The Loves of Charles II (136 page)

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.”

“Ross, you are a good fellow. What says he?”

“He insisted that there were no marriage lines. He asked me indignantly if I were suggesting that he should forge them.”

“And … now he has promised to produce them?”

“He is dead.”

“Then what good is he?”

Ross smiled slowly. “Friends of mine—and yours—are ready to swear that, as he died, he murmured of a black box which contained marriage lines proving that Lucy Walter was the wife of your father.”

“Ross, you are the best friend a man ever had …”

“I looked on you as my son when I became your governor in the house of my lord Croft. There is nothing I would not do to give you your heart’s desire.”

“I thank you, Ross; I thank you. But my father lives … What will he say of this … black box?”

Ross was silent for a while; then he said: “The King, your father, loves you. The country does not want a Catholic King. The Duke of York, in giving up his post as Lord High Admiral, has exposed himself as a Papist. Now there is this marriage. The King loves peace … He loves peace more than truth. He loves you. He loves all his children, but everyone knows that
his favorite is his eldest son. It may be that he—and I, feeling as a father towards you, understand his feelings—would accept this tale of the black box for love of you and for love of peace.”

Monmouth embraced his old governor.

“Man,” he said, “you are my good friend. Never shall I forget it.”

Ross fell on his knees and kissed the Duke’s hands.

“Long live the Prince of Wales!” he said.

Monmouth did not speak; his dark eyes glittered; he could hear the shouts of the people, feel the crown on his head.

Rumor was raging through London as fiercely as, a few years before, the fire had raged—and, said some, as dangerously.

The King was married to Lucy Walter. The Bishop of Durham died speaking of a black box … a black box which contained the fateful papers, the papers which would one day place the crown on the head of the Protestant Duke of Monmouth.

“But where is the black box?” asked some. “Will it not be necessary to produce it?”

“It is in the interest of many to keep it hidden. The Duke of York’s men will swear that it has no existence.”

The country was Protestant and so hated the idea of a Catholic King. As for the wildness of young Monmouth, they would be ready to forget that. It was remembered only that he was young, handsome, and had acquitted himself with valor in the wars, that he was a Protestant and son of King Charles.

Monmouth awaited his father’s reactions. He could not be sure what went on behind those brooding, cynical, and often melancholy eyes.

He had asked to be formally acknowledged as the head of the Army.

Meeting his uncle, he told him so. James, unable to hide his feelings concerning this nephew of his, knowing of the rumors which were abroad, gruffly told him that he thought he lacked the experience for the post.

“It could not go to you, my lord,” said Monmouth with a smile. “You are disqualified under the Test Act. You know that all officers of the military services or civil ones must conform to the rites of the Church of England.”

“I know this well,” said James. “But your present position gives you as much power as you need.”

“I am sorry I have not your friendship and support,” Monmouth retorted sullenly.

James flushed hotly. “Indeed you are not sorry.”

Then he left his nephew.

Monmouth sent for his servant, Vernon.

“Vernon,” he said, “go to the clerks who are drawing up the documents which will proclaim me head of the Army. I have seen how these will be worded. The title of head of the armed forces is to go to The King’s
natural son.
Vernon, I want you to tell the clerks that you have had orders to scratch out the word ‘natural’ if it has been already put in; and if the papers are not completed let it be that the phrase reads: ‘The King’s son, James, Duke of Monmouth.’”

Monmouth fancied that Vernon’s bow was a little more respectful than usual. Vernon believed he was in the presence of the heir to the throne.

James, Duke of York, was with his brother when the papers were put before the King. James took them from the messenger and looked sadly at them.

Charles was carelessly fond where his emotions were involved. Many believed, though, that Monmouth would do well in the Army. He had the presence, the confidence for it. Moreover his handsome looks and likeness to the King made people fond of him.

He spread the papers out on a table.

“Your signature is wanted here, Charles,” he said.

Charles sat down and, as his eyes ran over the papers, the blood rushed into James’ head.

He pointed to an erasure. The word “natural” had been removed.

“Brother!” said James, his face stricken. “What means this?”

Charles stared at the paper in astonishment.

“It is so then,” said James. “This talk of the black box is no rumor. You admit that a marriage took place between you and Lucy Walter?”

“There is no truth in that rumor,” said Charles. He called the man who had brought it to the chamber.

“Who commanded that that word should be erased?” he asked.

“It was Vernon, the Duke of Monmouth’s man, Your Majesty.”

“I pray you bring me a knife,” said Charles, and when it was brought he cut the paper into several pieces.

“It will have to be rewritten,” he said. “When that is done, I shall sign the paper giving my
natural
son the command of the Army.”

Later that day, when he was surrounded by courtiers, ladies, and men from the Parliament, he said in a loud voice: “There have been rumors afoot of late which displease me. There are some who talk of a mysterious black box. I have never seen such a black box and I do not believe it exists’ outside the imagination of some people. What is more important, I have never seen what that box is reputed to contain, and I know—who could know better?—
that these documents never were in existence. The Duke of Monmouth is my very dear son, but he is my natural son. I say here and now that I never married his mother. I would rather see my dear son—my bastard son, Monmouth—hanged at Tyburn than I would give support to the lie which says he is my legitimate son.”