Unfortunately for Fitzharris, one of his accomplices betrayed him before he was able to put his plot into action. He was arrested and sent to the Tower.

This was the state of affairs when we heard that Shaftesbury was going to present his Bill to Parliament and this time intended to force it through.

Charles came to me. He was very disturbed. I knew that he was still thinking of Stafford and blaming himself for signing the death warrant.

On this occasion there was a light of determination in his eyes.

He said: “I have been a coward. Ever since my restoration I have been clinging to my crown at all costs. I have never forgotten what happened to my father, and it has made a weakling of me in this respect. But better to go wandering again than live in fear. I should have refused to sign Stafford’s death warrant. What would they have done then?”

“I think they would have killed him in any case.”

“And there were complaints because I gave him a little relief at the end. They wanted that barbarous sentence carried out on that frail innocent old man.”

I shivered. “At least you saved him from that,” I comforted.

“True, and I must not look back. I am not going to allow Shaftesbury the satisfaction of making his Bill law.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “I think they are so determined to be rid of me that they will succeed in the end.”

“Never while I am here.”

I put out my hand and, with that courtly gesture which charmed so many, he kissed it.

“You are so good to me,” I said. “You have made me very happy.”

“You…shame me,” he replied, not meeting my eyes. After a pause he went on: “Do you know, my dear, I think the people here like me. Or perhaps they want to keep me alive in order to defer the coming of James. Well, I am not going to let that villain Oates and that fanatical Shaftesbury have it all their own way.”

“What shall you do?”

“You will see. Prepare to leave for Windsor on Monday.”

“Will not Parliament then be in session?”

He nodded. “I shall expect you to be ready to leave.”


* * *

I SOON LEARNED what he was going to do.

It was a Saturday when the Bill was introduced to the Parliament. On the following Monday, the King left Whitehall in a sedan chair in which the curtains were drawn so that none was aware of who was in it. He wore his state robes and carried his crown in his hands.

Without any preamble he went into the House and took his place on the throne. His crown was then on his head.

Then he ordered Black Rod to summon the Commons to the chamber, and when they were assembled, he said in ringing tones: “The substance of this session has begun in so ill a way as can bring no good to any; therefore it is better to end it.” He turned to his Chancellor. “I pray you, declare this Parliament dissolved.”

With that he rose and in silence left the astonished members.

He came to Whitehall where I was waiting for him.

“Now,” he said, “we leave for Windsor. It will be a short stay. There is work to be done.”

THE VERY NEXT DAY we left Windsor and returned to Whitehall together. The people cheered us in the streets of the capital. Charles was as smiling and affable as ever. He was right when he said they loved him.

The court was subdued. I guessed everyone would have been talking about the manner in which the King had dissolved Parliament, so dismissing Shaftesbury’s Bill. This was the King’s prerogative, and in a few days it became clear that what Charles had done was acceptable to most people. But I could imagine Shaftesbury’s fuming; and surely now Oates must be feeling anxious.

The people were with the King, though. That much was obvious. They would not want him to “go wandering” again. They would not be eager to accept James — but I hoped I would never see that day — and Charles might say that they kept him on the throne because they preferred him to his brother, but I knew they loved him, as so many of us did.

He said to me at that time: “There can be no doubt that on this occasion I took the right turning. Odds fish! I should have done this before. If one is a king, one must act like one.”

People were waiting for what could come next.

They were saying that Fitzharris would go free because to try him might be an inconvenience to Louise de Keroualle, Duchess of Portsmouth, since he had been a servant of hers and might involve her.

I wondered, too. Even those of us who loved Charles had to admit his weakness over women.

But no. He gave orders that Fitzharris should stand for trial, and, although the Duchess and one of her women were witnesses for the defence, Fitzharris was found guilty and hanged.

Then there was Monmouth. I knew how fond Charles was of that young man. Charles was proud of him, but during this period Monmouth had played a disturbing role. He was ambitious in the extreme. He could not help casting covetous eyes on the throne, and the faction which had wanted to prove there had been a marriage with Lucy Walter had raised his hopes high.

Charles said to me: “I cannot receive Jemmy knowing what part he has played in this.”

“He is young…and ambitious,” I reminded him.

Charles looked at me steadily. “You are forgetting that he is in league with these men who would seek to destroy you.”

“I do know that.”

“I cannot believe that he could plot to poison me.”

“No, he does love you.”

“But he loves my crown more.”

“He must know in his heart that it can never be his.”

“Does he? He was involved in that plan to produce the famous box in which was the evidence to prove I married his mother.”

“Well, that would be a temptation, would it not?”

“Knowing it to be lies…”

“How could he be sure? I daresay they would convince him that there was such a box.”

“He would need little convincing, I’ll swear.”

“He is young. Naturally he is ambitious. He will be very unhappy if you turn from him.”

“Catherine, these people do not love me. They are bemused by the glitter of the crown. I know this well. But I think my brother James is a little fond of me.”

“He is very fond of you. Your subjects love you. Many people love you, Charles.”

“I know one who does, though I often ask God why.” He looked at me whimsically.

I was too moved for speech. Such moments were very precious to me and I should remember and cherish them throughout my life.

I said: “And Monmouth…you will forgive him?”

“You are asking me to, and if it is your wish…but remember, he has not been such a good friend to you.”

“I have one friend here whose goodness throughout these troubles has given me great happiness.”

“Thank you, Catherine,” he said. “Because you ask it, I will receive him.”

“And kindly?” I asked.

“Since it is your wish. But I shall insist that Jemmy is my illegitimate son. His mother and I were never married. And I will not allow it to be said otherwise.”

I said: “I think it will be enough if you receive him.”

SO MONMOUTH WAS back in favor…a little subdued for a while, but he quickly regained his confidence as the weeks passed.

The Duchess of Portsmouth was there too. I wondered how she felt about the execution of Edward Fitzharris, which was something of a reflection on herself.

She was as arrogant as ever, as certain of herself, still showing outward respect for me which concealed an almost imperceptible veiled insolence.

I found her presence disturbing.

Charles had made it impossible for Shaftesbury’s Bill to get a hearing; he had commanded that Fitzharris should be tried; and he had said he was behaving like a King, which he should have done before. But the Duchess of Portsmouth was still there. It was true that he spent less time with her and more with me, but she remained close to the King.

One evening when the court was assembled, she had taken her place beside him…a place which should have been mine. She did this with an assumption of unconcern, as though it were the most natural place for her to be.

Charles looked at her suddenly with a certain coldness rare in him.

He said: “You are looking pale, Duchess. May I suggest you try the Bourbon waters? They are said to be most beneficial.”

She looked at him in surprise tinged with dismay. I felt my heart bound in pleasure. This was diplomatic dismissal.

“I thank Your Majesty for your concern,” she said lightly. “Yes…I have heard they are very health giving.”

“You must try them, Duchess, I insist.”

She bowed her head.

Her eyes then met mine briefly. I hoped I did not betray my triumph.


* * *

WHAT A JOY IT WAS to be without Louise de Keroualle. The King and I were together frequently and it was almost like those first days at Hampton Court.

Monmouth was affable to me and I fancied Charles must have told him that he owed his reception to my good graces.

Charles was slipping into a routine which he enjoyed. He had ceased to concern himself with the calumnies of Titus Oates. The man had been discredited so many times, but even now his reign of terror persisted and people were afraid to offend him. But events were turning against him. When he accused a priest of complicity in his plot, the priest was tried and found guilty, but Charles intervened and the priest was reprieved. Oates was foolish. He did not seem to be aware that people were turning against him.

A certain Isaac Backhouse, a schoolmaster by profession, had, according to Oates, called after him: “There goes that perjured rogue.” Oates immediately took action against the schoolmaster, but the case was dismissed. Some months later he brought an action against a writer named Adam Elliot whom he accused of being a Jesuit priest. The case was disproved and Oates was forced to pay damages. Indeed, the tide was running against him. His pension was reduced and he was forbidden to come to court.