“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.”
It was Louise, strangely enough, who gave him cause for a slight attack of jealousy—but this was assumed more than deeply felt. A grandson of Henri Quatre and la Belle Gabrielle, one of the most notorious of his mistresses, came to England. This was Philippe de Vendôme, the Grand Prior of France. Louise appeared to be experiencing real passion for the first time in her life, for she seemed blind to the danger in which she was placing herself. Charles, indifferent, happy with Hortense and Nell, had really no objection to Louise’s amusing herself elsewhere; he who had given his affection to Louise more for her political significance than for her physical attractions, would have stood aside. But Louise’s enemies, who had gone under cover, now came forward to do all they could to make trouble between her and the King. In the end Charles arranged that the Grand Prior should be expelled from England.
It was Louise who suffered most from the affair. She was terrified that the Grand Prior, on returning to France, would make her letters public and expose her, if not to Charles’ displeasure, to the ridicule of her fellow countrymen. Louis, however, realizing the importance of Louise to his schemes and not ungrateful for what he considered the good work she had done for France, forbade the Grand Prior to speak of his English love affair, and eventually the matter was forgotten.
That winter was the coldest for years. The Thames was so thick with ice that coaches were driven across it. A fair was set up on the ice which was firm enough to bear both booths and the weight of merrymakers. There was skating, sledging, and dancing on the frozen river.
London was now springing up, a gracious city, from the ruins of the great fire. The King’s architect, Christopher Wren, had long consultations with His Majesty, who took a personal interest in most of the building.
On the Continent there were continual wars. Charles, absolute monarch, kept his country aloof. He had introduced, as far as he could, freedom of religion.
“I want everyone to live under his own vine and fig tree,” he said. “Give me my just prerogative and for subsidies I will never ask more unless I and the nation should be so unhappy as to have a war on our hands and that at most may be one summer’s business at sea.”
And so his subjects, dancing on the ice at the blanket fair, blessed Good King Charles; and the King in his Palace, with his three chief mistresses beside him, was contented, for indeed, now that he was approaching fifty-five and suffered an odd twinge of the gout, he found these three enough. His Queen Catherine was a good woman; she was docile and gentle and never gave way to those fits of jealousy which had made such strife between them in the beginning. She was as much in love with him as she ever was. Poor Catherine! He feared her life had not been as happy as it might have been.
Nell was happy now, for Charles had given Lord Burford his dukedom and the boy was the Duke of St. Albans, so that Nell could strut about the Court and city, talking constantly about my lord Duke.
Dear Nelly! She deserved her dukedom. He would have liked to have given her honors for herself. And why should he not? It was others who had withheld them. Why should not Nelly be a Countess? She was his good friend—perhaps the best he ever had.
Yes, Nelly should be a Countess; and there was only one thing he needed to make him feel perfectly content. He thought often of Jemmy in Holland. It was such a pity that he could not have every member of his handsome family about him. He was so proud of them all. He was even honoring Moll Davies’ girl—the last of his children, for there had been none after that bout of the disease which had robbed him of his fertility.