The Loves of Charles II (101 page)

She looked at Mary and was ashamed of herself for suspecting her. But the thought had crossed her mind then; how could she be sure who was her friend?

Who was this man Bedloe who had sworn he had seen the body of a murdered man on her back stairs? Had he been here, disguised as one of her servants?

How could she know who were her enemies; how could she know whom she could trust?

In the streets they were saying that the Queen’s servants were the murderers of the City magistrate; and since these men were the Queen’s servants, that meant that it was at the instigation of the Queen that the man had been murdered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bedloe was about to speak.

“Take this man away!” roared the King.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Queen!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you have now made certain of this?”

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

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

“This were high treason,” said Buckingham.

“Punishable by death!” declared Shaftesbury.

But they were uneasy.

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

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

“There was no other woman present.”

“So you know the Queen?”

“I have seen her, and I knew her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words were greeted with a shocked silence.

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

And then the news was out.

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