A Health Unto His Majesty

by Виктория Холт

  “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.

  She was alone … alone in a hostile country. She did not believe now that they merely wished to be rid of her; they wished for her death.

  They were going to accuse her of murder, and there was no one to stand between her and her accusers.

  The country was feverish with excitement; plot after plot was discovered every day; armed bands walked the streets wearing the sign “No Popery” in their hats; and they all talked of the Papist Queen who had murdered the Protestant Magistrate.

  Titus Oates went about the town in his episcopal gown of silk, in his cassock and great hat with its satin band; he wore a long scarf about his shoulders and shouted to the people that he was the savior of the nation.

  He was ugly in spite of his finery, but none in those fear-ridden streets dared so much as hint that this was so. All who saw him bowed in homage, all called to him that England had been saved by him.

  Catherine knew that the misshapen little man was thinking particularly of one victim whom he longed to trap; she knew he was waiting for the right moment, because she was such an important victim that he dared not pounce too soon.

  Then suddenly she knew that she was not alone. She knew that she had not been mistaken, for the King came riding into the Capital from Windsor.

  He had heard of the accusation against the Queen’s servants, and he would realize to what this was leading.

  He sent for Bedloe. He would have an exact description of what had taken place at Somerset House. Would the man describe the room in which the murder had taken place? Would he give the exact day on which this had happened?

  Bedloe was only too willing to oblige. He gave details of the Queen’s residence, for he had made sure of being correct on this.

  But when he had finished, the King faced him squarely. “It is a strange thing to me,” he said, “that I should have visited Her Majesty on the day you mention, and that I should have been at Somerset House at the very hour the murder took place.”

  “Your Majesty,” began the man, “this may have been so, but Sir Edmund was lured inside while Your Majesty was with the Queen.”

&
nbsp; The King raised his eyebrows. He said lightly: “Since you and your friends startled my people with your stories of plots, my guards have been most careful of my person. I must tell you that, at the hour when the magistrate was said to have been lured into Somerset House, every possible entry was well guarded because I was there also. Could he have been lured past the guards, think you? And I will add that your tale lacks further conviction, for the passage, in which you say the body of the man lay, is that which leads to the Queen’s dining chamber, so that her servants, when bringing her meals, must either have walked over the corpse or not noticed it, which I scarcely think is likely.”

  Bedloe was about to speak.

  “Take this man away!” roared the King.

  And Bedloe was hurried out, lest a command to send him to the Tower might be given. Charles was too shrewd to give such an order. He was aware that, as at the time of the war with the Dutch, revolution was in the air.

  He could not stem the stream of accusations against the Queen, but he was there to give her his protection while he could do so.

  The people continued to believe that the Queen was guilty. Buckingham and Shaftesbury were bent on two things: the exile of the Duke of York and his Duchess; and the ruin of the Queen. The King had declined to rid himself of her by divorce; therefore there was only one other way of ridding the country of her.

  Why should she not be accused of plotting against the King’s life? Titus Oates had the people ready to believe any lie that fell from his lips. He must now uncover for them a plot more startling than any which he had given them before. It could be proved that the Queen had written to the Pope; she had done this during the first weeks of her arrival in England; she had offered to try to turn the King to Catholicism, in exchange for the Pope’s recognition of her brother as King of Portugal. But more should be proved against the Queen.

  She had refused to enter a nunnery; perhaps she would prefer the block.

  Titus Oates, drunk with power, delighting in his eminence, knew what was expected of him.

  He set out to concoct the plot to outshine all plots.

  The country waited; those men who had determined on the ruin of the Queen waited. And Catherine also waited.

  Oates stood before the members of the Privy Council. He had grave matters of which to speak to them. He was a careful man, he reminded them; he was a man who had pretended to become a Jesuit for the sake of unearthing their wicked schemes; he was a brave man, they would realize from that, so he did not hesitate to make an accusation against a person however high that person stood in the land.

  “My lords,” he said in his high affected voice, “there are certain matters which I feel it my duty to disclose to you concerning the Queen.”

  “The Queen!”

  The members of the Council feigned to be astonished, but Titus was aware of their alert and eager faces.

  “Her Majesty has been sending sums of money to the Jesuits. They are always at her elbow … in secret conclave.”

  They were watching his face. Dare I? he wondered. It needed daring. He was uncertain, and this matter concerned no other than the King’s own wife.

  But Titus was blown up with his own conceit. He was not afraid. Was he not great Titus, the savior of his country?

  He made his plots, and he made them with such care and with such delight that he came to believe in them even as he elaborated and made his sharp little twists and turns to extricate himself from the maze into which his lies often led him.

  “I have seen a letter in which the Queen gives her consent to the murder of the King.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath as every eye was fixed on that repulsive, almost inhuman face.

  “Why did you not report this before?” asked Shaftesbury sharply.

  Titus folded his hands. “A matter concerning so great a lady? I felt I must make sure that that which I feel it my duty to bring to your notice was truth.”

  “And you have now made certain of this?”

  Titus took a step nearer to the table about which sat the ministers.

  “I was at Somerset House. I waited in an antechamber. I heard the Queen say these words: ‘I will no longer suffer such indignities to my bed. I am content to join in procuring the death of the Black Bastard, and the propagation of the Catholic Faith.’”

  “This were high treason,” said Buckingham.

  “Punishable by death!” declared Shaftesbury.

  But they were uneasy.

  “Why did you not tell this earlier?” asked one of the ministers. “I have been turning over in my mind whether I should not first impart it to His Majesty.”

  “How can you be sure that it was the Queen who spoke these words?”

  “There was no other woman present.”

  “So you know the Queen?”

  “I have seen her, and I knew her.”

  “This is a matter,” said Shaftesbury, “to which we must all give our closest attention. It may be that the King’s life is in imminent danger—in a quarter where he would least expect it.”

  Titus was elaborating his plot. Poison was to be administered to the King; and when he was dead the Duke of York would reign, and there would be a place of honor in the land for his Catholic sister-in-law.

  In Somerset House the Queen was fearful. Rumor reached her. She knew that evil forces were working against her. What if, next time she was accused, the King could not save her?

  What would he do then? she asked herself. Would he stand by and leave her to her fate?

  The climax came on a dark November day. Titus could contain himself no longer. His friend Bedloe had been pardoned for all his offenses, as payment for the evidence he had given against the Papists.

  Titus, so happy in his episcopal robes, smoothing his long scarf, thinking of the happy days on which he had fallen after all the lean years, hearing the shouts of acclamation when he had been so accustomed to shouts of derision, was called to the bar of the House of Commons to give further evidence of plots he had unearthed.

  He stood at the bar, and his voice rang out.

  He said those fatal words which were meant to condemn an innocent woman to the block and to bring about the long hoped for conclusion of unscrupulous statesmen: “Aye, Titus Oates, accause Catherine Queen of England of Haigh Treason.”

  The words were greeted with a shocked silence.

  Buckingham was heard to curse under his breath: “The fool! It is too soon as yet!”

  And then the news was out.

  All over London, and soon all over the country, the people of England were calling for the blood of the woman who had sought to poison their King.

  So this was the end. Catherine sat like a statue, and beside her was the Count Castelmelhor, whose expression of blank misery made it clear that he believed there was nothing more that he could do for her.

  There would be a trial, thought Catherine; and her judges would find her guilty because they had determined to do so.

  And Charles?

  She understood his case.

  His position was an uneasy one. The people were crying out for the blood of Papists, and she was a Papist. Revolution trembled in the air; she was fully aware that there was one day which Charles would never forget—that was a bleak January day when his father had been led to execution.

  If he showed any leniency towards the Catholics now, the country would be screaming for his blood too. He knew it, and he had sworn that, at whatever cost, he would never go travelling again.

  The people of England were repudiating her. She was a barren Queen; she was a Queen whose dowry had never been paid in full; and she was a Papist. The tall dark man with the melancholy face was no longer ruler of England; that role had fallen to a shuffling man with the most evil of countenances who went by the name of Titus Oates.

  There seemed nothing to do but wait for her doom.

  Castelmelhor had news for her.

  “The King has questioned those who accuse Your Majesty. He ha
s questioned them with the utmost severity, and it is clear to all those who hear him that he is greatly displeased with those who would destroy you.”

  A gentle smile illumined Catherine’s face. “Yes, he would be unhappy. That is like him. But he will do nothing. How can he? It would be against the people’s wishes. And he must consider them now.”

  “He has insisted on a minute description of the room of this Palace in which Oates swears he overheard you plan to poison him; he says a woman would have to shout, for Oates to have heard her say what he declares he heard you say; he has said that you are a low-voiced woman. He is doing everything to prove your accusers liars.”

  Catherine smiled, and the tears started to flow gently down her cheeks.

  “I shall remember that,” she said. “When they lead me to the block I shall remember it. He did not pass by on the other side of the road. He stopped to succor me.”

  “Your Majesty must not despair. If the King is with you, others will follow. He is still the King. He is very angry that you should be so accused. They are saying now that Sir George Wakeman was to have brought the poison to you, and that you were to administer it to the King when he next visited you. The King has laughed the idea to scorn, and he says he will never suffer an innocent lady to be oppressed.”

  “I shall never forget those words,” said Catherine. “I shall carry them with me to the grave. I know they have determined on my death, but he would have saved me, if he could.”

  “You underestimate the power of the King, Madam.”

  “My dear Castelmelhor, come to the window.”

  She took his hand and drew him there, for he was reluctant to go with her. Already the crowds were gathering. She saw their hats with the bands about them on which were written “No Popery! No Slavery!” They carried sticks and knives; they were a vicious mob.

  They had come to mock and curse her on her journey to the Tower.

  A barge was on the river. The crowds hurried to its edge.

  They have come to take me away, thought Catherine. I shall lie in my prison in the Tower as others have before me. I am guilty of the crime of Queens; I could not bear a son.