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.”
There was silence throughout the hall.
Monmouth’s face was black with rage. But the King was smiling as he signed for the musicians to begin to play.
Louise, walking in the gardens of Whitehall Palace, came upon the newly created Earl of Danby and graciously detained him. She had decided that the two men who could be of most use to her were Danby and Arlington. She had been eager to bring about the disgrace of Buckingham ever since he had humiliated her at Dieppe, but her nature was a cold one and she cared more for consolidating her position at Court and amassing wealth than for revenge.
Danby, it seemed to her, must be her ally if she were to enrich herself as she intended to, for Danby was a wizard with finance and it was into his hands that the King would place the exchequer.
Much as Louise delighted in her title of Duchess, there was one thing that was more important than any English title. It was at the French Court that she had suffered her deep humiliation, and one of her most cherished dreams was that one day she would return there to receive all that respect which had been denied her in the past. She would rather have a tabouret at the Court of Versailles, on which she would be permitted to sit in the presence of the Queen, than any English honors. The ducal fief of Aubigny had reverted to the crown on the death of the Duke of Richmond, on whose family it had been bestowed by a King of France as far back as the early part of the fifteenth century. Louise’s acquisitive mind had already decided that she must be granted the title of Duchesse d’Aubigny—for with it went the tabouret—and she would need Charles’ help to plead with Louis for the title; and if the pleas of a man who was rising, as Danby surely would, were added to that of the King, it would be helpful, for Louis would be pleased to grant favors to those who held influential positions at the English Court.
Arlington was ready to turn against Buckingham. Together they had supported the Dutch war, and together they had sought to make peace. The country was saying that both these activities had been conducted with incompetence and inefficiency. Therefore a man such as Arlington, to save himself, would be ready to throw the larger share of blame on his companion in misfortune. Buckingham had already done his best to weaken Arlington’s position by trying to persuade the King not to proceed with the proposed marriage between Arlington’s girl, Isabella, and Barbara’s son, the Duke of Grafton. He had held out a better match as bait—the Percy heiress—and Arlington was furious at Buckingham’s attempt to spoil the linking of his family with the royal one.
But Louise felt that Danby was the man who could help her most. He was quiet, a man who would be happy to work in secret, and he had come to his present place by quiet determination, working by devious ways towards his goal. If he lacked altogether the brilliance of Buckingham, he also lacked the Duke’s folly which was ready to trip him at every step. As Sir Thomas Osborne, Danby had come to London when he was made member for York. He had first come to notice when he was appointed commissioner for examining public accounts some seven years before. Since then his rise had been rapid. He had been Treasurer of the Navy, Privy Councillor, and, with the reinstatement of the Test Act and the banishment of Clifford, he had become Lord High Treasurer.
Louise believed that he would rise to even greater power. She feared him. He founded his policy, she had heard, on the Protestant interest and thus he was opposed to the French. This meant that she and he must necessarily be in opposite camps. Yet at this point their interests were similar. Buckingham was to blame for the alliance with France and the Dutch war. Buckingham was even suspected of having Catholic interests, for he had received many costly presents from Louis Quatorze, and all knew that Louis did not give his presents for nothing.
Therefore she and Danby, who it would seem must follow diametrically different courses, could meet in one desire: to see the downfall of Buckingham. And Louise, ever fearful that she would fail to mold the King of England in the manner desired by the King of France, was ready to go to great lengths to secure the friendship of men whose animosity could ruin her. Her great dread was that she should be sent back to France without her tabouret—back to humiliation and obscurity.
“I trust I see you well, my lord Treasurer,” said Louise.
“As I trust I see Your Grace.”
Louise took a step nearer to him and lifted her eyes to his face. “You have heard the sad news of your predecessor?”
“My lord Clifford?”
Louise nodded. “He has grieved greatly since he resigned his post in accordance with the Test Act. He died—some say by his own hand.”
Danby caught his breath. It was into Clifford’s shoes that he had stepped. Was she warning him that a man held a high position one day and was brought low the next? He was bewildered. He could not believe that he could ally himself with the King’s Catholic mistress. Was she suggesting this?
She smiled charmingly, and said in her quaint English: “There are disagreements between us, my lord Treasurer, but as we are both near the King, should we allow these to make us the enemies?”
“I should be sad if I thought I were Your Grace’s enemy,” said Danby.
Louise laid her hand very briefly on his sleeve. It was almost a coquettish gesture. “Then from now on I shall hope that we are friends? Please to call on me when you have the wish.”
Danby bowed and Louise passed on.
Shaftesbury had been dismissed. Clifford was dead. The Commons declared that the remaining members of the Cabal—Lauderdale, Arlington, and Buckingham—were a triumvirate of iniquity.