Taking one look at the Duke, and seeing the King behind him, the young lover could think of only one thing: escape.

He forthwith ran to the window and leaped out of it. The Duke of Buckingham burst into uproarious laughter; Barbara picked up an ebony-handled brush which lay on a table beside the bed and threw it at her cousin, while the King, striding to the window, called out after the departing figure of Churchill: “Have no fear, Master Churchill. I hold nothing against you. I know you do it for your bread!”

Barbara, furious at the insulting suggestion that she now found it necessary to pay her lovers, and mad with rage against the Duke, found herself for once without words to express her anger and indignation.

Nor did the King give her time to recover her calm. He strode out of the room. Only Buckingham turned to give a brief imitation of John Churchill, surprised and leaping to safety.

Barbara’s rage was boundless and for some hours her servants dared not approach her.

She turned and pummeled her pillows, while Mrs. Sarah wondered which of those men she would have preferred to attack: the Duke for his perfidy in exposing her thus; John Churchill for running away; or the King for his cool and careless indifference to what lovers she might take.

It was clear that the King had ceased to regard her as his mistress; and very shortly afterwards her name failed to appear on the list of Ladies of the Queen’s Bedchamber. Furthermore, when her daughter Barbara was born, and the girl was seen to bear a strong resemblance to John Churchill, the King flatly refused to acknowledge her as his.

Barbara’s day was over.

SEVEN

It was sixteen years since Catherine had come to England, and in those years, during which she had lived through many fears, a little happiness and much heartbreak, she had never ceased to love her husband and to hope that one day he would turn, from those brilliant women who so enchanted him, to the plain little wife who adored him.

She had little hope now of bearing a child; and she knew that there were many of her husband’s most important ministers who sought to ruin her. If they could have brought some charge against her, how readily would they have done so! But it seemed that, in the profligate Court, there was one virtuous woman, and she was the Queen. There was one matter which they held against her, and this was her religion. There was a growing feeling in the country against Papists and, whenever there was any trouble in this connection, there was always someone to remind the company that the Queen was a Papist.

Since the Duke of York had announced his conversion to the Catholic Faith there had been a strong and growing faction working against him, and these men never ceased to urge the King to rid himself of the Queen.

The chief of these was Ashley, who had now become Lord Shaftesbury. His principal enemy was the Duke of York, and his enmity towards him had increased since the Duke’s marriage, on the death of Anne Hyde, to the Catholic Princess of Modena. The one aim of Shaftesbury’s party was to prevent the Duke’s becoming King and, since the Queen was barren, they could only hope to do this either through divorce or, as the only other alternative, by the acknowledgment of Monmouth as the heir to the throne.

They were certain that, but for the King’s softheartedness, they could achieve this, and they had never ceased, over the last ten years, to work for it.

Catherine must therefore live in continual dread that one day they would succeed in their plans.

She was no longer plagued by Barbara, for Barbara was out of favor. It was true that the King had never dismissed her from the Court. It was beyond his nature to do that. Some said that he feared Barbara’s threat to print his letters, but what harm would such an act do to him? All knew of his infatuation for her; all knew that she had behaved abominably to him and had not even pretended to be faithful. No, Catherine often thought, it is his sheer kindness of heart and his desire to live easily and comfortably without troublesome quarrels which have made him give no direct rebuff to Barbara, just as they compel him to keep me as his wife. To rid himself of either of us would make trouble. Therefore he says: Let Barbara stay at Court; let Catherine remain my wife. What matters it? I have many charming companions with whom to beguile my hours.

So that woman, Louise de Kéroualle, who had taken Barbara’s place, was the Queen of England in all but name. It was she—now Duchess of Portsmouth—who lived as the Queen in Whitehall while Catherine retired to the Dower Palace of Somerset House.

She made excuses for him. He was half French; his mistress wholly so; and in France the King’s mistress had invariably ruled in place of the King’s wife.

It was true that his neglect of her, and the fact that—now that he no longer hoped that she would give him a child—he rarely visited her, meant that the hopes of her enemies were high; and they continued most energetically to plot for a divorce.

Barbara had gone to France, where she had indulged in a love affair with Ralph Montague, the King’s ambassador. But now it seemed he had offended her and she was writing frequently to the King complaining of her ex-lover’s conduct of English affairs.

Barbara had, after the installation of Louise de Kéroualle as the King’s favorite, continued to amuse London with her many love affairs. She had turned again to the theater and had found one of the handsomest men in London, William Wycherley, the playwright, who dedicated his Love in a Wood to her.

But in spite of her numerous lovers she had found it insupportable to see another take her place with the King. The play-actress she accepted, but she could not tolerate the French woman. In vain did she call the woman a spy, and the King a fool. No one stopped her; they merely ignored her. That was why she had gone to France.

So, as Catherine looked out on the river from her apartments in Somerset House and her wistful gaze wandered in the direction of Whitehall, she told herself that she must be resigned to her position as wife of the King, the wife to whom he was so kind because he could not love her.

It was a hot August day, and the King was shortly to ride to Windsor. He was leased at the prospect. Windsor was a favorite resort of his, and he was looking forward to a little holiday from state affairs. He had decided to take Louise and Nelly—those two whom he never greatly cared to be without—and set off as early as this could be arranged. He was eager to assure himself that his instructions were being carried out regarding the alterations he was having made there, and to see how Verrio’s work on the fresco paintings was progressing.

He was about to take his quick morning walk through St. James’ Park, with which he always liked to begin the day. With him were a few of his friends, and his dogs followed at his heels, barking their delight at the prospect of the walk.

But before he had taken more than a dozen steps a young man, whom he recognized as one who worked in his laboratories, came running towards him.

“Your Majesty,” he cried, falling to his knees, “I beg of you, allow me to speak a few words to you.”

“Do so,” said the King in some astonishment.

“It would be well if, when walking in the Park, Your Majesty did not stray from your companions.”

“Why so?” said Charles. He was faintly amused by the man’s earnest looks. It was rarely that the King walked abroad and was not asked for something. That he should be asked to keep with his companions was a strange request.

“Your Majesty’s life is in danger,” whispered the young man.

Charles was not easily alarmed. He stood surveying the young man, who he now remembered was Christopher Kirby, a merchant who had failed in business and had begged the Lord Treasurer, the Earl of Danby, to employ him as a tax collector; as he had some skill as a chemist, he had been given work to do in Charles’ laboratory; and it was in that capacity that the King on one or two occasions had come into contact with him.

“What is this talk?” asked Charles.

“Your Majesty may at any moment be shot at.”

“You had better tell me all you know,” said the King.

“Your Majesty, I can give you a full account…. I can give you many details, but to do so I must ask for a private interview.”

“Go back to the Palace,” said Charles, “and wait there in my private closet for my return. If any ask why you do so, tell them it is at my command.”

The man came closer to the King. “Your Majesty, on no account leave your companions. Remember … men may at this moment be lurking among the trees.”

With that, Kirby bowed and retired.

The King turned to his companions.

“Will Your Majesty continue the walk?” asked one.

The King laughed. “Ever since the gunpowder plot, in my grandfather’s reign, there have always been plots which are purported to threaten the life of the King. Come! Let us enjoy the morning air and forget our chemist. I’ll warrant this is nothing more than a dream he has had. He had an air of madness, to my mind.”

The King called to his dogs who came running round him joyfully. He threw a stone and watched them race for it, each striving for the honor of bringing it back to him.

Then he continued his walk, and it was an hour later before he again saw Kirby.

When the King returned to his closet, the chemist was waiting for him there.

The King listened to his story as patiently as he could, without believing a word of it.