The Merry Monarch's Wife (34 page)

Titus Oates must have been infuriated. Already he had lost some of his credibility by the acquittals of Sir George Wakeman and the Earl of Castlemaine. He might strut round in his episcopal robes—silk gown, cassock and long scarf—calling himself the nation's savior, and enjoying his pension from the privy purse, but he must be suffering some qualms of fear and asking himself how long his glory would last.

I heard he had three servants to wait on him and dress him, as though he were royal; they vied for the honor of holding the basin in which he washed his hands. Everywhere people fawned on him, fearing that if they did not he might name them as conspirators and they find themselves under arrest.

He had so much to lose and Bedloe's deathbed confession must have given him great concern.

His spirits were no doubt uplifted by the trial of William Howard, Viscount Stafford. There was as much interest in this as there had been in that of Sir George Wakeman; and there was a certain desperation about Oates and his followers now. There must be no more acquittals. Stafford was a noble lord…a man of integrity, son of the Earl of Arundel…and a Catholic.

He had been accused by Titus Oates, with several other Catholic lords, but Stafford was the one they decided to send for trial. I was of the opinion that this was because he was old, in frail health and perhaps less able to defend himself.

He was to be tried in Westminster Hall and I had a great urge to be there. I knew that, even if I were not mentioned as one of the conspirators, my complicity would be hinted at and I felt I must hear what was said.

A box was provided for me in the Hall and in this I sat, with some of my ladies.

It was a heart-rending experience to see that old man so persecuted. He was innocent, of course, and people in that hall knew it, but were afraid to say so.

Oates and his men gave evidence. There were two I had not heard of before—Dugdale and Tuberville. They swore that Stafford had tried to persuade them to murder the King. Oates affirmed that he had seen a document sent from the Pope to Stafford in which it was clear that Stafford was promoting Catholic interests.

The trial lasted for seven days. It was the same as before—lies, innuendoes and the continual suggestions that I was concerned in the plot to kill Charles.

Surely, I said to myself, everyone must see how false these people are. They are so obviously liars. Again and again they are proved wrong over details.

But there was fear in the hall. I could sense it. Titus Oates had a satanic power to terrify people. They did not seem to realize that if they all stood together against him they need not fear him.

Lord Chief Justice Sproggs had been persecuted after the acquittal of Sir George Wakeman. He had succeeded because of his powerfully expressed arguments. But for that, Sir George would have been condemned. It was pitiable. There was no such help for Stafford, and the verdict was what Oates demanded: Stafford was found guilty of treason. And the sentence for such a crime was hanging, drawing and quartering.

When I looked at that noble old man I felt sick with horror. When would all this end?

Why had I thought the power of Oates was waning? He was still an evil influence in the land.

         

I HAD RARELY SEEN
Charles so distressed. Before him was the warrant for Stafford's execution and it was to be signed by him.

There was anguish in his eyes.

“You cannot sign it,” I said.

“It is the law. He has been judged.”

“It is all so false,” I cried. “He is not guilty of treason. He would never join in a plot to kill you. You cannot believe it.”

Charles said. “He has had his trial and they have judged him guilty.”

“But he is
not
guilty.”

“They have judged him so.”

“If you refuse to sign…”

He shook his head. I understood. Even the King could not defy the law. His father had stood against the Parliament and what had happened to him must be a never-forgotten lesson to all the kings of England.

“I shall have to do my duty,” he said.

“That old man! But not to hang, draw and quarter. That is barbaric.”

“It is the law.”

He was still staring at the paper before him, reluctant to take up his pen.

He said: “Catherine, I must sign…”

I looked at him sadly, for he was so deeply disturbed.

To hang, to draw and quarter. I knew what that fearful sentence meant.

“I shall change that,” he said. “It shall be the axe. It is the least…and the most…I can do.”

Then he took up his pen and signed.

I believe that was something he regretted for the rest of his life.

         

SO THEY TOOK STAFFORD
out to Tower Hill. Oates and his friends had been angered because the King had changed the sentence and they had some of their supporters on the scene, but their voices were silenced by the many who had gathered there and who did not think the verdict was just.

That should have been a further warning to Oates that his popularity was waning, for someone was heard to shout: “May God bless you, my Lord Stafford.”

Stafford made a declaration before he died. He persisted that he was entirely innocent. And a voice in the crowd was distinctly heard to say: “We believe you, my lord. You are innocent. This is a crime against justice.”

I was told that for a few moments the executioner looked perplexed, but like others, he would be afraid of what might happen to him if he did not do what was expected of him.

He lifted the axe and struck.

They buried Lord Stafford in the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula; and Charles was melancholy for some days and kept to his apartments.

WITH THE COMING OF SPRING
there was more trouble.

Shaftesbury and his supporters had been so angry that their Bill to exclude the Duke of York and bring about my divorce had not been given a hearing that they were determined to bring it up again and force it through Parliament.

Then Edward Fitzharris appeared on the scene. He wanted to be another Titus Oates, which was not surprising, since Titus had done so well for himself.

The interesting point about Edward Fitzharris was that he had been associated with Louise de Keroualle, from whom doubtless he would have learned something of the art of spying.

His plan was to produce a document advocating the exclusion of the Duke of York from the succession because he was a foolish man unfit to rule, and that I should be removed because I had been suspected of being involved in a plot to poison the King.

It might have been that Louise de Keroualle was behind him in this. Being a Catholic, she could not hope to take my place and become Queen, but she was very ambitious for her son—who was also the King's.

It was a slightly different version of the Popish Plot.

A document in the form of a letter, which was called “The True Englishman speaking Plain English in a letter from a friend to a friend,” was to be discovered in the house of some prominent member of the government and through it Fitzharris was to be a savior of his country, such as Titus Oates, the man on whom he was modelling himself.

Unfortunately for Fitzharris, one of his accomplices betrayed him before he was able to put his plot into action. He was arrested and sent to the Tower.

This was the state of affairs when we heard that Shaftesbury was going to present his Bill to Parliament and this time intended to force it through.

Charles came to me. He was very disturbed. I knew that he was still thinking of Stafford and blaming himself for signing the death warrant.

On this occasion there was a light of determination in his eyes.

He said: “I have been a coward. Ever since my restoration I have been clinging to my crown at all costs. I have never forgotten what happened to my father, and it has made a weakling of me in this respect. But better to go wandering again than live in fear. I should have refused to sign Stafford's death warrant. What would they have done then?”

“I think they would have killed him in any case.”

“And there were complaints because I gave him a little relief at the end. They wanted that barbarous sentence carried out on that frail innocent old man.”

I shivered. “At least you saved him from that,” I comforted.

“True, and I must not look back. I am not going to allow Shaftesbury the satisfaction of making his Bill law.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “I think they are so determined to be rid of me that they will succeed in the end.”

“Never while I am here.”

I put out my hand and, with that courtly gesture which charmed so many, he kissed it.

“You are so good to me,” I said. “You have made me very happy.”

“You…shame me,” he replied, not meeting my eyes. After a pause he went on: “Do you know, my dear, I think the people here like me. Or perhaps they want to keep me alive in order to defer the coming of James. Well, I am not going to let that villain Oates and that fanatical Shaftesbury have it all their own way.”

“What shall you do?”

“You will see. Prepare to leave for Windsor on Monday.”

“Will not Parliament then be in session?”

He nodded. “I shall expect you to be ready to leave.”

         

I SOON LEARNED
what he was going to do.

It was a Saturday when the Bill was introduced to the Parliament. On the following Monday, the King left Whitehall in a sedan chair in which the curtains were drawn so that none was aware of who was in it. He wore his state robes and carried his crown in his hands.

Without any preamble he went into the House and took his place on the throne. His crown was then on his head.

Then he ordered Black Rod to summon the Commons to the chamber, and when they were assembled, he said in ringing tones: “The substance of this session has begun in so ill a way as can bring no good to any; therefore it is better to end it.” He turned to his Chancellor. “I pray you, declare this Parliament dissolved.”

With that he rose and in silence left the astonished members.

He came to Whitehall where I was waiting for him.

“Now,” he said, “we leave for Windsor. It will be a short stay. There is work to be done.”

         

THE VERY NEXT DAY
we left Windsor and returned to Whitehall together. The people cheered us in the streets of the capital. Charles was as smiling and affable as ever. He was right when he said they loved him.

The court was subdued. I guessed everyone would have been talking about the manner in which the King had dissolved Parliament, so dismissing Shaftesbury's Bill. This was the King's prerogative, and in a few days it became clear that what Charles had done was acceptable to most people. But I could imagine Shaftesbury's fuming; and surely now Oates must be feeling anxious.

The people were with the King, though. That much was obvious. They would not want him to “go wandering” again. They would not be eager to accept James—but I hoped I would never see that day—and Charles might say that they kept him on the throne because they preferred him to his brother, but I knew they loved him, as so many of us did.

He said to me at that time: “There can be no doubt that on this occasion I took the right turning. Odds fish! I should have done this before. If one is a king, one must act like one.”

People were waiting for what could come next.

They were saying that Fitzharris would go free because to try him might be an inconvenience to Louise de Keroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth, since he had been a servant of hers and might involve her.

I wondered, too. Even those of us who loved Charles had to admit his weakness over women.

But no. He gave orders that Fitzharris should stand for trial, and, although the Duchess and one of her women were witnesses for the defence, Fitzharris was found guilty and hanged.

Then there was Monmouth. I knew how fond Charles was of that young man. Charles was proud of him, but during this period Monmouth had played a disturbing role. He was ambitious in the extreme. He could not help casting covetous eyes on the throne, and the faction which had wanted to prove there had been a marriage with Lucy Walter had raised his hopes high.

Charles said to me: “I cannot receive Jemmy knowing what part he has played in this.”

“He is young…and ambitious,” I reminded him.

Charles looked at me steadily. “You are forgetting that he is in league with these men who would seek to destroy you.”

“I do know that.”

“I cannot believe that he could plot to poison me.”

“No, he does love you.”

“But he loves my crown more.”

“He must know in his heart that it can never be his.”

“Does he? He was involved in that plan to produce the famous box in which was the evidence to prove I married his mother.”

“Well, that would be a temptation, would it not?”