I must admit that this did not occur to me at the time, but it emerged later.
Louise de Keroualle was Louis’s spy. He and Charles had become wary of each other since Henriette’s death. Louis was well aware that Charles resented his lack of energy in unmasking his sister’s killers. All the same, I knew that Louise would consider her own good before that of anyone else. What plans she had for her relationship with Charles, I could only guess. But she would have heard of the King’s obsession with Frances Stuart and might have thought there was a chance of becoming Queen of England.
CAPTAIN BLOOD
IT WAS ABOUT THIS TIME WHEN CAPTAIN BLOOD CAME INTO prominence and seemed to arouse many of the young gallants to a spirit of adventure. One of these was the Duke of Monmouth.
Jemmy, as he was invariably called, was very much aware of his position, and the more unpopular the Duke of York became, the more Jemmy flaunted himself, not only at court but throughout the capital.
He was determined that no one should forget that he was the King’s eldest son. He was disappointed that Charles would not go along with the plan to pretend he had married his mother. At the same time, Monmouth behaved as though he were indeed the Prince of Wales.
There was great antagonism between him and the Duke. Anne, the Duchess, was very worried about it. Every time I saw her I grew more concerned for her health, and the anxiety she was feeling was not helpful to her.
The Duke of York was, of course, without subtlety and completely devoid of diplomacy. I knew Charles constantly despaired of him, but Charles had a habit of shrugging aside unpleasant possibilities and while he was on the throne Monmouth and York could be kept in check. It was only after he had gone that trouble might arise. That was why he could shrug his shoulders and thrust the matter aside.
Meanwhile, the Duke of York was somewhat ostentatiously making sure that everyone knew he was a Catholic and would like to see the whole of the country of the same persuasion. Monmouth was a constant reminder to us all that he was a Protestant and that I, the Queen, seemed unlikely to produce a legitimate heir.
It was then that Captain Blood, the dashing adventurer, made the city aware of him.
He must have been quite fifty years of age. He was of humble origins — and Irish — an adventurer without doubt; he lived for excitement. He was a leader who had a talent for taking people along with him to support him in his various exploits.
One of his associates, a Captain Mason, had been arrested and sent to Doncaster. A guard of eight soldiers had been chosen by the Duke of York to guard the man, and Blood, with only three helpers, rescued Mason, killing several soldiers during the process.
Captain Blood was discussed everywhere and with a certain awe and admiration.
His latest escapade had been to attack the house of the Duke of Ormonde, for when Ormonde had been in command in Ireland, he had arrested several of Blood’s friends. They were brought in for trial and several of them had been hanged. Now, Captain Blood decided to avenge the death of his friends.
He and some of his accomplices waylaid Ormonde’s coach and, after disabling the coachman, were planning to take the Duke to Tyburn and hang him there. Fortunately for Ormonde, his coachman was able to give the alarm and guards arrived in time. Consequently Blood and his men were forced to flee for their lives.
The adventure was much talked of.
Shortly afterward Sir John Coventry was badly injured when his nose was slit in a street brawl.
Sir John had made some remarks derogatory to the King and his mistresses, Nell Gwynne and Moll Davis.
It had all begun when some members of Parliament wished to levy a tax on playhouses. The King and many of his friends were against this, being ardent supporters of the playhouses. During the debate Sir John Coventry asked whether the King’s interest was in the playhouses or the women who played in them.
This was considered to be an insult to the King and there was an uproar. The following day when Sir John’s carriage was taking him to his home in Suffolk Street, it was set upon by a band of young men and his nose was slit for his insolence.
There was a great deal of indignation over the affair, and it seeped out that the Duke of Monmouth had been a member of the gang which had attacked Sir John.
Because of this, Charles was anxious that the matter should be hushed up. He himself would talk to Jemmy.
I could imagine that interview, with Charles gently admonishing Monmouth and Monmouth vehemently declaring that he would allow no one to insult his father.
However, an act was passed that the slitting of noses and any other mutilation was a felony. The act was called Coventry’s Act.
Before long, there was another incident in the streets. Monmouth and the young Duke of Albermarle, who had recently succeeded to the title on the death of his father, were involved in a drunken brawl in which a beadle, who had tried to restrain them, was killed.
This was serious because it was a case of murder. Charles was outraged by the incident until he learned that Monmouth was one of the group concerned.
I said: “That young man is becoming notorious. It is not long since he attacked Sir John Coventry.”
“I must speak to him,” said Charles.
I could not help replying: “Do you think the people will be satisfied with that? A man has committed murder and he is merely given a talking to?”
“I shall speak to him very severely. This has to be stopped.”
“The people will expect him to be punished.”
“I can hardly punish Albermarle without punishing Jemmy.”
“Well then…”
He did not answer. But later he pardoned all the young men involved with the excuse that there was insufficient evidence against them.
After that Monmouth was a little quieter, so I supposed he had been “spoken to very severely.” But it was just another example of the King’s indulgence toward him.
And Jemmy was behaving more royally every day.
IT HAD BEEN A COLD WINTER, and during it Anne’s health had declined. I had always liked her. She lacked certain courtly graces, but I was always aware of her sincerity. She had been hurt by James’s infidelities, as I had been by those of Charles, and that had made a bond between us.
Anne had suffered her husband’s neglect with less stoicism than I had, and James was completely lacking in Charles’s charm. She had had a hard time from the beginning when she had had to face so much disapproval.
For some time she had suffered from a pain in her breast. She had a growth there and it could be excruciatingly painful. I used to visit her often and she liked to talk to me of her early days.
She knew she could not live long. One day she said to me: “What I regret leaving so much are my two girls. Mary is nine years old. It is young to be left without a mother; and Anne is two years younger. It is ironical, Catherine. My little boys died. James wanted boys. They always want boys. There were eight children…and only two left. I often wonder what will become of Mary and Anne. They are in line to the throne. Of course, you may yet…”
“It is so long now,” I interrupted. “I have come to believe I shall never have children. How I envy you! Mary and Anne are such fine girls.”