The Loves of Charles II (129 page)

Louise appeared to be puzzled. It was a trick of hers when she wished to appear vague.

“I must work harder at learning to understand the English,” she would say in her lisping voice which matched her baby face.

The King gave her more beautiful tapestries to hang in her apartments; he gave her jewels and some of his most treasured clocks. Still she could only shake her head, open her little eyes as wide as possible, and say: “If I were not the daughter of such a noble house, why then it would be easier for me to be as these others. Your Majesty, it would seem there is only one way open to me. I should go to a convent and there pass my days.”

Charles was torn between exasperation and desire. He could not endure his lack of success. It was Frances Stuart’s inaccessibility which had made her doubly attractive. Louise realized this, and played her waiting game.

It was many months since she had come to England. The King of France sent impatient messages. Daily the French ambassador warned her.

The Seigneur de Saint Evremond—who was a political exile from France and residing in England where, on account of his wit and literary qualities, Charles had granted him a pension—was eager to see his countrywoman an influence in the land of their adoption. He wrote to Louise—He had heard the rumor that she had declared her intention of entering a convent, so he wrote of the wretched life of nuns, shut off from the world’s pleasures, with nothing to sustain them but their religious devotions.

“A melancholy life this, dear sister, to be obliged for custom’s sake to mourn a sin one has not committed, at the very time one begins to have a desire to commit it.

“How happy is the woman who knows how to behave herself discreetly without checking her inclination! For, as ’tis scandalous to love beyond moderation, so ’tis a mortification for a woman to pass her life without one
amour.
Do not too severely reject temptations, which in this country offer themselves with more modesty than is required, even in a virgin, to hearken to them. Yield, therefore, to the sweets of temptation, instead of consulting your pride.”

Louise read the advice with her childish smile, and her shrewd brain worked fast. She would surrender at the right moment, and that moment would be one which would bring great profit to herself and to France.

The Duke of Monmouth, having been reprimanded by the King for the part he had played in the Coventry affair, was inclined to sulk.

“But, Father,” he said, “I sought but to defend your honor. Should a subject stand aside and see slights thrown at his King’s honor?”

“Mine has had so many aimed at it that it has developed an impenetrable shell, my son. In future, I pray you, leave its defense to me.”

“I like not to see your royalty besmirched.”

“Oh, Jemmy, ’tis so tarnished that a little more is scarce noticeable.”

“But that these oafs should dare condemn you …”

“Coventry’s no oaf. He’s a country gentleman.”

Monmouth laughed. “He’ll carry a mark on his face all the days of his life to remind him to mend his manners.”

“Nay, to remind us that we should mend ours,” said the King seriously. “But have done with these wild adventures, Jemmy. I frown on them. Now let us talk of other matters. How would you like to come with me to Newmarket? You and I will race together and see who shall win.”

Monmouth’s sullen smile was replaced by one of pleasure. He was quite
charming when he smiled. He brought such a vivid reminder of his mother’s beauty that Charles could believe he was young again.

Jemmy was eager to go to Newmarket. Not that he cared so much for the racing, or for his father’s company. What meant so much to Jemmy was that he should be seen at his father’s side. He liked to observe the significant looks of courtiers, to hear the cries of the people. “See, there is the Duke of Monmouth, the King’s natural son! They say His Majesty is so fond of the boy—and can you doubt it, seeing them thus together?—that he will make him his heir.” Jemmy fancied that many people would be pleased to see this done. And why not? Did he not look every inch a prince? And was he not a Protestant, and were not the rumors growing daily concerning the King’s brother’s conversion to the Catholic Faith? Monmouth and his friends would see to it that there was no lack of such rumors.

Contemplating the trip to Newmarket, he was in high spirits. The King doted on him. There was nothing he could not do and still keep Charles’ favor. And everyone would know it. More and more people would rally to his support. They would say he was the natural heir to the throne. All would know that, in spite of the affair of Sir John Coventry, he had lost none of his favor with the King.

He called to Albemarle and Somerset: “Come,” he said, “let us go out into the town. I have a desire to make good sport.”

Albemarle was eager to accompany his friend. He, with others, marveled at the King’s softness towards Monmouth. The affair of Sir John Coventry was a serious one, yet the King had made as light of it as possible—because of who was involved. Albemarle was certain that his friendship with such an influential young man could bring him much good. Somerset shared Albemarle’s ideas.

It was fun to roam through the city at dusk, to see what they could find and make good sport with. What excitement to come upon some pompous worthy being carried in his chair, turning it over, and rolling the occupant in the filth of the street! There might be a young girl out late at night, and if a young girl wandered late at night what more could she be expecting than the attentions of such as Monmouth and his friends?

They made their way to one of the taverns, where they dined. They sat about drinking, keeping their eyes open for any personable young woman who came their way. The innkeeper had taken the precaution of locking his wife and daughters away out of sight, and was hoping with all his heart that the dissolute Duke had not heard that these had a reputation for beauty.

Monmouth had not, so he contented himself with the innkeeper’s wine and, when they staggered into the street, he and his friends were so befuddled that they lurched and leaned against the wall for support.

It was when they were in this condition that they saw an elderly man and a girl approaching them.

“Come,” cried Monmouth drunkenly, “here’s sport.”

The girl was little more than a child and, as the three drunken men barred the way, she clutched at her grandfather in terror.

“Come along, my pretty,” hiccupped Monmouth. “You are but a child, but ’tis time, I’ll swear, you left your childhood behind you. Unless you already have …”

The old man, recognizing the men as courtiers by their fine clothes and manner of speaking, cried out in terror: “Kind sirs, let me and my granddaughter go our way. We are poor and humble folk … my granddaughter is but ten years old.”

“’Tis old enough!” cried Monmouth, and laid his hands on the child.

Her screams filled the street; and a voice called: “What goes on there? Who calls?”

“Help!” screamed the child. “Robbers! Murderers!”

“Hold there! Hold there, I say!” called the voice.

The three Dukes turned and looked; coming towards them was an old ward beadle, his lanthorn held high. He was so old that he could scarcely hobble.

“Here comes the gallant knight!” laughed Monmouth. “I declare, I tremble in my shoes.”

The little girl had seized her grandfather’s hand, and they hurried away.

The drunken Dukes did not notice they had gone, for their attention was now centered on the ward beadle.

“My lord,” said the man, “I must prevail upon you to keep the peace.”

“On what authority?” demanded Monmouth.

“In the name of the King.”

That amused Monmouth. “Do you know, fellow, to whom you speak?”

“A noble lord. A gallant gentleman. I implore you, sir, to go quietly to your lodging and there rest until you have recovered from the effects of your liquor.”

“Know you,” said Monmouth, “that I am the King’s son?”

“Nevertheless, sir, I must implore you …”

Monmouth was suddenly angry. He struck the man across the face.

“Down on your knees, sir, when you address the King’s son.”

“My lord,” began the old man, “I am a watchman, whose duty it is to keep the peace …”

“Down on your knees when you speak to the King’s son!” cried Albemarle.

“Kneel …” cried Somerset. “Kneel there on the cobbles, you dog, and ask pardon most humbly because you have dared insult the noble Duke.”

The old man, remembering the recent outrage on Sir John Coventry, was seized with trembling. He held out a hand appealingly, and laid it on Monmouth’s coat. The Duke struck it off, and Albemarle and Somerset forced the man down to his knees.

“Now,” cried Monmouth, “what say you, old fellow?”

“I say, sir, that I but do my duty …”

Somerset kicked the old man, who let out a shriek of agony. Albemarle kicked him again.

“He is not contrite,” said Monmouth. “He would treat us as dogs.”

He administered a kick to the old man’s face.

Monmouth’s drunken rage was increasing; he had forgotten the girl and her grandfather, his first quarries. His one thought now was to teach the old man that he must pay proper respect to the King’s son. Monmouth suspected all, who did not immediately pay him abject homage, to be sneering at him because of his illegitimacy. He needed twice as much homage as the King himself, because he needed to remind people of that in him which, in the King, they took for granted.

The watchman, sensing the murderous indifference to his plight in Monmouth’s attitude, forced himself to get to his knees.

“My lord,” he said, “I beseech you do nothing that would ill reflect upon your character and good nature …”

But Monmouth was very drunk; and he was obsessed with the idea that his royalty had been slighted.

He kicked the man with such ferocity that the poor watchman lay prone on the cobbles.

“Come!” screeched Monmouth. “Let us show this fellow what happens to those who would insult the King’s son.”

Albemarle and Somerset followed his lead. They fell upon the old man, kicking and beating him. The blood was now running from the watchman’s mouth; he had put up his hands to protect his face. He cried piteously for mercy. But still they continued to inflict their murderous rage upon him.

Then suddenly the man lay still, and there was that in his attitude which somewhat sobered the three Dukes.

“Come,” said Albemarle, “let us go from here.”

“And be quick about it,” added Somerset.

The three of them staggered away; but not before many, watching from behind shutters, had recognized them.

Before daybreak the news spread through the town.

Old watchman, Peter Virmill, had been murdered by the Dukes of Monmouth, Albemarle, and Somerset.

Charles was worried indeed. People were saying that there was no safety in the streets. A poor old ward beadle murdered, and for keeping the peace!

All were watchful. What would happen now? My lord Albemarle who had recently inherited a great title, my lord Somerset who was a member of a noble house, and my lord Monmouth, son of the King himself, were all guilty of murder. For, said the citizens of London, the murder of a poor watchman was as much murder as that of the highest in the land.

The King sent for his son. He was cooler towards him than he had ever been before.

“Why do you do these things?” he asked.

“The man interfered with our pleasure.”

“And your pleasure was … breaking the peace?”

“’Twas a young slut and her grandfather. Had they come quietly all would have been well.”

“You are a handsome young man, James,” said the King. “Can you not find willing ladies?”

“She would have been willing enough once we had settled the old grandfather.”

“So rape was your business?” said Charles.

“’Twas but for the sport,” growled Monmouth.

“I am not a man who is easily shocked,” said the King, “but rape has always seemed to me a most disgusting crime. Moreover it exposes a man as a mightily unattractive person.”

“How so?”

“Since it was necessary to make a victim of the girl instead of a partner.”