The Merry Monarch's Wife (31 page)

“Please do not speak of it so flippantly. These scoundrels could harm you.”

He smiled at me tenderly. “The King is dead. Long live the King.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It is James who concerns me. I have often thought I was safe because they would never want to kill me, for if they did they would have to have James.”

“It seems that these people
want
James.”

“To be the papist puppet. The idea is that my death will be followed by those of my ministers. The French will invade Ireland…”

“Do you believe that?”

“I am inclined to believe that these two…Oates and Tonge…have put their heads together and invented the whole thing.”

“But this is criminal.”

“A natural way of life to such as they are. Poor Danby! His enemies are at his heels, you know. This gives them something else to think about. There is one thing, Catherine, you must not think for one moment…but perhaps I should not tell you.”

“Please tell me, I must know what it is.”

“They say that a sum of money has already been paid to a doctor in the household. It is to be his reward for poisoning me.”

“One of the doctors in the household! Do they say which one?”

He was silent for a moment. He looked at me apologetically.

“Well, it is nonsense, of course.”

“Who is it? Please tell me.”

“Sir George Wakeman.”

I felt faint. Sir George Wakeman was my physician.

I began to see that they were going to implicate me in this plot. Charles caught me as I swayed.

“You must not take it to heart,” he said. “It is a package of nonsense. These men are trying to call attention to themselves. It is clear what they are up to.”

“Sir George Wakeman is an honorable man.”

“Of course he is.”

“Does he know…?”

Charles shook his head. “We are going to prove it is nonsense. These men should be sent to the Tower for causing such a stir. I know this, but as I tell you, Danby wants to make an issue of it. You know his reasons. He is not going to let it drop easily. We do not know what they will come up with next.”

I could guess. They were going to implicate me in their schemes.

Charles made me sit down and he sat beside me and put an arm about me.

“You must not fret,” he said. “There will be these rumors. They are nonsense. We'll prove them to be nonsense. I no more suspect Wakeman than you do. I am sure we shall be able to prove that this Oates is nothing more than a troublemaker.”

I felt better when I listened to him, but after he had left me my anxieties returned.

         

THERE WAS A FEVER OF EXCITEMENT
in the streets. Titus Oates was the country's savior. He had discovered the plot in time and we were saved from the wicked papists—or at least we knew what they were planning and would be able to foil them.

Danby was all for setting the findings before the Privy Council. Charles was against it.

“It would only put the idea of murdering me into someone's head,” he said. “As for these tales about the papists, I simply do not believe them.”

I was not sure that Danby did either, but it made the diversion he needed. With the whole country worrying about the papists, there was little interest in the misdemeanors of one of the ministers.

I could imagine the disappointment of Titus Oates and his fellow conspirators when they realized the King refused to take them seriously. Oates told Tonge that he must make their declaration before a Justice of the Peace, since the King had not wished to go before the Privy Council. This was the duty of a good citizen, insisted Oates. So, accordingly, this was done. He and Tongue went to the offices of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey and set their “discoveries” before him. They gave their oath on this, and, realizing the nature of their revelations, Sir Edmund decided that he must bring the matter to the notice of the Council.

This made it impossible for even the King to thrust it aside, and as a result Oates and Tonge were summoned to appear and substantiate their accusations.

I think this might have put an end to the matter, but for two events which favored Oates.

There had been a number of arrests after Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey had received the declaration, and among them was a certain Coleman, who had been a secretary to the Duchess of York.

However, Oates was not clever enough to deceive Charles, although the Council was inclined to be swayed by him.

The man had a certain eloquence, but he allowed himself to be carried away by his own rhetoric, and this led him into pitfalls.

After the meeting Charles came to see me. It was one of his most lovable traits that, knowing my fears—not only for myself but for my servants such as Sir George Wakeman—his aim at that time was to assure me that, unfaithful husband though he might be, he could be a loyal friend.

He was quite gleeful on this occasion.

“That fellow is a fraud,” he said. “I'll grant him this much. He knows how to tell a good story, but he gets carried away by the drama of his own invention, and that is where he goes awry. He should join the players. I'll warrant he could give them some rousing plays.”

“Tell me…what did he say?” I asked.

“Well, he began by telling us that the Jesuits had decided they would kill me and, unless James agreed to put himself in their hands, he would go the same way. Père La Chaise has paid over ten thousand pounds already to be given to the assassin when the deed was done. I asked him if he had been told this. ‘No, Sire,' he answered. ‘I was attending a meeting in your service, Sire, in the disguise of one of them. I overheard the discussion and saw Père La Chaise hand over the money to the messenger who was to bring it to England.'

“I said to him, ‘Mr. Oates, you were most assiduous on my behalf and I thank you. Tell me, where was this transaction made?' He replied, ‘In the house of the Jesuits.' ‘And which one was that?' I asked. ‘It was the one close to the Louvre, Sire.' ‘That is odd,' I replied, ‘I had a long sojourn in Paris, so I know that the Jesuits do not have a house within a mile of the Louvre.'”

“He was lying,” I said.

“Of course he was lying. One would have thought that was obvious. But how people love a good conspiracy. It was clear that they did not want to stop this ingenious Mr. Oates in his flow. He would have us believe now that, on our behalf, he had labored long and faced many difficulties, for he implied what his fate would have been if those fanatical Jesuits had learned that he was a spy for His Protestant Majesty of England. When he was in Spain, he went on to tell us, he had been received by Don John of Austria. Mind you, it had needed a great deal of cunning planning to reach that gentleman. ‘Do describe him to me,' I said. ‘Oh, Your Majesty, he is a tall and lean man, and swarthy.' ‘You surprise me,' I replied, ‘for when I met him he was short, fat and fair.' All this confirmed what I had suspected. Our Mr. Oates is a fraud…a man who is determined to call attention to himself…to earn notoriety…and fortune…no matter whom he destroys on the way to it.”

I was relieved.

“Then this will be an end to this tiresome matter,” I said.

“I pray so. Though Danby will be reluctant to let it go. At the moment people have turned their attention from him. After all, what is a defaulting minister compared with a plot to murder the King?”

         

IN SPITE OF DANBY'S EFFORTS
to keep the Popish Plot the issue of the day, the appearance of Titus Oates before the Council and the errors into which he had fallen discredited him to a certain extent and the conclusion that he was a cheat began to be expressed.

Then there was a change. It came about through Coleman, who had been one of those men whom Titus Oates had accused and who, on Oates's evidence, had been arrested. Coleman was indeed a spy; he had received a pension from France; he was in the service of Père La Chaise and letters from the French priest were found in his possession. The sum of twenty thousand pounds had been offered to him for his continued services to France and for working to bring the Catholic faith to England.

This was one of those unfortunate coincidences. I had no doubt that Coleman had been in the pay of France for many years, for they had their spies everywhere. He was a Catholic, of course, and that was known and was the reason why Titus Oates had named him as one of the suspects.

What luck this was for Titus Oates! In the eyes of the people he was vindicated. He had brought a dangerous spy to justice.

There was something else—and I believe this was less fortuitous—in fact a part of the plot.

It concerned the Justice of the Peace Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey.

It appeared that on Saturday morning he left his home at nine o'clock to go to Marylebone to see one of the church wardens at St. Martin's in the Fields on parochial business. Later he went to St. Clement Danes, calling at Somerset House. After that no one knew where he had gone, but when he did not return, his servants became alarmed, for he was a man of regular habits.

It was Lady Suffolk who told me what had happened. I think my friends were all growing a little uneasy since Titus Oates had sprung into prominence, for the very fact that the so-called plot was directed against Catholics would mean that I could not escape suspicion. I had had my enemies before, but this was a particularly dangerous one.

It was Friday, I remember, six days after Sir Edmund had last been seen.

Lady Suffolk could not hide her consternation, and I demanded to know what was wrong.

She said: “Your Majesty, they have found Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey.”

“I am glad of that,” I said. “What had happened to him?”

“He is dead, Madam. He had been run through with his own sword.”

“Killed himself?”

She shook her head. “It is believed that the wound was not self-inflicted.”

“But why…?”

“There is great excitement. There are crowds in the streets. They are saying…”

“What are they saying?”

“That he was the one who laid the information before the Privy Council. They are saying it is the papists' revenge.”

I held onto a table for support. I felt dizzy. It was not enough that Coleman had been proved to be a spy. Now this would be further evidence.

Catholics in this country were in acute danger—not least myself.

         

THERE WAS TENSION EVERYWHERE.
People wanted to know how the Justice of the Peace had been murdered and by whom. I knew a great deal hung on the answer. He it was who had brought the plot to the notice of the Privy Council, which had resulted in the arrest of certain spies—one of whom was Coleman who had been caught red-handed.

And now…what?

Charles himself told me what had happened at the inquest which had been held at White House on Primrose Hill in Hampstead, as it was in that neighborhood that Sir Edmund's body had been found. The doctors declared that he had not died through the stabbing but had been strangled first. He had died of suffocation. He had not been murdered on Primrose Hill, but his body had been taken there after the deed was done…several days after, probably five. There was money on him so it had not been a crime of robbery.

It was clear that Fate was working in Oates's favor. First Coleman and now Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey.

For some days I lived in a state of trepidation, wondering what the outcome would be. I knew what rumors were going round the city. People were saying that the murder had clearly been the work of Catholics. It was their revenge on Sir Edmund for putting the case before the Council. Titus Oates was once more the hero of the day. They said that it was now quite clear that in our midst were those who would stop at nothing to bring the country back to the faith it had rejected.

There followed attacks on the houses of well-known Catholics. Everywhere there were cheers for Titus Oates.

I dreaded the day of Sir Edmund's funeral. People crowded into the streets to pay homage to the martyr, as they called him. They shouted anti-Catholic slogans. “No Popery!” “Down with the devils of Rome!” I knew that among these they included the Duke of York and myself.

Charles came to see me. He was assiduous in his care for me during that time. I cannot imagine how I could ever have lived through those days without him. I tried to forget his preoccupation with Nell Gwynne and Louise de Keroualle. I saw him as my best friend…unfaithful husband though he might be.

But I understood him now. He had been born with those sexual needs and they were insatiable. No woman would be enough for him. But what a loyal friend he was!

He said: “There is chaos in the streets.”

“It is the funeral,” I said.

“Why did this have to happen now? This…and Coleman. There could have been an end of it.”

“And was Godfrey really murdered?”

“There does not seem a doubt of it.”

“By whom?”

He hesitated. “Oates is a fraud. It may be that he and his friends have done this. He has some knowledge but he cannot resist the impulse to embellish. Remember how I caught him out. He is brimming over with eagerness to present his case…and this is for his own glory. I would dearly love to be rid of the fellow.” He lifted his shoulders. “But what can I do? The people love him…at the moment. They see him as the savior. They could as easily turn against him, though.” He was melancholy for a moment. “None knows more than I how quickly the people can turn. At the moment Oates is exalted. He is the exposer of plotters. This is how the people see him and, for the time being…we must needs go along with them…up to a point.”

“What shall you do?”

“Our first duty is to discover who murdered this man. If it could be proved that he was a robber…”

“But whoever killed him did not take his money.”