“Well, would you rather talk of Margaret Denham who was killed because of your father?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You are a baby. You don’t know anything. You don’t really know why everyone is so glum today. All you know is that it’s because it’s the thirtieth. It’s silly anyway to pretend to be sad. It was all a long, long time ago. Before I was born.”
“What was?”
“The execution. That’s what they’re supposed to be remembering. But they are only really pretending to be sad.”
“When was it?”
“Don’t you know?” This was one of Elizabeth’s favorite remarks. She could never tell anything without prefacing her revelation with an incredulous observation on one’s ignorance. On this occasion Mary was too curious to pretend.
“No, I don’t know,” she said.
“They took him to the banquetting hall and chopped off his head.”
“Who?”
“Charles the First. Your grandfather, of course.”
“Who did?”
“The Parliament, of course.”
“They didn’t.”
“They did.” Elizabeth smiled knowledgeably. “It’s what they do to Kings and Queens when they don’t like them,” she said maliciously.
Elizabeth knew when to make an exit. She retired, leaving a very uneasy little girl kneeling at the window seat. There was no pleasure now in looking out of the windows and trying to count the snowflakes. Every time a bell tolled she shivered. The world had become very insecure. Mary’s imagination was showing her her grandfather, who looked like her father or her Uncle Charles, only much older; his head was not on his shoulders. It rolled in the snow making it red instead of white. She pictured the crowds watching and they were whispering about her grandfather and her father. Margaret Denham had died because of her father—her good kind father who would never hurt anyone. What did it mean? There was so much in the world that she could not understand and Elizabeth was telling her that the world could be a frightening place.
A terrible place indeed where the people cut off the heads of Kings.
Elizabeth’s voice kept coming back to her.
“It’s what they do to Kings and Queens—if they don’t like them.”
James Scott, who had been known as Fitzroy and Crofts and was now the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, rode from Whitehall to Richmond on his way to visit his uncle the Duke of York, whom he would always loathe because he believed that but for him the King might have been persuaded to legitimize him.
The King had said: “Now, Jemmy, ride over to Richmond where your uncle James is with his family. Make yourself pleasant. I like not quarrels in families.”
Monmouth had scowled; he knew his father was very indulgent toward him and he exploited this; but there were occasions when Charles reminded him that he was the King and then Monmouth knew it was wiser to obey.
So here he was, riding over to Richmond, in order to make himself pleasant to his uncle and his fat wife.
There was one burning passion in Monmouth’s life and that was to be King of England. It seemed so cruel to him that merely because his father had omitted to marry his mother he should be set aside. Why should James’s children—those two girls and the sickly boys, whom everyone said would never reach maturity—come before him, simply because their father had married their mother. That marriage might so easily not have taken place, but Anne Hyde had been more fortunate than Lucy Walters.
There were some who whispered to him that there had actually been a marriage—those he called his friends. Yet his father had not denied it but considering how at one time he had longed to make him legitimate, would he not have been delighted to admit he had married Lucy Walters if this had been the case?
Monmouth believed he would have made a perfect Prince of Wales. The King doted on him, forgave him his misdeeds, had bestowed on him titles and a rich heiress. In fact, Charles had given him everything except the one thing he wanted: to be heir to the crown.
People bowed to him as he passed. He was such a handsome fellow, so charming, so personable. The gay son of a gay king. His spirits rose for he was certain that the people wished he was Prince of Wales too. The Duke of York was not popular—or at least not as his father was; and who would better follow his father than his father’s son?
Of course life in every other respect was good. He was eighteen, rich, honored wherever he went, the companion of the King, flattered, attractive to women; and although he was not clever or witty like the King and his friends, they excused that on account of his youth. He was clearly the King’s son; tall, dark, yet he had inherited his mother’s beauty; what he had taken from his father was a love of racing and women; he was no coward; he was generous. No one could doubt he was the son of his father.
And now to Richmond. On what excuse? He was not going to let James think that he had come over to curry favor. What did he care for James? James was not very popular at the moment. The Denham affair was still remembered and whenever it was talked of James’s name was always mentioned.
He would talk of the ballet he was planning for the King’s pleasure and tell them he hoped the Duke and the Duchess would take part, slyly suggesting the part of some sylph for the Duchess. That would be a good joke against her. As for James he should have the part of a libertine with sly references to his prowess which he would not see but the clever Court wits would soon understand.
When he reached Richmond Palace he did not ask to be conducted to the Duke of York’s presence. It occurred to him that James might refuse to see him, or even make him wait. The Duke of Monmouth would accept no such insult from the Duke of York. Therefore he waved aside the Duke’s servants and said he was in no hurry. Thus, left to himself, he came to the children’s apartments and wandering in found Mary and Anne were with the Villiers girls. It appeared that the eldest of these girls was in charge. The Duke was not attracted by her; she was too plain, and there was a slight squint in her eyes. But his cousins were charming, particularly Mary, who rose at the sight of him and flushing a little came forward. It irritated him that her rank should be considered higher than his when she was merely the daughter of the Duke of York, and he was the son of the King. Yet because her father had married her mother.… It was the old complaint which made him almost sick with anger.
“It is my cousin!” cried Mary, her dark almond-shaped eyes betraying her pleasure. She was an enchanting child and Monmouth, who always found beauty irresistible, knelt, and taking her hand kissed it.
“Come here, Anne,” commanded Mary, and her sister waddled over to him. She was remarkably plump and even as she greeted her cousin she was sucking a sweet.
“I trust I see you well,” he said.
“We are well thank you, cousin,” answered Mary gravely. “And we trust you are also.”
Elizabeth Villiers was pushing forward. A pox on her! thought Monmouth. These Villiers give themselves too many airs.
“I was passing,” he said pointedly, “and I thought it would be pleasant to call on my cousins.”
Elizabeth looked angry, her sisters watched her, ready to take their cue from her. Mary was not one to harbor grudges, but since Elizabeth had worried her with references to her father and grandfather she was glad to be relieved of her company; and she could not resist a glance over her shoulder as Monmouth took her hand and that of Anne and led them to a window seat.
Monmouth, ever conscious of his birth, was ready on every occasion to assert his royalty and now implied that he regarded the Villiers girls merely as attendants on the King’s nieces. It was an insult for which Elizabeth would never forgive him.