The Loves of Charles II (150 page)

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.