Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord

TEN

In a house not far from Whitehall a little group of men sat I huddled about a table. They spoke in whispers and every now and then one of their number would creep to the door and open it silently and sharply, to make sure there was no one listening outside. At the head of the table sat a tall handsome young man whose brilliant eyes were now alight with ambition. Monmouth believed that before the year was out he would be King of England.

He listened to the talk of “Slavery” and “Popery,” from which these men were swearing England should be freed forever. Popery and Slavery had special meanings; one referred to the Duke of York, the other to the King.

Monmouth was uneasy. He hated Popery. But Slavery? He could not stop thinking of eyes which shone with a special affection for him, and he pretended to misunderstand when they talked about the annihilation of Slavery.

Rumbold, one of the chief conspirators, was saying: “There could not be a spot more suited to our purpose. My farm—the Rye House—is as strong as a castle. It is close to the road where it narrows so that only one carriage can pass at a time. When Slavery and Popery ride past on their way to London from the Newmarket races we will block the way.”

Colonel John Rumsey said: “We might overturn a cart. Would that suffice?”

“Amply.” Rumbold looked round the table at the men gathered there: Richard Nelthorpe, Richard Goodenough, James Burton, Edward Wade, and many more—all good countrymen; and the nobility was represented by the Earl of Essex, Lord William Russell, and Algernon Sydney.

Essex said: “We would have in readiness forty armed men. They will quickly do their work.”

“And should there be trouble?” asked Captain Walcot, another of the conspirators. “What if the guards come to the aid of Popery and Slavery?”

“Then,” said Rumbold, “we can retire to the Rye House. As I said, it is as strong as a castle and can withstand a siege until the new Government is set up. My lord Monmouth will be in London.”

“And,” said Sydney, “he will but have to go into the streets and proclaim himself King.”

They were all looking at the young Duke, but Monmouth did not see them. He was remembering a room in a foreign house, a blowsy and beautiful woman upon whose bed he had climbed. He remembered playing soldiers with her sweetmeats; he remembered the arrival of a tall man who had tossed him to the ceiling and caught him as he fell. He remembered his own choking laughter of excitement; he remembered that wonderful feeling—the thrill of being thrown, and the certain knowledge that those hands which caught him would never fail.

Now they were asking him to aid in the murder of that kind father.

“You cannot,” said a voice within him.

But he could not shut out the thought of the glittering crown and the power that went with it.

Charles had settled into a life of ease.

Less vigorous than he had been, he had three favorites, and they were adequate. There was Louise—and he never forgot that it was Louise’s advice and her negotiations with the French which had brought him the pension enabling him to rule without a Parliament—and he looked upon Louise as his wife. It was Louise who received foreign visitors, for she understood politics as poor Catherine never could. Louise looked upon herself as Queen of England, and acted the part with such poise and confidence that many had come to consider her as such. She felt herself to be so secure that she did not hesitate to leave England and take a trip to her own country. There she had been received as a Queen, for the French King, even more so than the King of England, was sensible of her services. She had demanded the right to sit on a tabouret in the presence of the Queen of France, and this had been granted her. Louis had done great honor to her and everywhere she had been received with the utmost respect. Louise, practical as ever, had set about wisely investing the great fortune she had amassed while in England. This was her real reason for coming to France. And, strangely enough, on her return to England she had been received with more honor than ever before. The people of England, hearing of the homage paid to her by the King of France for acting so ably as his spy, were ready to accord her that respect which hitherto they had always denied her.

Then there was Hortense—serenely beautiful, cultured, easygoing, very like the King in character—who was still the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, for her beauty was such that nothing seemed to mar it; and, although she took lovers and sat late at the basset table, she did all these things with such serenity, never departing from a mood of contentment, that there were no lines of dissipation to mark the beautiful contours of her perfect face. So lovely she was that men of all ages fell in love with her. Even her own nephew, Prince Eugéne de Savoy-Carignan, when he visited London, did so, and had fought a duel for her sake with Baron de Bainer who was the son of one of the generals of Gustavus Adolphus; in this duel Bainer was killed, and at the Court of Versailles there was amazement that a woman who was a grandmother could arouse such passion in the heart of a young man who was moreover her nephew. But Hortense went on calmly playing basset, taking lovers, receiving the King now and then; not seeking power as Louise did; content with her position as casual mistress, that she might not be denied the right to take another lover if so she wished.

Then there was Nell. Nell’s role, Charles came to realize, was the more maternal one. It was to Nell he went for amusement and for comfort. Nell’s love was more disinterested than the others’. Nell loved him, not always as a lover, not as a King; but understanding that in him which—cynic though he was—had never quite grown up, she was his playmate; she was his mistress when he desired her to be; she was his solace and his comfort.

Recently he had laid the foundation stone of Chelsea Hospital, which was to be a refuge for disabled old soldiers, and it was Nell who, with Sir Stephen Fox—for so many years Paymaster to the Forces—had urged him to this benevolent act. He smiled often remembering her enthusiasm and how, when she had seen Wren’s plans of the hospital, she had protested angrily that it was too small. Then with a roguish laugh she had turned to the King. “I beg Your Majesty to make it at least as big as my pocket handkerchief,” she had pleaded. He had answered: “Such a modest request could not be denied you.” Whereupon she confounded him—and Wren—by tearing her handkerchief into strips and making a hollow square into which she fitted the plans. Charles was so amused that he agreed to increase the size of the proposed hospital.

He had come to know, in these years when he was aware of the slight ailments which must attack a man even as healthy as himself; that Nell was more important to him than any of his mistresses. Louise he admired as a clever woman who had risen from obscurity to be the power behind the throne; Hortense must be admired for her beauty; but it was Nell whom he could least bear to lose.

But he was a fortunate man. There was no need to lose any one of them. His pension from Louis enabled him to meet his and his country’s commitments. He could dabble in scientific experiments in his laboratory; he could sit by the river and fish; he could go to the play with Louise on one arm and Nell on the other. He could spend his time between Whitehall and Windsor, Winchester and Newmarket.

Many of his friends were no longer with him. Buckingham, after the defeat of the Country Party; had left public life and retired to Helmsly in Yorkshire. He regretted George’s gay company, but wherever George had been there also had been trouble. Rochester was dead. There would be no more witty verses stuck on bedroom doors; but those verses of his had been scurrilous indeed and had doubtless done much to dissatisfy the people. James, his brother, was back in England and, though he prophesied trouble for James when he came to the throne, and feared that James would not last long as King, he advised him now and then on ruling as he was ruling, keeping Parliament in recess and thus preventing that deadly rivalry between Whig and Tory which had almost brought the country to revolution. In any case he could tell himself that the ruling of the country would be James’ affair, and any trouble that ensued could not reach him in the grave. His dear son, Monmouth, realized now that he had been foolish. He knew that he could never have the crown. “Why you, Jemmy?” Charles had said. “Think of all the sons I have who might as easily lay claim to the throne.” And Jemmy had looked sheepish, while Charles put his arm about his shoulders. “’Tis my wish,” he had said, “that you thrust such thoughts from your mind since they can bring nought but suffering to you and to me.”

Then Jemmy had looked at him as the young Jemmy had when he had plunged his little hands into his father’s pockets for sweetmeats. Charles remembered saying then: “Why, Jemmy, is it the sweetmeats you are glad to find, or your father?” And the young Jemmy had considered this and suddenly thrown his arms about his father’s neck. Jemmy, the young man, had not altered, thought Charles. He longs for a crown. But he knows it is dangerous longing.

Thus was his state when he travelled down to Newmarket for the season’s races. The Duke of York was with him and they were seen together, the best of friends, the most loving of brothers. Charles wanted the whole country to know that, now that he had given up all hope of getting a son, his brother James was the only man who could follow him to the throne.

They planned to leave Newmarket on a certain day, and the journey home would be, as usual, through Hoddesdon in Hertfordshire and past the Rye House.

At the Rye House a group of men eagerly awaited the coming of the coach in which the royal brothers would be riding. All plans were completed. There was the cart which would be set across the road. There were the conspirators waiting in the Rye House. In London the Duke of Mon-mouth waited. He could scarcely contain his impatience.

But the conspirators waited in vain for the coach to ride into the trap, for the day before Charles was to leave Newmarket there was a great fire in that town and many houses were burned down. That in which Charles and James were staying did not escape, and the King decided that they might as well set out for London a day before they had intended to.

Thus, when they came to that narrow stretch of road through which it was only possible for one coach to pass at a time, they went straight through, having no idea that, in the house close by, their enemies were preparing to murder them on the following day.

It was some weeks later when important documents were brought to Charles. It appeared that a letter from a certain Joseph Keeling to Lord Dartmouth had been discovered, and in this letter was set out an account of the conspiracy which had been planned to bear fruit near the Rye House. Some of the minor conspirators, then feeling that it might be gainful to expose the plotters now that the plot had failed, were ready to come forward, explain all that had been planned, and incriminate those who has taken part in the plot.

There had been much talk of such plots. Only a short while ago the country had been roused to fury by the Meal-Tub plot, which had been concocted by the Papists as a retaliation for all the Popish plots which had grown out of the fevered imagination of Titus Oates. In that case papers relating to the plot, which was to raise an army and set up a Presbyterian republic, were supposed to have been discovered in a meal-tub. Therefore it was felt that the King would laugh to scorn this discovery of a new plot unless there was really tangible evidence to support it. Fortunately some letters of Algernon Sydney, as well as that of Keeling, were discovered, and when these were brought to Charles he could not doubt the existence of the Rye House plot.

Essex, Russell, and Sydney, with others, were arrested. But there was one name concerned in this which filled Charles with horror. There was no doubt that murder had been intended, and Jemmy was involved; Jemmy was one of the conspirators who had plotted the murder of his father.

The country was roused to fury. The death of all the traitors was demanded. The King was as popular now as he had been on the day of his restoration. Easygoing and affable, his people delighted in him, for he was never too proud to speak to the humblest of them, man to man; that was what they loved best in him. They laughed at the gay life he led. Why should he not? they demanded. Who would not support a seraglio if it were possible? All feared his death, for it was realized that he had but driven the threat of civil war underground. It was Charles with his disregard of Parliaments, his determination to keep England at peace, and living on the bribes of Louis, who was responsible for the peaceful state now enjoyed.

Russell and Sydney were executed. Essex took his own life in prison, and a new Lord Chief Justice was appointed to mete out justice to these men. His name was George Jeffreys and he had a reputation for severity.

The Rye House plot sealed Charles’ triumph, for the Whig party was now completely out of favor. Nothing could have been more opportune than the discovery and frustration of such a plot.

Charles was safer than he had been since the early days of his Restoration; but his triumph was a bitter one.

He could not keep his eyes from that name which occurred again and again in the documents: James, Duke of Monmouth. James … Little Jemmy … who had plotted to murder his own father.

On the failure of the Rye House plot, Jemmy had hastily gone into hiding, but he was writing appealing letters to his father. “I was in this plot, Father,” he wrote, “but I did not understand they meant to kill you.”

Then how else, my son, said Charles to himself, could they have put you on the throne?

He knew that, had he cared, he could have drawn Jemmy out of his hiding place. He could have put Jemmy in the Tower with those other would-be murderers. But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not shut out of his mind the memory of little Jemmy, bouncing on his mother’s bed, holding up imperious arms to his father.

He did not want to know where Jemmy was. If he did he must take him from his hiding place and put him in the Tower.

It was to Nell he turned for comfort. Nell was ashamed and angry because at one time she had helped “Prince Perkin;” she had kept him in her house and asked the King to see him. Now she realized she had preserved him that he might live to attempt to take his father’s life.

“I want no more of him,” said Nell; yet she could understand the King’s grief. He loved the boy. He was his son. He was as dear to him as little Lord Burford.

Louise expressed anger against Monmouth, but the King sensed her pleasure. There were secrets in Louise’s eyes, and Charles knew that at one time she had entertained hopes that her son, the Duke of Richmond, might be a possible heir to the throne. Louise was afraid because he had come near death, but that fear was really for the security of her own position.

Hortense expressed horror in her serene way. But Hortense was too careless of the future even to ponder what would become of her should her benefactor die.

And there in Charles’ hands was the letter from Jemmy.

“What good can it do you, Sir, to take away your own child’s life that only erred and ventured his life to save yours?”

That made the King smile. It was Jemmy’s assurance that he had entered into the plot only to save the conspirators from violence. He would never have agreed to murder the father who had done everything for him.

“And now I do swear to you that as from this time I will never displease you in anything, but the whole study of my life shall be to show you how truly penitent I am for having done it. I suffer torments greater now than your forgiving nature would know how to inflict.”

The Duke of York came to him as he sat with the letter in his hand.

“James,” said Charles, “I have here a letter from Jemmy.”

James’ face hardened.

“Oh, I know you find it hard to forgive him,” said Charles. “He is but a boy. He was carried away by evil companions.”

“Evil, indeed, since ’twas murder they plotted.”

“He had no intention to murder. He was there to restrain the others from violence.”

“Then,” said James grimly, “he knew not the nature of the plot.”

“I like not to see this enmity between you two, James. I think of when I am gone. Why, brother, if you persist in your religion, I give you but four years as King—and mayhap then I am being over-generous. Peace between you and Jemmy would be a beginning of better things.”

“You would call him back?” said James incredulously. “You could find it in your heart to forgive him when he has stood beside those who plotted to take your life!”

“He is my son,” said Charles. “I cannot believe he is all bad. He was led away. And I do not think he intended to murder his father.”

“I think he intended to murder his uncle!”

“Nay, James. Let us have peace … peace … peace. Meet the boy halfway. If he begs humbly for your pardon, if he can assure us that he had no intent to murder …”

James smiled wanly. Charles would have his way. And James understood. He was a father himself.

Charles embraced his son. The young Duke had been brought secretly into the Palace, and Charles had prepared a letter which he would require Mon-mouth to sign.

“Father,” said the young man with tears in his eyes.

“Come, Jemmy,” said Charles. “Let bygones be bygones.”

“I would never have let them kill you,” sobbed Jemmy.

“I know it. I believe it. There! Sign this, and I will see that a pardon is issued to you.”

Monmouth fell to his knees and kissed his father’s hand.

“Jemmy,” said Charles, “you do not remember, but when you were a small boy you tried to catch hold of a burning log. I stopped you in time and I did my best to make you understand that if you attempted to touch the fire you would be badly hurt. You did understand. I am telling you just that now.”

“Yes, Father, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Now you must leave me,” said Charles. “It would not be well for you to be discovered here now. The people do not forgive you as readily as your father does.”

So Monmouth left his father, but, even as he moved quickly away from the Palace, he was met by some of his old friends. They knew where he had been and what he had done, and they pointed out to him that he had deserted those who had supported him and sought to put him on the throne, and once the confession he had signed was made public none of his supporters would ever plan for him again. He would be deemed but a fair-weather friend. Indeed, by signing the letter his father had prepared for him he had gone over to the enemy.

Monmouth, hot-blooded and impetuous, went back to Whitehall.

He faced his father. “I must have that confession,” he said.

“Why so?” asked Charles coldly.

“Because it would do me great harm if it is known I signed it.”

“Harm you to have it known that you did not plot against your father’s life?”

“I must have it,” persisted Monmouth.

Charles handed him the paper. Monmouth grasped it, but as he lifted his eyes to his father’s face he was looking at a new man. He knew that Charles had thrown aside his illusions, had forced himself to accept his Jemmy for what he was—the son who would have murdered the father who had raised him up to where he was, and had done nought but what was for his own good; and this son would have murdered that father for his crown.

“Get out of here,” said Charles.

“Father …” stammered Monmouth. “Where should I go?”

“From here to hell,” said Charles.

He turned away, and the Duke crept out into the streets. He was holding the confession in his hand.

There were crowds in the streets. They were talking of Rye House. He listened to them. He took a look at his father’s Palace, and he knew that at this time there was no place for him in England.

That night he took ship for Holland.

Charles no longer thought of Monmouth. The Rye House plot had lost him his son, but it had brought an even greater power to him and with that power was peace. He was ruling as he believed a King, endowed with the Divine Right, should rule. His brother, the Duke of York, was reinstated as Lord High Admiral and, as James would not take the Test, Charles merely signed an order that, as brother to the King, he should be exempted from this.

Then began the happy months. His private life was as peaceful as his public life. All his children—with the exception of the one whom he had loved best—brought great pleasure to him.

He looked after their welfare, delighted in their triumphs, advised them in their troubles. He took charge of his brother’s children’s future, and married Anne to the Protestant George of Denmark—a not very attractive young man, no gallant, no wit, no scholar; but as his chief interest in life seemed to be food, Charles doubted not that Anne would be satisfied with him. He was over-fat, but Charles merrily advised him, “If you walk with me, hunt with me, and do justice to my niece, you will not long be distressed by fat.”

It was Louise, strangely enough, who gave him cause for a slight attack of jealousy—but this was assumed more than deeply felt. A grandson of Henri Quatre and la Belle Gabrielle, one of the most notorious of his mistresses, came to England. This was Philippe de Vendôme, the Grand Prior of France. Louise appeared to be experiencing real passion for the first time in her life, for she seemed blind to the danger in which she was placing herself. Charles, indifferent, happy with Hortense and Nell, had really no objection to Louise’s amusing herself elsewhere; he who had given his affection to Louise more for her political significance than for her physical attractions, would have stood aside. But Louise’s enemies, who had gone under cover, now came forward to do all they could to make trouble between her and the King. In the end Charles arranged that the Grand Prior should be expelled from England.

It was Louise who suffered most from the affair. She was terrified that the Grand Prior, on returning to France, would make her letters public and expose her, if not to Charles’ displeasure, to the ridicule of her fellow countrymen. Louis, however, realizing the importance of Louise to his schemes and not ungrateful for what he considered the good work she had done for France, forbade the Grand Prior to speak of his English love affair, and eventually the matter was forgotten.

That winter was the coldest for years. The Thames was so thick with ice that coaches were driven across it. A fair was set up on the ice which was firm enough to bear both booths and the weight of merrymakers. There was skating, sledging, and dancing on the frozen river.

London was now springing up, a gracious city, from the ruins of the great fire. The King’s architect, Christopher Wren, had long consultations with His Majesty, who took a personal interest in most of the building.

On the Continent there were continual wars. Charles, absolute monarch, kept his country aloof. He had introduced, as far as he could, freedom of religion.

“I want everyone to live under his own vine and fig tree,” he said. “Give me my just prerogative and for subsidies I will never ask more unless I and the nation should be so unhappy as to have a war on our hands and that at most may be one summer’s business at sea.”

And so his subjects, dancing on the ice at the blanket fair, blessed Good King Charles; and the King in his Palace, with his three chief mistresses beside him, was contented, for indeed, now that he was approaching fifty-five and suffered an odd twinge of the gout, he found these three enough. His Queen Catherine was a good woman; she was docile and gentle and never gave way to those fits of jealousy which had made such strife between them in the beginning. She was as much in love with him as she ever was. Poor Catherine! He feared her life had not been as happy as it might have been.

Nell was happy now, for Charles had given Lord Burford his dukedom and the boy was the Duke of St. Albans, so that Nell could strut about the Court and city, talking constantly about my lord Duke.

Dear Nelly! She deserved her dukedom. He would have liked to have given her honors for herself. And why should he not? It was others who had withheld them. Why should not Nelly be a Countess? She was his good friend—perhaps the best he ever had.

Yes, Nelly should be a Countess; and there was only one thing he needed to make him feel perfectly content. He thought often of Jemmy in Holland. It was such a pity that he could not have every member of his handsome family about him. He was so proud of them all. He was even honoring Moll Davies’ girl—the last of his children, for there had been none after that bout of the disease which had robbed him of his fertility.

Ah, it was indeed a great pity that Jemmy was not there in this happy circle.

Poor Jemmy! Mayhap he had been led astray. Mayhap by now he had learned his lesson.

Charles was in his Palace of Whitehall. It was a Sunday and he felt completely at peace.

In the gallery a young boy was singing French love songs. At a table, not far from where the King and his mistresses were sitting, some of the courtiers were playing basset.

On one side of the King sat Louise, on the other, Nell; and not far away was the lovely Hortense. And as Charles watched them all with the utmost affection, he was thinking that soon Jemmy would be home. It would be good to see the boy again. He could not let his resentment burn against him forever.

He bent towards Nell and said: “And how is His Grace the Duke of St. Albans?”

Nell’s face was animated as she talked of her son’s latest words and actions. “His Grace hopes Your Majesty will grant him a little time tomorrow. He says it is long since he saw his father.”

“Tell His Grace that we are at his disposal,” said Charles.

“The Duke will present himself at Whitehall tomorrow.”

“Nell,” said the King, “methinks His Grace deserves a Countess for a mother.”

Nell opened her eyes very wide; then her face was screwed up with laughter. It was the laughter she had enjoyed when she sat on the cobbles of the Cole-yard with Rose, the laughter of happiness rather than amusement.

“Countess of Greenwich, I think,” said the King.

“You are good to me, Charles,” she said.

“Nay,” he answered. “I would have the world know that I have both love and value for you.”

It was late that night. The King’s page, Bruce—the son of Lord Bruce, whom Charles had taken into service, having a fondness for the boy, and had declared he would have him close to his person—helped him to undress and went before him with the candle to light him to his bed-chamber.

There was no wind in the long dark gallery, yet the flame was suddenly extinguished.

“’Tis well we know our way in the dark, Bruce,” said Charles, laying his hand on the young boy’s shoulder.

He chatted awhile with those few whose duty it was to assist at his retirement for the night. Bruce and Harry Killigrew, who shared the bedchamber, said afterwards that they slept little. A fire burned through the night, but the King’s many dogs, which occupied his sleeping apartment, were restless; and the clocks, which struck every quarter, made continual clangour. Both Bruce and Killigrew noticed that, although the King slept, he turned repeatedly from side to side and murmured in his sleep.

In the morning it was seen that Charles was very pale. He had had a sore heel for some days, which had curtailed his usual walks in the park, and when the surgeon came to dress the sore place he did not speak to him in his usual jovial manner. He said something which no one heard, and it was as though he were addressing someone whom they could not see. One of the gentlemen bent to buckle his garter and said: “Sir, are you unwell?”

The King did not answer him; he got up suddenly and went to his closet.

Bruce, terrified, asked Chaffinch to go to the closet and see what ailed the King, for he was sure that his behavior was very strange and it was unlike him not to answer when spoken to.

Chaffinch went into the closet and found the King trying to find the drops which he himself had made and which he believed to be efficacious for many ailments.

Chaffinch found the drops and gave them to Charles, who took them and said he felt better. He came out of the closet and, seeing that his barber had arrived and that the chair by the window was ready for him, he made his way to it.

As the barber began to shave him, Charles slipped to one side and Bruce hurried forward to catch him. The King’s face was distorted and there was foam on his lips as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Those present managed to get Charles to his bed, and one of the physicians hastily drew sixteen ounces of blood. Charles had begun to writhe and twitch, and it was necessary to pry open his jaws lest he should bite his tongue.

James, Duke of York, wearing one shoe and one slipper, hurried into the apartment. He was followed by gentlemen of the Court.

“What is happening?” demanded James.

“His Majesty is very ill, mayhap dying.”

“Let this news not go beyond the Palace,” said James.

He looked at his brother and tears filled his eyes. “Oh, God,” he cried. “Charles … Charles … what is happening, my dear brother?” He turned to the surgeons. “Do something, I implore you. Use all your skill. The King’s life must be saved.”

Those about the King now began to minister to him. Pans of hot coal and blisters were applied to every part of his body. Cupping glasses were brought and more blood was withdrawn. They were determined to try all cures in order to find the right one. Clysters were administered, emetics, purgatives, a hot cautery, and blistering agents were applied to the head, one after another.

In spite of these attentions Charles regained consciousness.

It was impossible to keep the news from leaking from the Palace. In the streets the people heard it in shocked silence. It could not be true. Such a little while ago they had seen him sauntering in the park with a mistress on either arm, his dogs at his heels. It could not have been more than a week ago. There had been no indication that he was near his end.

The Duke of York took charge and ordered that the news must be stopped at all ports. Monmouth must not hear what was happening at home.

The King smiled wanly at all those about his bed; he tried to speak to them, but could not.

The doctors would give him no rest. They began forcing more drugs down his throat; they gave him quinine which had served him well before; they set more hot irons on his head; they put spirit of sal ammoniac under his nose that he might sneeze violently. They proceeded with their cupping and blistering all through the day.

By nightfall he had lapsed into sleep and, mercifully, while he slept, those about him ceased their ministrations.

The next day he was weak but a little better. Still his physicians continued to plague him. He must drink broth containing cream of tartar; he must take a little light ale. He must submit to more clysters, more purging, more bloodletting, more blisters. He gave himself into the hands of his torturers with that sweetness of temper and patience which he had shown throughout his life.

To add to his discomfort, all through the day crowds entered his bedchamber to look on his suffering. He lay very still, in great pain, trying to smile at them.

In the streets the citizens wept and asked what would become of them when he was no longer there. They remembered the Popish terror; they remembered that the heir presumptive was a Catholic and that across the water the Duke of Monmouth was waiting perhaps to claim the throne.

This King of theirs, this kind-hearted cynic, this tolerant libertine, had stood between them and revolution, they believed. Therefore they must wait in fear for what would happen were he taken from them.

In the churches special services were held. Prayers were delivered that this sickness might pass and that they might see their King sauntering in his park once more.

By Wednesday he seemed better, and the Privy Council issued a bulletin to this effect. In the streets the people cheered wildly; they embraced each other; they told each other that he was a man with the strength of two; he would recover to continue to reign over them.

Although he was in great pain and was allowed no rest from his physicians, Charles managed to appear cheerful. But soon after midday on Thursday it became clear that he could not recover.

He joked in his characteristic way. “I am sorry, gentlemen,” he said, “to be such an unconscionable time a-dying.”

They sought new remedies, and it was hard to find one which they had not tried upon him. They gave him black cherry water, flowers of lime and lilies of the valley, and white sugar candy. They administered a spirit distilled from human skulls.

He asked for his wife. She had come earlier, they said, and now so prostrate with grief was she that she was fainting on her bed.

She had sent a message to him, begging his forgiveness for any faults she may have committed.

And when they told him this, they saw the tears in his eyes. “Alas, poor woman,” he said. “She begs my pardon? I beg hers with all my heart. Go tell her that.”

Louise was waiting outside his apartments. The attitude towards her had changed subtly, and there were many to remind her that, since she was not the King’s wife, she had no place in that chamber of death. She had hung over him when he was unconscious, but he had been unable to recognize her, and a great terror possessed Louise.

What will become of me now? she asked herself.

She was rich; she would return to France, to her duchy of Aubigny. But the King of France would no longer honor her, having no need of her services. He would remind her that she had failed in the one great task for which she had been sent to England. Charles had been paid vast sums of money to declare himself a Catholic at the appropriate time. Now he was dying and he had not done this. But he must do it. Louise must return to France victorious. She must say to Louis: “I came to do this and, although it was delayed to that time when he was on his deathbed, still I did what I set out to do.”

She thought of Charles, only half conscious in his agony, made more acute by the attention of his doctors. It might well be that now was the time, when he could not be fully aware of what he did.

It must be done. Only thus could Louise serve the King to whose country she must soon return.

She sent for Barrillon.

“Monsieur L’Ambassadeur,” she said, “I am now going to reveal a secret which could cost me my head. The King is at the bottom of his heart a Catholic. There is no one to administer to his need. I cannot in decency enter his room, for the Queen is there constantly. Go to the Duke of York and tell him of this. There is little time in which to save his brother’s soul.”

Barrillon understood. He nodded admiringly. It was in the interests of France that the King should die a Catholic.

By great good fortune, when Bishop Ken had come to the King’s bedside to administer the last rites of the Church of England, Charles had turned wearily away. He had submitted to too much. He had never been a good churchman and he was not the man to change on his deathbed. He had lived his life as he had meant to live it; he had declared that the true sins were malice and unkindness and, within his limits, he had done his best to avoid these sins. He had said that the God he visualized would not wish a gentleman to forgo his pleasures. He had meant that; and he was no coward to scuttle for safety at the last moment.

The Duke of York came into his bedroom. He knelt by the bed and whispered in his ear. “For your soul’s sake, Charles, you must die in the Catholic Faith. The Duchess of Portsmouth has told me of your secret belief. She will never forgive herself if it is denied to you.”

At the mention of Louise’s name Charles tried to turn his glazed eyes to his brother, and a smile touched his lips. Then he said, half comprehending: “James … do nothing that will bring harm to you.”

“I will do this,” said James, “though it cost me my life. I will bring a priest to you.”

Into the chamber of death an altar was smuggled, and with it came a priest, Father Huddleston, a man who had helped to save Charles after Worcester and whom Charles had saved from death during the Popish troubles. In spite of his drugged and dazed state, Charles recognized him.

“Sir,” said James, “here is a man whose life you saved and who is now come to save your soul.”

“He is welcome,” said Charles.

Huddleston knelt by the bed.

“Is it Your Majesty’s wish to receive the final rites of the Catholic Church?”

The glazed eyes stared ahead. Charles was conscious of little but his pain-racked body. He thought it was Louise who was beside him. Louise making her demands on behalf of the King she was really serving.

“With all my heart,” he said wearily.

“Do you desire to die in that communion?”

Charles nodded.

He repeated all that Huddleston wished him to.

His lips moved. “Mercy, sweet Jesu, mercy.”

Extreme unction was administered. Charles could scarcely see the cross which Huddleston held before his eyes. He was conscious for brief intervals before he swooned with the pain and the exhaustion which was in part due to the terrible ordeal through which his physicians had caused him to pass.

When the priest left, those who had been waiting outside burst into the room.

From her house in Pall Mall Nell looked out on the street. She saw the people silently standing about. London had changed. It was somber out there in the streets.

She could not believe that she would never see him again. She thought of the first occasion she had seen him at the time of his Restoration, tall, lean and smiling, the most charming man in the world. She thought of the last time she had seen him when he had taken her hand and promised to make her a Countess that all might know what love and value he had for her.

And now … never to see him again! How could she picture her life without him?

She sat still while the tears slowly ran down her cheeks.

She thought, I shall never be happy again.

Her son came and threw himself into her arms. He was sobbing wildly.

He knew, for how could such things be kept from children?

She held him fast against her, for in those moments of desolate grief she could not bear to look into that face which was so like his father’s.

She did not think of the future. What did the future matter? Life for her was blank since her King and her love would no longer be there.

Charles lay still, uncomplaining. He was aware that he was dying and that those who crowded into his apartment had come to take their last farewell.

They knelt about his bed, his beloved children, and he blessed them in turn. He looked in vain for one, for he had forgotten that his eldest son was still in exile.

He called his brother to him.

“James,” he said. “James … I am going…. It will not be long now. Forgive me if I have been unkind. I was forced to it. James … may good luck attend you. Look to Louise. Look to my poor children. And, James, let not poor Nelly starve.”

He sank back then; he was conscious of those weeping about his bed. Scenes from his past life flitted before his eyes. He thought he was sore from riding so far to Boscobel and Whiteladies. He thought he was cramped because he was hiding in an oak while the Roundheads searched for him below.

But then he knew that he was in his bed and that soon this familiar room would be his no more.

“Open the curtains,” he said, “that I may once more see the day.”

So they drew them back, and he stared at the window. He listened to the sounds of his city’s waking to life, and he slipped into unconsciousness again.

He was breathing so painfully that his gasps mingled oddly with the ticking of the clocks. His dogs began to whimper. Then, just before noon, he fell back on his pillows and ceased to live.

Bruce, who had loved him dearly, said as the tears rolled down his cheeks: “He is gone … my good and gracious master, the best that ever reigned over us. He has died in peace and glory, and may the Lord God have mercy on his soul.”