To Serve a Queen

by Josephine Bell

  Young Giles soon gathered from Corporal Stubble what the injury amounted to and how he had come by it, but he had a soft corner in his heart for the young man. He remembered as a boy being set to ride one of the horses by a great red-haired man who could lift him with one hand. That man had been the young lieutenant’s father, on the wrong side of the blanket, Young Giles had followed Master Nimmo about as a little lad whenever he was able. It was years before he learned why his hero came no more to Paternoster Row. And here was his son in some trouble, maybe of much the same kind, according to Corporal Stubble.

  So Young Giles kept his own counsel; save that he sent word to Gracious Street to Walter, to let the alderman know the colonel’s nephew was in London again, in very low spirits and doing no good to himself at present nor for the future.

  Master Angus Leslie received this news with frank disbelief.

  ‘But Young Giles would not have sent to Walter had he no grounds for it,’ Mistress Leslie argued. ‘Francis must be back on some pretext or other. Can we not invite him here to discover what ails him, before he gets into mischief through idleness?’

  ‘You anticipate that? Some mischief?’

  ‘How can we forget his parentage? Such fatal qualities on both sides, for reckless action, ardent passion –’

  ‘Enough!’ Master Leslie said. ‘You speak as if man bred true, like dogs or horses carefully matched. The boy has other blood in him, a good Ogilvy strain for scholarship or military skill; a fine Scottish tenacity, that old Fife fisherman with his fierce beliefs. I’ll ask him pay us his respects. You can worm out of him why he lingers at his uncle’s house so long.’

  Some of the alderman’s curiosity was allayed by a letter from Sir Francis Leslie describing young Francis’s visit and explaining the young man’s present state of mind. While welcoming the reconciliation with his foster-father, Master Leslie’s fears for the young man were increased, particularly as his invitation was not answered immediately.

  The reason for this was not unexpected. Young Francis, baulked of his desire to join the Duke of Buckingham’s expedition to relieve and sustain the Huguenots in La Rochelle, had taken to amusing himself across the river, at the Globe Theatre for plays and the nearby Paris Gardens for the more savage pleasures of bear-baiting and cock-fighting. This latter meant gambling; both led to excessive drinking. After a week or two of these excesses Francis failed to return home one night. He was rescued from the magistrate’s court the next morning by Will Stubble, severely the worse for his orgy and the poorer for the remaining part of his uncle’s loan. He spent two days in bed, tended by Will, who then announced the invitation from Gracious Street.

  Young Giles’s wife had meanwhile sponged and mended Francis’s clothes, to the best of her ability. He presented himself, clean but noticeably shabby, at the alderman’s house the next day.

  Master Leslie did not ask for any personal confession, nor did Francis offer one. He did, however, describe his visit to Oxford and the news he got there concerning his mother, which led to his knowledge of the cause of the duel between Alan Carr and Sir Francis.

  ‘I remember it well,’ Master Leslie said. ‘Doctor William Harvey attended him. The matter was hushed up. It did confirm what we already knew, or rather guessed.’

  ‘That my mother was weak, unprincipled, shallow?’ Francis burst out. ‘And yet Sir Francis loved her, still loved her! And I too, until I was sent away from her!’

  ‘No,’ Mistress Leslie said. ‘No, Francis, you did not. I would not say this, I had meant never to say this, but you make it necessary. You have told us of your memories of this house, of a gentle, loving soul that you loved in return. That was Lucy, my daughter, now Lady Leslie. And of a cruel nurse that you hated. That was Katherine Ogilvy, your mother. Nay, do not interrupt me. She found fault with you often, beat you often. When she bore Sir Francis a son and then a daughter she neglected you, but still treated you ill when you were alone with her. Poor mite, there came a time when you could bear it no more. You ran at her with her pointed embroidery scissors. Lucy stopped you, but it was plain you must be sent from her or a great and horrible disaster might follow.’

  ‘So you went first to Oxford to your Uncle Richard,’ Master Leslie said. ‘And then to your supposed grandparents in Fire, where you remained.’

  Francis sat frozen, appalled by this final revelation. It was true. He knew that at once. He even had a clear memory of those embroidery scissors, of knowing they could be used to stab or cut as he had seen them used upon the embroidery frame. Not the attack. That memory had been too well sunk to come back to him. But the revived picture of Lucy matched his recent meetings with her. The gentle loving young mother. Yes. He had watched her at Luscombe with her own children. The cruel nurse. Yes, that had been his mother, venting her resentment at his presence, his constant reminder of her stupid lapse, as she must have considered it.

  So there was nothing left, nothing at all. His guest was ended. It left him with the ruins of his mother’s life and the facts of her terrible death. A judgement from Heaven if ever there was one. His past was a heap of ashes. His future a blank wall.

  ‘I have heard,’ Alderman Leslie said, ‘that the Duke was driven off the Isle of Rhé by the French and forced to return with his army in tatters. Did you know that?’

  ‘I heard something of the sort,’ Francis said, dragging his thoughts away from his despair.

  ‘I think His Grace will not allow utter defeat,’ Master Leslie went on. ‘He has sent a better-armed, more professional expedition to retrieve the situation. But I fear it will be too late. In which case there will be a third and for that the Duke will need men.’

  He looked at Francis and was relieved to see some light return to the dull, wounded eyes and some colour to the pale cheeks. Before long they were discussing military matters with energy, the old man deferring to the young, who was encouraged to expound the failed strategy that had brought defeat at La Rochelle.

  At this point Mistress Leslie left them to organise refreshments. Later Francis agreed to take dinner with them. When he left for home he had decided to declare himself to the army organisers as a veteran of Cadiz and a lieutenant in the English forces in Holland. He spent the rest of that year of confusion in training at Portsmouth.

  But in essence it was the old story of pressed men, ever more unwilling to go to war as the bad news came in. There was a continuing lack of money for provisions, so that when the forces were gathered together at Portsmouth or Plymouth they soon became restless, hungry and then mutinous.

  Delay followed delay. The Duke had lost all of his former popularity. In fact the Commons were set upon impeaching him, so King Charles dissolved that unmanageable body, whose proposed Bill of Rights both shocked and astonished him. Without the means the Commons withheld, without the forced loans the collectors no longer managed to extort, Charles was thrown back upon selling Crown lands. Even so the result was scarcely adequate. But his obstinacy knew no bounds. La Rochelle must be saved, even when news had come from the returning expedition that the harbour was now rendered inaccessible by a chain of defences, and the town on the point of surrender.

  At last in some fashion the ships were ready, embarkation began. It was May, the countryside was full of blossom with young green leaves on tree and hedgerow. Francis was sorry to leave it.

  ‘Though we look to have favourable winds from the east and not miss them this time by tarrying too long in port,’ he said to Corporal Stubble.

  The latter had resumed his rank but was allowed to remain with his young master, since he was plainly unfit for marching.

  ‘Aye, we shall be away before May is out,’ Will answered. ‘The Duke comes here, I’m told, to see us set sail.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Francis told him. ‘The Duchess, too. I hear she is grown fearful for her lord’s safety, seeing so much is cried publicly against him and his thirst for war and his power over the King.’

  ‘She may well fear,’ Will agreed. ‘But th
ey have doubled the guard. Also he comes very quietly this night.’

  He would have continued to recount what he had been told of the ceremonies planned for the next day, but an officer who was passing, exclaimed at sight of Francis, stopped, turned back and greeted him with some warmth.

  ‘Lieutenant Felton!’ Francis said. ‘Or is it not now Captain Felton?’

  ‘It is not,’ the Lieutenant said, his face darkening. ‘I have now fought for the Crown these ten years and am still at the bottom of the ladder, while young boys get promotion and are set above me.’

  Francis could not help remembering the man’s former attitude, his dangerous complaining. Perhaps this was the cause of his ill-success. But he said nothing, only murmured wordless sympathy.

  ‘You would seem to be one of them,’ Felton went on with wry smile. ‘Where have you earned your swift promotion to my own rank?’

  Francis told him, but did not explain his reappearance at Portsmouth except to refer to the duel, his banishment by the Prince of Orange and his wish for more service abroad.

  ‘The effrontery of it, sir,’ Will told him later. ‘If you’ll forgive me the liberty. Telling me one minute you was loth to leave England and the next telling that sour-faced officer you was all eagerness to be off.’

  ‘Lieutenant Felton had much right on his side when he spoke to me as he did.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Will answered and fell silent at the look on Lieutenant Leslie’s face.

  His Grace did arrive that night, very quietly, with no crowds to welcome or boo him, closely guarded by his own men. He met the captains of the ships at supper, also the general of the army and the chief officers. Junior officers were notified to be on hand early the next morning.

  Francis was there in good time, waiting outside the breakfast room. He knew many of those who had been training with him and who were to join this third expedition against France. So he was not watching very closely and did not see the door of the breakfast room open and the Duke come out; did not see His Grace sweep the room with that haughty stare he had cultivated to take the place of the regal look that was beyond his competence.

  But Francis did see a movement behind the Duke. A man waiting there thrust himself free from the throng, went quickly forward, flung out a guarded hand, turned and rushed swiftly away. The Duke stood swaying, a knife hilt standing out from his chest.

  While the onlookers gasped in horror, the stricken man plucked the knife from his breast, dropped it, staggered a few steps and fell headlong to the floor. He had not uttered a word.

  Francis was one of those who leaped to his aid. He was on his knees beside the fallen man. But before he could touch him he was seized and dragged away. The bodyguard had moved. They half-turned the Duke. Blood ran from his chest and from his mouth. His head fell over sideways, his face was grey and pinched. A whisper ran round the room.

  ‘He is dead! His Grace is dead! The murderer …’

  ‘Is here!’

  The voice rang out from an inner doorway that led to the kitchens. Francis knew the voice. He knew already that Lieutenant Felton must have been he that delivered the fatal blow.

  He shuddered at the knowledge and the man who still held his arm felt the shudder and cried out, ‘Here’s an accomplice! This young whelp was beside His Grace before we even understood what was doing! To make sure of the murder!’

  ‘Liar!’ Francis shouted. But he had his wits about him. He did not pull away, only repeated his complete innocence. His move had been to render aid if possible. There were murmurs from his friends round about to support him.

  But he held still until Felton, now in chains, was being led away. His captors took him up close to Francis.

  ‘This is your accomplice, is he not? To give the signal, to complete the deed?’

  Felton stared blankly at Francis.

  ‘I had no accomplice. I killed the Duke. I alone. I have never seen this young man before.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lieutenant Felton’s lie released Francis at the time, but caused him some anxiety later. For it was well known that Felton and Francis Leslie had been in Portsmouth training for his third venture to La Rochelle. It was very likely that he had met the murderer from time to time, even had they not been friends. Moreover, the records had it that the two had voyaged to Cadiz on that disastrous expedition and in the same vessel too, the Forager, under the command of Captain Trodd.

  Francis made no attempt to deny or conceal his acquaintance. He accepted Felton’s lie at the time, for the temper of the Duke’s bodyguard was dangerous. They feared for their own lives seeing they had failed utterly to protect their master. Though they found excuse in not suspecting a professional soldier, an experienced seasoned officer, of any evil intention, the fact that he had been waiting alone, his back to the wall near the door of the breakfast room from which His Grace was bound to emerge, should have aroused some slight suspicion, some care to watch the man. Buckingham’s unpopularity was universally known. Otherwise why the precautions already taken? The bodyguard were culpable and they knew it.

  So at the time, with Felton held in chains and the Duke’s body lying in his blood where he had fallen, Francis simply waited, made no move to free himself, kept silent. Maintained his silence when Felton was led up to him. Still waited there while the murderer was led away.

  But his friends among the assembled officers came to his side, bewildered, but ready to swear he had no animosity towards the dead man and no connection with the assailant. Will Stubble also appeared just behind his master. He had witnessed the latter’s brief conversation with Felton but had not overheard it. He was determined to say nothing of this, but he was eager to describe Lieutenant Leslie’s horror at the deed. His master had wished to help if help could be given. That was why he had been on his knees beside the corpse. He could testify the Duke had died as he collapsed; the murderer’s knife had pierced his heart. So the guards released Francis and his friends took him into their care instead.

  In Portsmouth that day there was utter confusion. First the civic authority moved to secure the corpse of England’s co-ruler, the power beside, never behind, the King. Next they rounded up not only the few breakfast guests and those who waited for His Grace to come out, but all present in the building at the time and as many as possible who had stood waiting in the street before the news was spread abroad.

  Since they already had the self-confessed murderer secure, their only concern was to discover if he had acted alone, as he continued to insist, or if his deed was part of a plot, devised to wreck this anti-French expedition as much as to rid the country of a persistent war-monger. To fight France, so closely connected through the royal marriage, was total madness and spelt economic ruin. It was natural to suspect a planned attack; it was almost unbelievable that a member of the King’s most trusted body of soldiers should, for a purely personal motive, destroy his supreme commander.

  In due course Francis was called upon to testify to his version of the murder. By this time the expedition had been abandoned, the pressed men disbanded, Portsmouth relieved of their unwelcome presence. In fact from the very instant of the public spread of the fatal news this unwilling, scarecrow army had melted away. A public announcement was unnecessary, but Lord Willoughby, who was supposed to be in charge of the force, did attempt to make one. As a paying-off it was a farce, since there were no funds to speak of. But as the legitimate claimants had disappeared, what money there was went to the loyal contingent of officers, among whom Francis, cleared of suspicion, was numbered.

  He and Will returned to London to be welcomed most thankfully by Young Giles and his wife and later by Alderman Leslie.

  Francis now wrote a long letter to his Uncle Arthur, describing the violent event he had been involved in. He found he could not call it tragic, for he considered it the best thing for England that could possibly have happened. A very different conclusion, he could not help feeling, from his earlier ardent hopes for his country.r />
  He wrote a long letter, too, to his Oxford uncle, not this time setting out any views of his own, but merely to inform Uncle Richard and through him Sir Francis and Lady Leslie, of his discharge once more from army service. He would be very deeply obliged if Uncle Richard would allow him to continue to live in Paternoster Row until his future became clearer.

  Young Giles added a note of his own to this missive to inform Doctor Ogilvy that the young gentleman was temporarily in funds, not ample, but sufficient for himself and Corporal Stubble.

  Francis remained quietly in London, wondering what his next move could be. His thoughts went many times to Holland and especially now to Anne Wolmer. He regretted his neglect in not answering her letter. Several times he again began to write an account of his recent doings, a letter full of apologies and excuses, but since he had no profitable news, no future nor any immediate prospect of one, he again gave up the attempt, only striving to contain his natural impatience without falling into dangerous ways with evil consequences.

  Fortunately he did not have to wait long, only a matter of a few weeks before relief came, from an unexpected but very welcome quarter; from King Charles himself.

  The audience took place very privately in the same room to which Lord Aldborough had guided him at his first encounter with royalty, a living king rather than a king in effigy. Francis recalled the glittering black of the Duke of Buckingham’s clothes on that occasion. This time it was the King who wore deep mourning, unadorned, unjewelled.

  Francis went on his knee to kiss the outstretched hand and was bidden in a low voice to rise. King Charles looked pale, very haggard, with deep circles under his eyes. His thin hair and beard were lanker than ever.