The Commons’ reply was to resolve not to pass the money bill until there was a revocation of the Liberty of Consciences Act.
Then Charles, finding both Houses against him, had no alternative but to give his assent to the Test Act, which required all officers, civil or military, to receive the sacrament according to the rites of the Church of England, and to make a declaration against transubstantiation.
Having done this, he immediately sought out James.
“James,” he said, “I fear now you must make a decision. I trust it will be the right one.”
“’Tis this matter of the Test Act?” asked James. “Is that what puts the furrow in your brow, brother?”
“Aye; and if you were possessed of good sense it need be neither in mine nor yours. James, you must take the sacrament according to the rites of the Church of England. You must take the Oath of Supremacy and declare against transubstantiation.”
“I could not do that,” said James.
“You will have to change your views,” said Charles grimly.
“A point of view is something we must have whether we want it or not.”
“Wise men keep such matters to themselves.”
“Men wise in spiritual matters would never enter a holy place and commit sacrilege.”
“James, you take yourself too seriously in some ways—not seriously enough in others. Listen to me, brother. I am past forty. I have not one legitimate child. You are my brother. Your daughters are heiresses to the throne. You are to marry a young girl ere long, and I doubt not she will give you sons. If you want to run your own foolish head into danger, what of their future?”
“No good ever grew out of evil,” said James firmly.
“James, have done with good and evil. Ponder on sound sense. You will come to Church with me tomorrow and by my side you will do all that is expected of you.”
James shook his head.
“They’ll not accept you, James,” insisted Charles, “they’ll not have a Catholic heir.”
“If it is God’s will that I lose the throne, then lose it I must. I choose between the approval of the people and that of God.”
“The approval of the people is a good thing for a King to have—and even more important for one who hopes to be King. But that is for the future. You have forgotten, my lord High Admiral, that all officers, under the Test Act which I have been forced to bring back, must receive the sacrament according to Church of England rites, make a declaration against transubstantiation, and take the Oath of Supremacy. Come, brother, can you not take me as head of your Church? Or must it be the Pope?”
“I can only do what my conscience bids me.”
“James, think of your future.”
“I do … my future in the life to come.”
“The life here on Earth could be a good one for you, James, were you to bring a little good sense to the living of it.”
“I would not perjure my soul for a hundred kingdoms.”
“And your soul is more important to you than your daughters’ future, than the future of the sons you may have with this new wife?”
“Mary and Anne have been brought up as Protestants. You asked for that concession and I gave it.”
“My solicitude was for your daughters, James. Has it ever occurred to you that if I die childless, and if you have no sons, one or both of those girls could be Queens of England?”
“It has, of course.”
“And you jeopardize their future for a whim!”
“A whim! You call a man’s religion a whim?”
Charles sighed wearily. “You could never give up your post as Commander of the Navy. You love the Navy. You have done much to make it what it is this day. You’d never give up that, James.”
“So they are demanding that?” said James bitterly.
“It has not been mentioned, but it is implied. Indeed how could it be otherwise? Indeed, James, I fear your enemies are at the bottom of the desire to have this revocation of the Declaration for the Liberty of Consciences.”
“Who would take my place?”
“Rupert.”
“Rupert! He is no great sailor.”
“The people would rather a Protestant leader who knew not how to lead their Navy, than a Catholic one who did. People are as fierce in their religion—one against the other—as they were in our grandfather’s day.”
“You constantly remind me of our grandfather.”
“A great King, James. Remember his word, ‘Paris is worth a Mass.’”
James opened his candid eyes very wide. “But that was different, brother. He … a Huguenot … became a Catholic. He came out of error into truth.”
Charles gave his brother his melancholy smile. He knew that he had lost his Lord High Admiral.
It was a misty November day when the royal barges sailed down the Thames to meet James and his new bride recently come from Dover. The people crowded the banks of the river to see the meeting between the royal barges and those which were bringing the bridal party to London. There was still a great deal of murmuring about this marriage. A strong body of opinion—set up by Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury—had declared firmly against it. Charles had been petitioned by this party in the Commons to send to Paris at once and stop the Princess from coming to England to consummate her marriage.
“I could not in honor dissolve a marriage which has been solemnly executed,” said Charles.
In a fury of indignation the Commons asked the King to appoint a day of fasting, that God might be asked to avert the dangers with which the nation was threatened.
“I could not withhold my permission for you gentlemen to fast as long as you wish,” was the King’s reply.
It was unfortunate that the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot should have fallen at this time. When the feeling against Catholicism ran high, the ceremony of burning Guy Fawkes was carried out with greater zest than usual, and that year Guy Fawkes’ Day was watched with great anxiety by the King and his brother. They feared that the burning of the effigies of Guy Fawkes, the Pope, and the devil would develop into rioting.
Arlington suggested then, since the King would not prevent the departure of the Princess of Modena from Paris, he might insist that, after his marriage, James and his new bride should retire from the Court and settle some distance from London, where he might enjoy the life of a country gentleman.
“Your suggestions interest me,” said the King. “But the first is incompatible with my honor, and the second would be an indignity to my brother.”
So Mary Beatrice of Modena had with regret left the shores of France where she had been treated with great kindness by many people in high places.
The young girl was terrified of her new husband. He was forty, and that seemed a great age. She had implored her aunt to marry the Duke of York, instead of her; she would be quite happy, she had declared, to go into a convent; any life would seem better to her than that which included marriage to a man, old enough to be her father, who had a reputation for keeping as many mistresses as his brother.
She was a lovely child; she resembled her mother who had been Laura Martinozzi, a niece of Cardinal Mazarin, and, like all the ladies of that family, noted for her beauty. But to be fourteen and torn from her home to start life in a new country with a man who seemed so old, was a terrifying experience, and she was too young not to show her repugnance.
James was fully aware of what his young bride’s feelings might be and was determined to do all in his power to put her at ease.
He was on the shore at Dover to greet her in person, and he was touched when he saw her, for her youth reminded him of his own daughter Mary, who was not much younger than this child who had left her home and all she loved to come to a new country to be his wife. He took her into his arms and embraced her warmly. But Mary Beatrice had taken one horrified look at her husband and burst into tears.
James was not angry; he could only find it in his kindly nature to be sorry for her. He assured
her that although he was old and feared he must seem mighty ugly to one so young and fresh and beautiful, she had nought to fear, as it would be his delight to love and honor her all the days of their lives.
He was fervently wishing that he had Charles’ easy manner, which he was sure would quickly have put the child at ease.
But James’ gaucheries were balanced by his gentle kindness, and he decided that until the child had grown accustomed to his company he would not force himself upon her.
“I would not add to your fears,” he soothed her. “I think of my little Mary and Anne.”
They set out from Dover, and the bride was glad that her mother and the Prince Rinaldo d’Esté travelled with them. They journeyed by slow stages to Canterbury, Rochester, and Gravesend, and the people came out of their houses to watch. The little girl charmed them so much that they were astonished to think that she might bring evil into their country.
At Gravesend they embarked and sailed to meet the royal barges. When they met these James took his bride to meet the King.
Charles was surrounded by the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. The Queen was there, ready to be tender and kind, remembering her own coming into this land to marry the most fascinating of kings only to discover that he was far from faultless, and to learn that it was impossible to fall out of love with him. Louise was beside the King, less flamboyantly dressed than most, yet seeming to be more richly clad; less heavily jeweled so that each jewel which adorned her person seemed to glow with a special luster. It was this lady whom Mary Beatrice took to be the Queen. Louise held herself like a queen, thought of herself as a queen. She had recently become naturalized and this meant that she had been able to accept the titles and estates with which the King had been pleased to endow her. She had now several resounding titles—Baroness Petersfield, Countess of Fareham and Duchess of Portsmouth. She was a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber. She was, in all but name, the Queen of England. Nor did she despair of being entirely so. Her small eyes rested often on the pallid face of the Queen. She hoped the lady would not live long, for indeed what joy could there be in life for one such as Catherine of Braganza who could not adapt herself to her husband’s Court? She could surely have no great wish to live. The Queen’s death was what Louise ardently desired, for she knew the King would never divorce his wife. Louise had discovered something about Charles. Easygoing as he was, ready to make promises to all, once he made up his mind that he would take a firm stand on some point, he was the most obstinate man in the world. She must be continually grateful for his indulgence, but infatuated as she had managed to keep him, she did not forget that all others had a share in that indulgence—Catherine, the Queen, no less than any other. And if the King’s desire was fixed on Louise, his pity went to Catherine his wife.
Mary Beatrice was aware of other ladies and gentlemen. She noticed beautiful Anna Shrewsbury with the Duke of Buckingham, and Lord Rochester, that handsomest of all courtiers, although debauchery was beginning to mar his good looks; and close to him a lively and pretty creature with chestnut curls and bright tawny, mischievous eyes, most flamboyantly dressed, and attracting the attention of everyone. Even the King’s eyes strayed often towards her. Her name, it seemed, was Madam Gwyn. There were gentlemen whose names she had heard mentioned with that of the King: Earl of Carbery, Earl of Dorset, Sir George Etherege, Earl of Sheffield, Sir Charles Sedley, Sir Carr Scrope.
Then Mary Beatrice was aware of a pair of dark eyes watching her intently. She fell to her knees and she was raised by the King’s elegant hands, and he, looking into her face, saw the too-brilliant eyes which suggested tears, noted the trembling lips.
“Why,” he said in that gentlest and most musical of voices, “my little sister. I am mighty glad to see you here. You and I shall be friends.”
Mary Beatrice put her hands in his. She did not care that he was the King; she only knew that his words, his smile, his infinite charm made her feel happy and no longer afraid.
The King kept a hold on her hand, and she felt that while he held it thus she could be almost pleased that she had come.
He kept her beside him during the festivities. He implied that he would be her special friend until she felt quite at home in her new country. He told her that she reminded him of her kinswoman, Hortense Mancini—one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in the whole of his life. He had wanted to marry Hortense, but her uncle had put his foot down. “In those days I was a wandering exile. No good match at all. But I never forgot beautiful Hortense, and you remind me of her … with pleasure … with the utmost pleasure.”
She was beside him as they sailed to Whitehall. She heard the people acclaim him from the banks, and she knew that they all loved him, that they felt that irresistible charm even as she did.
He pointed out his Palace of Whitehall whither they were bound.
She was relieved to stand beside him. Her mother was delighted to see the King’s easy affability towards her daughter, delighted to see the lightening of her daughter’s spirits.
The courtiers watched them.
“Am I mistaken?” drawled Rochester. “Is it Charles who is bridegroom or is it James?”
“His Majesty but puts the child at ease,” said Nell.
“James has tried to do so,” said Buckingham, “without success. Alas, poor James! It strikes me that in all things our gracious sovereign could, if he would; and his brother would, if he could.”
Louise had strolled towards them. She glanced with some amusement at Nell’s brilliantly colored gown.
Nell’s eyes smoldered. It was galling to be reminded, every time she saw the woman, that she was now the Duchess of Portsmouth while her young Charles and James were merely surnamed Beauclerk and she was plain Madam Gwyn. The Duchess thought Nell scarcely worthy of notice. Yet she was kindly condescending.
“You are grown rich, it would seem by your dress,” she said lightly. “You look fine enough to be a queen.”
Nell cried: “You are entirely right, Madam. And I am whore enough to be a duchess.”
The Duchess passed on; the laughter of Nell, Buckingham, and Rochester followed her.
Louise’s face betrayed nothing. She was thinking that Rochester was a fool, continually banished from Court on account of his scurrilous attacks on all, including the King; his debauchery would soon carry him to the grave; there was no need to think of him. As for the orange-girl, let her remain—buffoon that she was. Moreover, the King delighted in her and would be stubborn if it were suggested she be removed; Nell Gwyn’s attack was with words, an art in which Louise could not compete with her. Those quips never rose easily to Louise’s lips even in her own language. But there was one who should soon feel the full weight of her displeasure. My lord Buckingham should not have long to flaunt his power if she could help it.
The Duke of Monmouth was delighted with the marriage of the Duke of York.
“There is nothing he could have done,” he told his cronies, “which could have pleased me more. The people are incensed. And do you blame them? My uncle is a fool if he thinks he can bring popery into England.”
He was told that Ross, his old governor, wished to see him; and when Ross was admitted to him it was clear that the fellow had something to say which was for his ear alone.
Monmouth lost no time in taking the man to a place where they could speak privately. Ross was looking at him with that admiration which Mon-mouth was accustomed to see in many eyes.
“For this moment,” said Ross, “I would but ask to look at Your Grace. I remember when you were a little fellow—the brightest, handsomest little fellow that ever came under my charge. It does me good to see Your Grace enjoying such fine health.”
Monmouth was indulgent. He loved praise. “Pray continue,” he said.
“There is but one thing which irks me concerning Your Grace.”
“The bend sinister?” Monmouth prompted.
“’Tis so. What a King you would make! How those people down there would
line the streets and cheer, if only you were James, Prince of Wales, instead of James, Duke of Monmouth.”
“Just a ceremony … just a signature on a document …” muttered Monmouth.
“And for that a country loses the best King it could ever have.” “You did not come merely to tell me this, Ross.”
“Nay, my lord. When I watched you on your horse or learning how to use your sword, I used to let myself imagine that one day the King would acknowledge you as his legitimate son. I used to see it all so clearly … His Majesty sending for you when you were a year or so older … and that came true. His Majesty bearing great love for you … and that came true also. His Majesty declaring that in truth he had married your mother and that you would inherit the crown.”
“And that did not come true,” said Monmouth bitterly.
“It might yet … my lord.”
“How so?”
“I feel in my heart that there was a ceremony between your father and Lucy Walter.”
“My father says there was not, and I verily believe that since the Portuguese woman is barren he would most happily acknowledge me as his son if his conscience would let him.”
“The consciences of kings often serve expediency … saving your royal presence.”
“You mean my father would deny a marriage which had taken place. But why so?”
“Why so, my lord? Your mother was … again I crave pardon … a woman who took many lovers. She was not of state to marry with a king. Your father was young at the time—but eighteen—and young men of eighteen commit their indiscretions. She who was worthy to be a wife to an exiled prince, might not be owned by a reigning king.”
“You know something, Ross. You are suggesting that my father was married to my mother.”
“I asked Cosin, Bishop of Durham, to give me the marriage lines.” Ross smiled slyly. “He could have had them. He was chaplain at the Louvre for those who belonged to the Church of England at the time of the association.”
Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Page 22