A certain Isaac Backhouse, a schoolmaster by profession, had, according to Oates, called after him: “There goes that perjured rogue.” Oates immediately took action against the schoolmaster, but the case was dismissed. Some months later he brought an action against a writer named Adam Elliot whom he accused of being a Jesuit priest. The case was disproved and Oates was forced to pay damages. Indeed, the tide was running against him. His pension was reduced and he was forbidden to come to court.
It was remembered that thirty-five people had been executed on account of the charges he had brought against them.
It was gratifying that Oates was being recognized for what he was.
These were happier times. Charles had for some years devoted himself to the rebuilding of London, so much of which had been destroyed during the great fire. One of his passions was a love of architecture, and he spent hours with his architect, Christopher Wren, whose work was now transforming London. Instead of the overhanging gables, which had almost met across the narrow streets, we now had wide thoroughfares, and the wooden houses, which had been so easily burned, were replaced by brick and stone. Fifty-three churches had already been built, as well as many houses. The building of the great cathedral had begun and Charles was interested in the construction of a Royal Observatory at Greenwich.
London was growing into a fine city. We heard that all over Europe people were talking of the beauty of its buildings and the speed with which the old city was being transformed.
Charles said we were fortunate to have such a fine architect as Wren; and I think we were lucky to have a king who cared so much about the grace and beauty of buildings, so that he could work in close cooperation with such a man.
Charles took his saunters in the park and was as merry as he had ever been. There was laughter about him and people walking past saluted and cheered him.
It was more than twenty years since he had returned, and they loved him as much as they had on the May day when he had come home after his long exile.
I began to feel happy, with a serenity I had not known since before that day when Barbara Castlemaine had been presented to me.
The power of Titus Oates was waning fast and Charles had stood by me through my troubles. He had learned that he had a strong enough hold on the affections of his subjects to stand out against tyranny. He was their King and they wanted his benevolent rule to continue.
It would have been wonderful to record that I had attained perfect happiness, but the Duchess of Portsmouth had returned to court, radiant after the Bourbon waters. Charles found her irresistible; and, of course, through all our troubles, there had been Nell Gwynne.
DEATH IN WHITEHALL
THE PRINCESS ANNE, DAUGHTER OF THE DUKE OF YORK AND Anne Hyde, was now eighteen years old and a possible bridegroom had been found for her.
Anne had been very sad at the departure of her sister, Mary, but that was some five years ago, and during that time her friendship with Sarah Jennings had grown even stronger. Sarah had now married John Churchill but had remained in attendance on Anne. Indeed, Anne would not hear of her going and had created such a scene when it was suggested, that it was decided that Sarah must stay.
Sarah herself was not averse to this. I was sure she enjoyed her position. I had seen right from the first that she was one of those people who enjoyed dominating others — particularly when they were in a position higher than her own.
There had been talk of a union between Anne and Prince George of Hanover, a proposition which did not greatly delight Anne. She had heard rumors that he was a boorish young man who spoke no English. Moreover, she would have to leave England and, as Sarah was married to John Churchill, how could she accompany her?
This she confided to me, for I was on good terms with her. She was delighted when George of Hanover married Sophia Dorothea of Celle, so that she need concern herself with him no longer.
“They have now found Prince George of Denmark for me,” she told me. “I think I shall like him better. Besides, he will have to stay in England and so I shall not have to go away. Sarah could scarcely go to Denmark.”
Her conversation was filled with comments about Sarah.
I was glad for Anne. She was a pleasant girl…comfortable…homely in a way. There was nothing haughty about her. I found her easier to get on with than her sister Mary had been. There had been rumors of some sort of romance between her and John Sheffield, Earl of Mulgrave. Charles had not approved and Mulgrave had been exiled from the court for some time. However, Anne seemed quite ready now to accept Prince George.
It appeared that he was something of a hero, having distinguished himself in battle during the troubles between his country and Sweden. His brother, King Christian, had been taken prisoner by the Swedes and George, with his cavalry, had broken through the Swedish lines and rescued him.
But what made him most acceptable in Anne’s eyes was that he had very little income — not much more than five thousand crowns — and only a few possessions in Denmark, so it would be necessary for him to stay in England, and she would be able to keep Sarah Churchill with her.
He was quite handsome and of a mild disposition, all of which recommended him to her further. He was given the Order of the Garter and the marriage was celebrated in St. James’s Chapel. Charles gave Anne away, and I was there with the Duke and Duchess of York.
I could not help remembering poor Mary, who had been bathed in tears during her wedding to William of Orange.
By contrast this was a very merry occasion; everybody seemed happy. Anne appeared completely to have recovered from her flutter with the Earl of Mulgrave; the bridegroom was obviously very happy to be so welcome in his new country; in the streets the bells rang out; the people made bonfires and there was rejoicing everywhere. A Protestant marriage was very desirable — not that there seemed any chance that Anne would ever come to the throne. But she was the daughter of the Duke of York, and it seemed certain that he would be the next king.
Oates was in decline and the King had clearly shown that he would never consent to a divorce.
* * *
AT THIS TIME, there was consternation first over Shaftesbury and then the discovery of a plot to murder the King and the Duke of York. We had heard so much of plots over the last years through the machinations of Titus Oates that at first we had thought this was just another version of the old story. But this proved not to be the case.
Shaftesbury was not the man to give up. Charles had frustrated him over the Exclusion Bill and he was determined on action. For some time he had been urging Monmouth to start a rebellion. Since the scheme for the discovery of the box containing details of a marriage between Lucy Walter and the King had failed, it must have seemed to Shaftesbury that the only chance was to take the crown by force.
He was playing a very dangerous game, and, as Monmouth was showing great reluctance to take part in such a risky adventure, Shaftesbury decided to leave the country and work from abroad.
I cannot imagine what this would have led to, but soon after he left the country Shaftesbury had suddenly died. So that was the end of that dangerous enemy.
Then came the discovery of the plot. It was only after the danger had passed that it came to light, when one of the conspirators betrayed what had happened.
I was filled with horror when I heard, for I saw it might so easily have succeeded, and failed only by chance. There happened to have been a fire at the house in Newmarket where the King and Duke were staying for the races, which meant that they left the town earlier than they intended to.
The conspirators were determined on the exclusion of the Duke of York from the throne; the King would not agree to this; therefore both King and Duke were to die.
On their way back to London from Newmarket, they would pass along the high road near Hoddeston in Hertfordshire. On that lonely road was a dwelling known as the Rye House. It was owned by a maltster named Rumbold, who was in the plot, and there at the Rye House the conspirators would lie in wait.
What distressed the King more than anything was that the Duke of Monmouth’s name was mentioned in connection with the plot. Moreover, the leading figures in this conspiracy were not men such as Titus Oates, but important people headed by William, Lord Russell, the Earl of Essex and Algernon Sidney.
They were arrested and found guilty.
Essex died rather mysteriously in his cell, and it was believed that he had killed himself. Sidney and Russell were executed.
There remained Monmouth.
When he came and begged an audience with the King, I asked Charles if I could be present, and he said I might be there.
Charles was clearly perplexed. This was his own son. He had loved Monmouth, though it was not the first time he had suspected him of treachery; but that could not completely change his affection.
Monmouth threw himself at his feet.
“My son,” said Charles. “Your yearning for the crown is even greater than I thought.”
“Sire, Your Majesty…father…it is not so.”
“Do you think you would be wearing it now but for that tiresome fire at Newmarket which drove me out of the town before my time? I’ll say your looks would become it well…but there is more to being a king, Jemmy, than a handsome face under a golden crown.”
“Sire…I swear…”
The King had turned to me. “He swears,” he said. Then to Monmouth: “You look foolish sprawling there. Tell me the truth. Do you want my crown so much?”
“I swear I would never be involved in a plot to kill you. You are my father.”
“And you, Jemmy, remember, are my bastard. It is a simple fact. It is not pleasing to you, I know full well, but one which it is very dangerous for you to forget.”
“I know. I listened to them. Yes, I was there one time when they plotted. But I had to know. I had to stop them from harming you. I had to find out what they were going to do…to make sure they were not going to harm you.”
“Fate was kind to me on that occasion, Jemmy…taking me from Newmarket before the appointed time. Bad luck for those who were working against me, but we must understand that Fate cannot please everyone all the time.”
“You must believe me…”
“Should the King be told by his bastard what he must do?”
Monmouth winced every time the King used the term. But I knew why Charles repeated it. It was to impress on this young man who he was and that he, the King, insisted that he should be known as such.
“If you will not believe me,” said Monmouth pathetically, “I must ask your leave to retire from court.”
“A sojourn abroad would be preferable to one in the Tower, I doubt not. And there is one other with whom you should intercede — your uncle, the Duke of York.”
“I will go to him if he will receive me, but it was to you I came first.”
The King was smiling at me. “He is a pretty boy, is he not?” he said. “He pleads well…so well, that he has an air of truth about him.”
“It is because I speak the truth,” said Monmouth. “Father, I beg of you. I have been foolish. I have been reckless. But never…never…I swear, in my life would I have harmed you.”
Charles was silent.
He said: “You should see the Duke of York. He is as concerned in this as I am. See if you can make your peace with him.”
“I will,” said Monmouth earnestly.
“And then,” said the King, “bring him here to me. As we were both to be the victims, it is only fitting that we should decide this matter between us.”
Monmouth knelt and kissed the King’s hand and, after doing the same to me, he went off to seek an audience with the Duke of York.
I knew of course that he would be forgiven.
Charles saw him again when the Duke of York was present. As I had predicted, Monmouth was forgiven, but as it was clear that he had been aware of the plot and had remained silent about it, it seemed desirable that he should stay away from the court for some time.
No charges were brought against him and after a while he set sail for the continent.
* * *
THERE WAS A MESSAGE from Portugal. My brother Alfonso had died at Sintra. Although it was many years since I had seen him, and he had been living in a kind of shadow land for so long, I was sad, remembering our childhood when he and Pedro had been little boys playing happily together; and I was sad thinking of my mother and what she would have thought of one of her sons taking the other’s throne…and his wife.
I believed Pedro must be remorseful now that his brother was dead, but at least Alfonso would be at peace.
The court went into mourning for my brother; and when it was over we slipped back into the old way of life.
Charles was as enamored as he had ever been of Louise de Keroualle. The fascination she exerted over him amazed me. The playactress Nell Gwynne was still important to him; and now that I was no longer in danger, I saw less of him.
The winter at that time was one of the harshest any living person remembered. The cold was intense. Never before had the Thames been frozen so hard. An ox was roasted on it and people crowded onto the hard ice to watch the spectacle.
Of course, the weather brought great hardship to the poor. Transport was impossible and ships could not get into the ports. There were prayers for relief in the churches, but it seemed that the frost continued for a very long time.
But spring was with us at last. Charles had not been very well for some time. He had always been so strong that he had been able to shrug off minor troubles, and so accustomed to perfect health that he was impatient with ailments. He hated to admit that he was feeling less than well and it seemed an affront to him that he should be so.
I could see that he had lost some of his vigor during that cruel winter.
Charles had not seemed well during the day. However, he supped as he often did with the Duchess of Portsmouth.
The following morning Lord Aylesbury, one of the Gentlemen of his Bedchamber, called on me in agitation.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “the King is unwell.”
I stood up in alarm, for Aylesbury looked very grave.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“Dr. King is with him now. He has bled him.”
“Bled him?” I repeated blankly. “But…why?”
“The King was up early, as was his wont, Your Majesty. He went to his closet and was there longer than usual, and we became uneasy. When he came out he seemed to stagger…and then fell.”
“What was it? A fit?”
“I cannot say, Your Majesty. Dr. King seemed upset and said that bleeding was necessary without delay.”
“I must go to him at once,” I said.
When I reached his bedchamber I saw Charles sitting in a chair. He looked unlike himself…and when I came near I saw that his features were distorted.
“Oh…Charles,” I murmured.
He attempted to smile reassuringly.
Dr. King ordered that a warm iron should be put on his head. I thought he was dying. He could not be. He had always been so strong. He looked at me helplessly…as though he were apologizing for his weakness.
The Duke and Duchess of York appeared. James fell on his knees beside Charles’s chair and I saw real anguish in his face. I had always known of his affection for his brother. Poor James, he must be feeling many a qualm. He knew what Charles’s death would mean to him; he would be thrust into a position of danger, for many were opposed to him.
As the news spread through the street there was melancholy throughout the city. It was more than a rejection of James; it was a sign of the people’s love for the King. He was their Merry Monarch; he had come back and saved them from years of repression under Puritan rule. No matter what he had done, he had amused them with his amorous affairs; he had enchanted them with his smiles and his affable ways with all had won their hearts. There was never a king more loved by his subjects than Charles.
During the day he recovered a little.
> The news seeped out and bells were rang. “He is recovered,” said the people. “He is going to live. Long may he reign.”
He was put into his bed and rested there, sitting up in bed, looking tired, but his features were no longer distorted and his speech was clear.
I sat by the bed and he held my hand, smiling at me. I was overcome with emotion.
“You are better,” I said. “You are going to recover.”
He lifted his shoulders characteristically.
“Life would be so empty without you,” I said.
“No,” he replied. “You will fill it.”
I said: “I have been foolish at times. I beg your pardon, Charles, I wish I had been better.”
His lips twisted into a wry smile. “You beg my pardon,” he said. “My poor dear Catherine. It is I who should beg yours…and I do…with all my heart.”
That night he had another seizure…more violent than the first…and we knew then that the end was near.
The Archbishop of Canterbury with the Bishops of London, Bath and Wells, and Durham were sent for.
There could be no hope now. Services were held in all the churches, and there was a hushed scene in the streets; people stood about and talked in whispers.
I asked the Duchess of York to come to me. We had always been good friends and I wanted her advice.
I said to her: “I know that the King was at heart a Catholic. He had contracted with Louis to be one and turn the country to Catholicism when the opportunity arose.”
“Louis paid him well for that,” said the Duchess, “and Charles accepted the payments knowing full well that the opportunity would never arise in his lifetime.”
“It has now,” I said.
“What do you mean? The King is dying.”
“I know that. He would want to receive the rites of the Catholic Church.”
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