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.