“Oh…Charles,” I murmured.
He attempted to smile reassuringly.
Dr. King ordered that a warm iron should be put on his head. I thought he was dying. He could not be. He had always been so strong. He looked at me helplessly…as though he were apologizing for his weakness.
The Duke and Duchess of York appeared. James fell on his knees beside Charles’s chair and I saw real anguish in his face. I had always known of his affection for his brother. Poor James, he must be feeling many a qualm. He knew what Charles’s death would mean to him; he would be thrust into a position of danger, for many were opposed to him.
As the news spread through the street there was melancholy throughout the city. It was more than a rejection of James; it was a sign of the people’s love for the King. He was their Merry Monarch; he had come back and saved them from years of repression under Puritan rule. No matter what he had done, he had amused them with his amorous affairs; he had enchanted them with his smiles and his affable ways with all had won their hearts. There was never a king more loved by his subjects than Charles.
During the day he recovered a little.
The news seeped out and bells were rang. “He is recovered,” said the people. “He is going to live. Long may he reign.”
He was put into his bed and rested there, sitting up in bed, looking tired, but his features were no longer distorted and his speech was clear.
I sat by the bed and he held my hand, smiling at me. I was overcome with emotion.
“You are better,” I said. “You are going to recover.”
He lifted his shoulders characteristically.
“Life would be so empty without you,” I said.
“No,” he replied. “You will fill it.”
I said: “I have been foolish at times. I beg your pardon, Charles, I wish I had been better.”
His lips twisted into a wry smile. “You beg my pardon,” he said. “My poor dear Catherine. It is I who should beg yours…and I do…with all my heart.”
That night he had another seizure…more violent than the first…and we knew then that the end was near.
The Archbishop of Canterbury with the Bishops of London, Bath and Wells, and Durham were sent for.
There could be no hope now. Services were held in all the churches, and there was a hushed scene in the streets; people stood about and talked in whispers.
I asked the Duchess of York to come to me. We had always been good friends and I wanted her advice.
I said to her: “I know that the King was at heart a Catholic. He had contracted with Louis to be one and turn the country to Catholicism when the opportunity arose.”
“Louis paid him well for that,” said the Duchess, “and Charles accepted the payments knowing full well that the opportunity would never arise in his lifetime.”
“It has now,” I said.
“What do you mean? The King is dying.”
“I know that. He would want to receive the rites of the Catholic Church.”
She stared at me. “You are sure?”
I nodded. “I want you to explain to James.”
“I will,” she said.
I felt relieved. It was what he would have wished. It would be a secret, of course. What would the people’s reaction be if they knew their beloved King had died in the Catholic faith?
I saw James. He was haggard with anxiety. He said to me: “He shall have a priest. If they kill me for it, I will do this for his sake.”
I thanked him with deep gratitude.
TIME WAS PASSING. It was five days since Charles had had the first seizure. He was in great pain and all the remedies that had been heard of had been tried on him.
He retained his humor and asked the pardon of all those about him for being an unconscionable long time a-dying.
“Oh God,” I prayed, “how shall I live without him?”
The sixth day dawned — that black sixth of February — and the first seizure had taken place on the first of the month.
There was no hope now. I myself had been ill. I had fainted and my nose had bled profusely. Dr. King said that I must keep to my bed. That was impossible. I must be ready, lest he should call for me.
The King’s bedchamber was crowded with people…churchmen, peers, doctors, ambassadors…they must all be there to see the end of the King.
He needed to rest…to sleep…but a king cannot die like an ordinary man. They tried more remedies…and he lay there, dead pigeons at his feet, a warm iron on his head.
“Please let them leave him in peace,” I prayed.
The time was near and the Duke of York, assuming authority because he was almost King by this time, cleared the room. Father Huddleston was brought to Charles. He had had the forethought to dress himself as a clergyman of the Church of England and was taken up by a secret staircase, and Charles was given the sacrament in the rites of the Catholic Church.
I rejoiced in this. I had always hoped that one day he would come to the true faith in his lifetime. He had, however, come to it on the point of death.
He seemed greatly comforted. I was close to him and I saw the peace settle on his face.
“Catherine,” he said gently, and I knew in my heart that he was thinking of me as I had been when I first came to England almost twenty-three years ago…innocent, inexperienced, already in love with the mythical prince who had lived only in my imagination.
I said, as I had on that other occasion: “Forgive me for my faults, my stupidity, my foolishness.”
He shook his head and there were tears in his eyes.
“You did no wrong,” he said. “And I am guilty of many offences against you. I beg of you, sweet Catherine, forgive me.”
I was choked with emotion.
I whispered: “I cannot bear to lose you.”
He smiled at me sadly.
James was kneeling at the bedside.
“Farewell, brother,” said Charles. “I wish you well. You have been a good brother to me.”
James was openly weeping.
“I would it were I,” he said. “You know, brother, I would willingly die for you.”
“James…James…my time has come…yours is far away. May God go with you, James. If I have ever seemed harsh, it was for your own sake.”
“I know, I know.”
“James, have a care…of yourself…and those I love. Be good to the Queen…the Duchess of Portsmouth…see that she is well-treated. And my children…James. They need your care. Let not poor Nelly starve…”
He lived through the night and the next morning he awoke at six. Two hours later he ceased to breathe.
The King was dead and on that day the Privy Council proclaimed his successor: James II.
REBELLION
I HAVE LOST COUNT OF THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED. FOR SO long he had been the center of my life, and now that he was taken from me I felt bereft, drifting, vaguely wondering what life held for me. I did not greatly care at that time.
The new King and Queen were kind to me. James had truly loved his brother. He was a good man at heart. He had many weaknesses, of course, but there was a fundamental kindness in him of which I had always been aware. Charles had thought he lacked the power to govern and had been very apprehensive for him; but let me say he was kind to me — and kindness, I have always held to be the greatest of the virtues.
He visited me almost immediately, which was good of him, because he was beset by many anxieties. It was not that he was unprepared for the position in which he found himself; but no one had expected Charles to die for many years, and although he had said he had been an unconscionable long time a-dying, it had been barely a week between his first unexpected attack and his death. We had, of course, lived through the troublous time of the Popish and Rye House Plots and there had been a constant possibility of death…but it had been unexpected when it came.