He dressed himself in simple dark clothes and wore a black periwig, so that on his arrival in England none would recognize him. This was very necessary, for with his brother, as he believed, dying, his life would be worth very little if he fell into the hands of his enemies.
James believed that a great ordeal lay before him and, as John Churchill advised him, it was imperative that he should be at hand when his brother died, that he might be proclaimed King before Monmouth could be helped to the throne. James was very sad. He was a sentimental man and very fond of every member of his family. It seemed a terrible thing that a Stuart should be forced to fly the country while his brother was reigning King. Time and time again Charles had said to him: “Give up your popery, James, and all will be well.” But, thought James, my spiritual well-being is of greater importance than what happens to me here on Earth.
He prayed and meditated on the future as he made the crossing in a French shallop, and when he arrived at Dover none knew that the Duke of York had come home.
Reaching London, he spent a night in the house of Sir Allen Apsley in St. James’ Square, and Sir Allen immediately brought his brother-in-law, Hyde, to him with Sidney Godolphin.
“It is necessary, Your Grace,” they told him, “to make all haste to Windsor where the King lies. He is a little better, we hear. But for the love of God ride there, and ride fast. As yet Monmouth and his followers know nothing of His Majesty’s indisposition.”
James set out for Windsor.
Charles’ barber was shaving him when James burst in.
He rushed to his brother and knelt at his feet.
“James!” cried Charles. “What do you here?”
“But you are yourself, brother. I had heard you were dying.”
“Nay, ’twas but a chill and touch of fever. The river breezes cooled me too quickly after tennis. And kneel not thus. Let me look at you. Why, James, did you think to find me a corpse and yourself a King?”
“Brother, I rejoice that it is not so.”
“I believe you, James. You have not the art of lying. And indeed you are wise to wish it at this time. I dare not think what would happen if I were so inconsiderate as to die now. I should leave the affairs of this country in a sorry state. Think of it, brother: The English persecute the Jesuits and they owe my life, and what is more their concern the peace of their country—if this present rule of Titus can be called peace—to the Jesuits’ powder, quinine. I swear this drug has cured me.”
He asked after Mary Beatrice and life in Brussels.
“’Tis a sorry thing that you must be an exile, James,” he said. “It would seem our family is cursed to be exiles. But, James, if you persist in acting as you have, and you should come to the throne, I’d not give you four years to hold it.”
“I would hold it,” said James, “were it mine.”
“You must leave the country ere it is discovered that you returned.”
“Brother, is it justice, I ask you, that I should be exiled? Monmouth remains here. You know that were it not for Monmouth there would not be this trouble. This illness of yours has brought home to me how dangerous it is for me to be so far away when Monmouth is so near.”
Charles smiled wryly. James was right. It was unhealthy to have Mon-mouth in England during the Popish terror. Monmouth should go to Holland where he had so distinguished himself against the Dutch; and Catholic James should go to Protestant Scotland. It might be that both these men—both dearly beloved, but both recognized as sadly foolish—should learn something they both needed to learn, against a background which should be alien to them.
Shaftesbury and his Whigs were determined on the downfall of the Duke of York. They did not wish Monmouth to remain abroad and, believing that the King’s love for his eldest son was as strong as ever, they brought him secretly back from Holland.
Monmouth was nothing loath. He was now certain that he was to wear the crown. It was true he had been sent to Holland, but that was only that the King might have an excuse to be rid of the Duke of York. The foolish and criminal exploits of his youth had been forgiven him. He knew how to placate the King, and Charles was never annoyed with him for long at a time.
It was the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, and the Whigs had chosen this occasion as an opportunity for staging a demonstration which they believed would induce the King to legitimize Monmouth and make him his heir. It was easy to whip up the people of London to a state of excitement. They had already been shown the villainy of the papists by Titus Oates, according to whom new plots were continually springing up. It was therefore not difficult to rouse them to fury, and they were soon parading the streets holding aloft effigies of the Pope and the Devil which it was their intention to burn.
For several days these scenes took place; then they gave way to rejoicing. Charles, watching from a window of Whitehall, having heard the bells ring out, saw his son riding triumphantly at the head of a procession, holding himself as though he already wore the crown.
He stopped at Whitehall, and a message came to Charles that his dearly beloved son craved audience.
Charles sent back a message.
“Bid him go back whence he came. I have no wish to see him. I will deprive him of all his offices since he has disobeyed my wishes in returning to England when I commanded him to stay abroad. Tell him, for his own safety, to leave the country at once.”
Monmouth went disconsolately away.
Charles heard the crowds cheering him as he went. He shook his head sadly. “Jemmy, Jemmy,” he murmured, “whither are you going? The path you are taking leads to the scaffold.”
Then he recalled long-ago days in The Hague, when he had lightly taken Lucy Water as his mistress. From that association had sprung this young man, and in him had been born such ambition as could set a bloody trail across this fair land and plunge it into civil war as hideous and cruel as that which had cost Charles’ father his head. And all for the sake of a brief passion with a light-o’-love.
I must save Jemmy at all costs, Charles decided.
Nell was giving my lord Burford his goodnight kiss when she was told a visitor wished to see her.
She hoped it was my lord Rochester. She had need of his cheering company. Charles was melancholy. It was due to all these riots in the streets, all this burning of the Pope and the Devil. Poor Charles! She wished everyone would go about his business and let the King enjoy himself.
The visitor was shown in. He was wearing a long cloak which he threw off when they were alone.
“It’s Perkin,” cried Nell. “Prince Perkin.”
He did not frown as he usually did when she used that name. Instead he took her hand and kissed it. “Nell, for the love of God, help me. The King has refused to see me.”
“Oh, Perkin, it was wrong of you to come. You know His Majesty forbids it.”
“I had to come, Nell. How can I stay away? This is my home. This is where I belong.”
“But if you are sent abroad on a mission …”
“Abroad on a mission! I am sent abroad because my uncle must go.”
“Well, ’tis only fair that if one goes so should the other.”
“My uncle goes because the people force him to. You have seen they want me here. Did you not hear them shouting for me in the street?”
Nell shook her head. “All these troubles! Why cannot you all be good friends? Why are you always seeking the crown, when you know your mother was no better than I am. I might as well make a Perkin of little Burford.”