In London the Dutch jeweller Ritter, having got rid of his dangerous guests, returned to full activity in his business, able to entertain his friends and colleagues as before. His strange retirement had been due to illness in his family, he explained, feared to be infectious at the time. By the mercy of Heaven it had come to nothing.
So Master Ritter heard all the current rumours and realized with the rest of the business world that some stronger Head of State must be found now that Richard was gone. The Parliament demanded absolute power, but was unable to wield it. The Army sought a supreme leader but there were too many contenders for that position and none was prepared to go to war to establish himself. The City of London merchants knew better than anyone else that there was no money anywhere available until the confusion ended.
But presently a fresh rumour, a new certainty grew. In Scotland, General Monck, who had put down the only promising rebellion and was in total control there, had conceived it his duty to bring back the true Head of State, the only possible Leader, the much spoken of, part feared, part admired, but deeply, universally accepted, even in disapproval, Charles the Second. King by right of birth by the will of the people rather than the will of God, the Presbyterians said, repudiating superstition. King by Divine Right the Royalists and Anglicans affirmed, moving slowly, too slowly, towards the universal rising they had planned for so long.
In Master Phillips’s sound business mind and tolerant heart the bitterness began to melt, common sense to plan again for the future. His new business friends in Amsterdam, who admired him for his fortitude, told him ‘King Charles is gone from Brussels to Calais. His brothers, the two Princes, are with him. Surely we may expect great things to follow, to the benefit of us all.’
And so they might. Charles had indeed gone with his principal advisers to Calais, though Prince James had moved to another position in a port on the Channel coast. Clearly they were preparing to invade England at separate points when the time was right for Charles’s small army to help the royalists at home.
And now a very significant event took place that altered all the plans and promised a magnificent reward for the young King’s patience and keen understanding, together with Clarendon’s, wisdom. A visitor presented himself at the Court in Calais. He was General Monck himself, who had left his care of Scotland in the hands of capable subordinate officers, to offer Charles the restoration of the Throne in a bloodless counter-revolution.
‘It is that or anarchy, sir,’ Monck said, gravely. ‘The Parliament is aware of it. They are well primed by Master Secretary Thurloe, who hath agents in those supposedly secret bodies that plot continually.’
‘But they avoid action,’ Charles said. ‘We do not greatly admire our faithful friends, but with your help they may in the end work wonders.’
He spoke formally, because the general had not addressed him in a proper manner at any point in their encounter. But he could not restrain a half-jibe that cut both ways.
General Monck found in it the kind of wry Scottish humour he was familiar with in the northern province. He grinned, appreciating a quality in his future Master that would help to reconcile the country to a change he knew to be absolutely necessary, but that until a few months ago would have been regarded by his colleagues as outrageous treason.
The discussion continued; a rough plan was made and agreed. The general, polite but stiff to the end, made no obeisance, used no title other than ‘sir’, took his leave without being dismissed, but did say, as he shook the hand Charles extended to be kissed, ‘The people will rejoice when you return, sir. They have a great need to be merry again.’
‘They shall fill that need, we promise you, General,’ Charles told him with a great laugh that rang in Monck’s ears as Lord Clarendon led him away.
When the Chancellor went back to the King he found him still in a most cheerful mood.
‘My lord,’ Charles said. ‘You must send official news to our cousin of France, suggesting that our restoration is now but a matter of months, perhaps less. And at the same time send secret news to the sly fox, Mazarin, to confirm it. And press once more our suit for the hand of the Cardinal’s most desirable niece, the beautiful Lady Hortense Mancini.’
‘A Papist, sire!’ Clarendon protested, shocked to find the King had not forgotten this unsuitable Queen for England, already refused him when his prospects seemed to Mazarin to be quite hopeless.
‘An Italian,’ Charles answered. ‘Loveliest of all I have sought for a wife hitherto. Warm-hearted, gay and most desirable. If you can persuade the Cardinal to agree, you may win her for me, my lord.’
Lord Clarendon did not make any more open objections but he felt fairly certain he would be unsuccessful. Had not Mazarin formed an alliance with Cromwell to fight Spain and therefore had Charles removed from France to go to his sister in Germany? Was the Cardinal likely now to reverse his alliance in the exile’s favour? He would obey the King, of course, but he felt fairly confident a Catholic Queen would again inflict outrage upon the royalist aristocracy and the English Anglican religion.
Matters went as Lord Clarendon expected. Cardinal Mazarin was already conversant with current affairs in England, but he still had no confidence in the promised restoration. He favoured a great position for his niece, but was not inclined to risk a marriage with one who was still practically penniless, was dissolute, gravely immoral, a Protestant, a continuing exile. In his reply to the Chancellor he added a sardonic note. ‘His Majesty’s early mistress, the mother of his eldest bastard, died in Paris last year of multiple ailments connected with her irregular and scandalous way of life; in dire poverty and loneliness, her daughter having been taken into a convent and her ancient Dutch companion having predeceased her.’
Lord Clarendon delivered this message. Charles received it very calmly, saying only, ‘How wise we were to rescue our son in time for him to escape such events. Pray see that the news goes to young Alan Ogilvy, my lord.’
Alan had known of Lucy’s death for several months when Lord Clarendon’s report came to him. When the young James Scott, Duke of Monmouth, had left Paris in Alan’s care the boy had clung to him in his inevitable alarm and homesickness. He had called frequently for Mother Schik and for his little sister, but less often for his mother. So no one was surprised when he showed no grief for her death when told of it. They concluded that this was natural, since such a base character could not possibly inspire a true filial love. But Alan found the answer in the boy’s character. He was wayward. He had charm, but he expected it to win him outstanding rewards; a great position at Court, and great privileges as befitted his name, with great possessions to match it. These he could not have, since they did not exist at this time. Having been fed most indulgently upon false promises and lying hopes, the poor spoilt child was quite unfitted for the change. He could not regard his clean but frugal surroundings superior to his former sordid squalor. He knew, however, who had sent Master Alan to look after him, so he clung to Ogilvy more and more closely as they travelled from Paris to Brussels and wept copiously and loudly when they parted upon reaching the Court. Alan remembered how calmly he had parted from his mother and was not in the least flattered by the boy’s behaviour.
However he was in some measure sorry for the young duke, in spite of his less sentimental, less indulgent estimate of his character than that of his immediate guardians, appointed by the Lord Chancellor. He took the necessary steps, to allow himself occasional access to the Duke of Monmouth’s new home. One day upon an errand of this sort, he met Tom Howard, who greeted him very cheerfully, linked an arm in his and drew him along to a wine shop where they could refresh themselves and exchange news.
‘To the future,’ Tom said, lifting his glass.
‘And may it be not long delayed,’ added Alan, drinking deeply. ‘May we all find ourselves at home again at last.’
He told Tom that his cousins had already left for Oxford and that Captain James Ogilvy had been honoured with a knighthood for his long s
ervice in the cavalier armies.
‘Exiles begin to move,’ Tom answered. ‘The flow reverses. Which makes it hard for those recently obliged to leave London.’
‘Such as my cousin, Mistress Cynthia,’ Alan said casually, hoping for news without asking for it directly. Try as he might, recent events had stirred him out of the lethargy of his accepted grief.
Tom laughed.
‘Still hankering after that fair daughter?’ he said. ‘You do not know then that the family were reunited in Amsterdam a month since, but no sooner had they arrived where Master Phillips was living than a letter came from the King –’
‘From our King, from Charles himself?’
‘Carried by a special messenger that I was to watch and guard upon his errand.’
‘And the letter’s content?’
Tom stared.
‘You do not expect me to know that, I hope,’ he said.
A steely look had come into his eyes; Alan hurriedly withdrew the implied insult that Tom had found in the question.
‘Why no, sir, but the King is gathering support wherever he finds a hopeful source. And this unjust attack upon an upright merchant –’
‘Exactly. We have disclosed a feeling in the City that Master Phillips was condemned unfairly upon insecure evidence. Master Thurloe is clever, not easily deceived. If overborne by his Masters he seeks only the truth of any case. He does not favour unreliable agents. He drops them.’
Alan felt his excitement growing.
‘You are telling me that Master Thurloe has dropped George Leslie? That Master Phillips may be exonerated, the case against him quashed, his return to his old business, even his house in Aldersgate given back to him?’
‘That is what I have learned this last week.’
‘Then I thank the most merciful God for it. Will he return?’
‘He will return.’
‘And Lord Clarendon knows all these things?
‘He does.’
Alan looked at Tom with admiration He had unravelled the Phillips case to its very last knot. It was not difficult to imagine with fair probability what lay in King Charles’s letter to his long successful cloth merchant, man of business and exporter. A conviction of his restoration before many months were passed, a reassurance that there would be no punishment for any member of the opposition over the terrible years of conflict except for those who had taken a direct part in the murder of King Charles the First. An appeal to ally himself to the forces of law and order according to the ancient laws and traditions of England. Moreover to support the coming transfer of power from a group of muddled extremists to a new freely elected Parliament of Commons, a new Second Chamber of peers of the Realm, a new Army controlled by a great general who would shortly engineer the recall of the true, hereditary Head of State, himself, Charles Stuart, third of that dynasty to rule England with Scotland, Wales and Ireland attached.
His imaginary appeal, his whole conclusion so absorbed Alan’s mind that he was both startled and alarmed when Tom Howard went on to say, ‘Master Phillips will return and take his family with him. George Leslie is in London still.’
‘I saw him,’ Alan groaned. ‘Lording it over my father’s house in Paternoster Row, that he hath seized, pretending some right to it as his mother’s legal elder son.’
‘He could be dangerous,’ Tom said slowly. ‘He could be dangerous as long as he lives.’
These words remained with Alan as a heavy foreboding during the weeks that followed. If George Leslie had been discharged as an agent from his work for Thurloe he must be all the more free to pursue his vile intentions. His hatred, his so-called pursuit of revenge, was endless and by now uncontrollable. Tom was right, while Leslie lived, the Ogilvy family in all its branches was in peril. And none more so than the original cause of his disorder, Mistress Cynthia. They were in Amsterdam together still, Tom had suggested. Where was George?
Again Tom Howard relieved his uncertainty. The King’s letter had seemed to Master Phillips both generous and sensible. A restoration of the monarchy, with certain safeguards, appealed to his keen business mind. He wrote back to Lord Clarendon that he accepted Charles Stuart’s proposals and would act upon his suggestion that he return to England to pursue his trade, provided there be no tyranny and no intolerance of his religion. He was a Baptist, he said, and would always remain so.
Tom brought the letter to Calais; the King ordered an acknowledgement to be sent to Amsterdam. Tom sought out Alan and together they begged leave for the latter to be messenger instead of Tom.
So Alan found himself again in the street of his early attempt to see the merchant and approaching the door where he had been twice rejected. He was pausing at the foot of the steps that led up to it when a rough voice ordered him in broken Dutch to stand aside and to his horror George Leslie pushed past him and assailed both the iron bell pull and the large brass knocker.
The door was almost instantly opened by a stout middle-aged woman. Again Leslie grated out, ‘Stand aside, wench! My business is with Mistress Phillips. Where shall I find her?’
The woman said courageously, ‘I do not think she will receive you, sir.’
But George thrust her aside and marched into the house, whereupon Alan stepped forward, saying quickly, ‘That man is mad! I know him! Where shall I find –?’
A hand fell on his shoulder and a voice the woman knew said, ‘Young villain, I know you! Alan Ogilvy, you shall not force my house!’
Before Alan could answer, a scream from close at hand drove both men forward. Alan leaped towards the source of the cry, loosening his sword as he did so. Master Phillips, more sure of his way, dodged past him and flung himself into the room at the end of the hall. Alan followed, his blade drawn and ready.
George Leslie stood in the centre of the room, an expression of pure, triumphant evil on his twisted face. Mistress Ogilvy and Susan, clasping one another, were cowering behind a heavy table in the window recess.
‘Have at you, villain!’ Alan yelled.
The would-be murderer swung round and the fight began.
Neither was highly skilled; it was a clumsy affair. George Leslie was in his early forties and had never been much interested in sword play. Alan was young and active and had learned the weapon’s skill with intelligent care, but no real aptitude, nor liking. He had never fought in anger, nor ever meant to kill, but now he did both.
It was George who broke off the fight, after Master Phillips’s shouts for help, relayed by the stout maid, had brought voices to the hall and sounds of steel drawing. With a final thrust that sent Alan staggering from a flesh wound in the thigh, the madman drove his sword through the window of the room, shattered a hole by which to escape and was through it and the small garden beyond and over the wall by the time the helpers had crowded into the room.
Alan, blood pouring down his leg, dropped his sword, felt in his jacket with both hands to fetch out the King’s letter and holding it at arm’s length towards Master Phillips said in a weak voice, ‘A reply to your message, sir, from His Gracious Majesty, King Charles.’
Master Phillips moved forward towards the letter that shook in Alan’s trembling hand. He had, while the fight was on, stood in front of his women folk. He was unarmed but he would have defended them with his bare hands if there had been no champion to do it for him. But the champion was here in the person of the young man who had sought his daughter’s hand, whom he had blamed for his misfortunes, reviled –
‘You are no betrayer!’ he cried. ‘I have done you a great injustice! I must plead forgiveness, I must –’
Alan wanted to say it was no matter, only a misunderstanding. But his forehead seemed to be made of ice, his eyesight was fading, a loud buzzing drowned the sympathetic voice and he collapsed on the floor at Susan’s feet as she ran towards him with open arms.
Chapter Twenty-One
Doctor Richard Ogilvy was overwhelmed with joy when his two youngest sons arrived home. They had survived, they had found their
way into service with the young King, James had been honoured. Thomas would not be able to fight again, his wound had rendered him a cripple for the rest of his life. But surely a long rest in country air, English air, would soon bring back his colour and cure his cough.
The old man fought down his recognition of that cough. Nor would he accept the other symptoms, the recurrent fever of an evening when flushed cheeks gave the cripple an appearance of health that faded away by morning. But he knew in his heart that poor Thomas was treading the slow path that had led his beloved Celia to her grave. Thomas himself was not deceived, but would not alarm his father. So the pretence went on between the two and the old childhood’s love drew them together again, wiping out the bitterness of that seeming neglect, while Thomas the youth, and later Thomas the young man, pursued his royalist ambition to win victory in an already lost cause.
James watched the progress of this total reconciliation with pity and a great thankfulness that events had made it possible. He was willing to suspend all plans for his own future while Thomas lived. He did not expect this to be many months, only prayed that they both might see the Restoration that was beginning to be talked of freely among the scholars at Oxford and the servants who overheard their talk. Even the country folk in the villages, who looked forward to their squires and parsons and great landowners to be restored as well. They needed them all to lead their impoverished communities back to prosperity and save them in future from the dread risk of war.
Under James the domestic arrangements at Doctor Richard’s house were instantly improved. Before he left the continent his cousin Colonel Francis had managed to extract some valuable arrears of pay for his Netherlands services. There was also a gratuity for Thomas’s sufferings bestowed by ‘The Sealed Knot’, who had over the years acquired a varied accumulation of gifts to finance battles that were never fought. With a bloodless counter-revolution now definitely in prospect the officers of that openly secret organization had felt generous.
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