chancellor. Instantly they were engaged in earnest low-toned conversation. No two men there today had so much at stake; Buckingham had been an active and dangerous foe of both for many years. The enmity far predated the Restoration, but had become even more virulent since.
If there was one man in England who hated and feared Buckingham more than either York or Chancellor Clarendon it was the Secretary of State, Baron Arlington. They had been friends when Arlington had first arrived at Court, six years before, but conflicting ambitions had since separated them until now each found it difficult to show the other the merest civility.
At last Baron Arlington paced majestically into the council-chamber—he never merely walked into any room.
Several years in Spain had given him an admiration for things Spanish and he assumed an exaggerated Castilian pomposity and arrogance. He wore a blonde wig, his eyes were pale and prominent, almost fish-like, and over the bridge of his nose was a crescent-shaped black plaster which had once been put there to cover a sabre wound and which he had kept because it gave his face a kind of sinister dignity he thought becoming. Charles had always liked him, though York, of course, did not. Now he paused, took a bottle and a spoon from one pocket and into the spoon poured several drops of ground-ivy juice. Placing the spoon to his nose he snuffed hard several times until most of the juice was gone; then he wiped at his nose with a handkerchief and put bottle and spoon away. His Lordship suffered from habitual headache, and that was his treatment for it. The headache was worse than usual today.
Charles sat at the head of the table, facing the door, his back to the fireplace. He lounged in his chair, a pair of spaniels in his lap—a lazy good-humoured man who slept well and had no trouble with his digestion so that he looked tolerantly upon the world and was inclined to be merely amused by many things which infuriated less tranquil men. His fits of anger were brief and he had long since lost interest in punishing the Duke. He knew Buckingham for exactly what he was, had no more illusions about him than he had about anyone else, but he also knew that the Duke’s own frivolity of temperament kept him from being truly dangerous. The trial was necessary because of wide-spread public interest in the case, but Charles no longer wanted vengeance. He would be satisfied if the Duke gave them an entertaining performance that afternoon.
At a signal from the King the door was flung open and there stood his Grace, George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham—dressed as magnificently as though he had been going to be married, or hanged. His handsome face wore an expression which somehow mingled both hauteur and pleasant civility. For a moment he stood there. Then, erect as a guardsman, he crossed the floor and knelt at the King’s feet. Charles nodded his head, but did not give him his hand to kiss.
The others stared hard at him, trying to see into the heart of the man. Was he worried, or was he confident? Did he expect to die, or to be forgiven? But Buckingham’s face did not betray him.
Arlington, who was chief prosecutor, got to his feet and began to read the charges against the Duke. They were many and serious: Being in cabal with the Commons. Opposing the King in the Lower House. Advising both the Commons and the Lords against the King’s interests. Trying to become popular. And finally, the crime for which they hoped to have his blood—treason against King and State, the casting of his Majesty’s horoscope. The incriminating paper was shown the Duke, held up at a safe distance for him to see.
Among these men Buckingham had just two friends, Lauderdale and Ashley, and though the others intended at first to conduct the investigation with dignity and decorum that resolution was soon gone. In their excitement several of them talked at once, they began to shout and to interrupt one another and him. But Buckingham kept his temper, which was notoriously short, and replied with polite submissiveness to every question or accusation. The only man for whom he showed less than respect was his one-time friend, Arlington, and to him he was openly insolent.
When they accused him of trying to make himself popular he looked the Baron straight in the eye: “Whoever is committed to prison by my Lord Chancellor and my Lord Arlington cannot help becoming popular.”