He assured my father that Monmouth had come to the court as a suppliant and because he was the son of the late King Charles and he knew of the King’s affection for the young man, he had offered him common hospitality and had now sent him away. He went on to say that nothing could change his affection for my father and he would be the most unhappy man in the world if the King could not be persuaded of it. He would be, to his last breath, King James’s friend with zeal and fidelity.

I was amazed that he could write in such language, which was most unusual to a man of his nature, particularly when I knew his true sentiments toward my father. But William was a man who, when he saw a goal ahead, would let nothing stand in his way of attaining it. I wondered what my father’s reaction would be to such a letter. Perhaps I should know one day.

In the meantime I was overcome by a great melancholy. I could not stop thinking of my uncle and how different it would now be at Whitehall. I was anxious, too, about my father. He had been accepted as King, but what was to come?

Then I was wondering what was happening to Jemmy — and missing him very much.


* * *

THERE WAS A FEELING OF ANTICLIMAX at The Hague. William was certainly bewildered by what happened, for he had obviously believed my father would never have been accepted. But there he was, secure — so it seemed — and there was no one to raise a voice against him. He was crowned on St. George’s Day by the primate; there were a few ministerial changes but nothing to betray the King’s preference for Catholics.

However, on Easter Sunday, he did attend the Catholic service, and I could not help feeling that the calm would not last.

Jemmy was constantly in my thoughts. I knew that he was wandering around the Continent, unable to return home, an exile. William would not longer receive him at The Hague as, since my father had been accepted by the people, his great aim was to assure him of his loyalty to him. So poor Jemmy could hope for little hospitality in Holland. How different he must be finding life from the way it was during those happy days we spent together.

I wrote to my father, as I had promised Jemmy I would, asking him to consider removing the ban of exile. I said I was sure that Monmouth had played no part in the Rye House Plot and he was very unhappy and longed for permission to return home. I reminded my father that he himself knew what it meant to be an outcast from his own country.

My father replied that it would not be fitting for Monmouth to return to England at this time. Later he would consider it.

I could see that he did not trust Jemmy, and however much I pleaded for him, he was not going to give that permission which the poor young man craved.

After leaving The Hague, Jemmy had gone to the Spanish-governed Netherlands in search of sanctuary, but not for long. It was soon made clear to him that he was not welcome.

I could imagine how he would feel, how he would make plans to get home. I hoped he would not do anything rash. Knowing him so well, I feared he was capable of it.

And how right I was proved to be!

When I heard that he was plotting to make war on my father and to claim the throne, I was desperately unhappy. If only I could have talked to him, I might have succeeded in turning him from this reckless folly, I told myself. But he would never have listened to me. He had his dreams of grandeur and he made himself believe in their glorious fruition. I pictured the excitement in his beautiful eyes as he made his plans.

It is well known what happened to those wild dreams. They had little hope of becoming realities. I pictured his exerting that Stuart charm to beguile men to his side. For he did. He made them forget that his was a hopeless cause.

When I heard that he had landed in the West Country, I trembled for him. My father would know him for the thoughtless boy he was. He must not judge him too harshly, but he would, for Jemmy wanted to take my father’s crown from his head and put it on his own. He was declaring that he was the heir to the throne; he was his father’s son and a staunch Protestant; the marriage of his father to Lucy Walter would be proved. Did the English want their country to be the pawn of Catholics?

It was frustrating waiting for news. Messengers were coming back and forth and William was tense, waiting. The outcome of Monmouth’s rebellion could be of the utmost importance to him. There did at one point seem to be a chance of its succeeding. Monmouth’s great asset was his religion.

Anne Trelawny came to me. She was always quick to pick up the news.

She said: “The Duke of Monmouth has been proclaimed King in Taunton marketplace.”

“Can he really succeed against my father?” I asked.

She shook her head dubiously. “I should have said no, but this . . .”

Later I heard that Jemmy had put a price on my father’s head.

“James is a traitor,” he had declared, “and the Parliament is a traitorous convention.”

This was too much. I knew in my heart that he could not succeed. And if he did, what of my father? But he could not. The army was against him, and what were a few thousand country yokels against trained soldiers?

I could imagine the euphoria. In the West Country, they were calling him King Monmouth. But when he marched on Bath, no doubt expecting the same acclaim he had received in Taunton, Bath stood against him, and it must have been at that stage when he began to lose heart.

As far as I could, I followed his progress. I knew when he began to fear defeat and then recognized it as a certainty. I suffered with him. I knew him so well.

Poor, poor Jemmy, with his grandiose dreams which had no roots in reality.

And then had come the battle of Sedgemoor and the defeat of his followers, when Jemmy escaped disguising himself as a farm worker. I could smile wryly at such a disguise. He would never play the part; his constant awareness of his own royal birth would always shine through.

Inevitably there followed his capture and his journey to the Tower.

There was only one end for him. He knew it and his courage deserted him. He was very frightened.

I wrote to my father and begged him to be lenient with Jemmy. He was reckless, I agreed, but he was our kinsman. His father had loved him dearly. He had forgiven him again and again. This was just a reckless gesture doomed to failure; Jemmy would have learned his lesson.

My father’s reply was that Monmouth was a fool. He would never learn his lessons; he was not to be trusted, and fools could be dangerous. He was a coward; he had pleaded for his life; he, who had stressed his loyalty to the Protestant cause when he was recruiting men from the West Country — and many of them had followed him because of this — now he was vowing he would become a Catholic if his life was spared.

There was no hope. They led him out to the scaffold.

The stories I heard of his end were harrowing. Jemmy’s courage had returned when he faced the inevitable. He made a declaration that he was a member of the Church of England, but refused to condemn his rebellion. He held his head high as he mounted the block.

Jack Ketch, the executioner, struck five blows with his axe and still the head was not severed, and he had to cut it off with his knife.

And so died the Duke of Monmouth.

He haunted my dreams. I had loved Jemmy. I kept going over in my mind the wonderful days which we had spent together. I kept imagining him on the scaffold, desperation in his eyes. How different from that young man who had taught me to dance and skate on ice! I pictured Jack Ketch as he wielded the axe and Jemmy’s head bowed and bloody on the block. And I felt a sorrow which was replaced by a burning anger. He was too young to die, too handsome, too charming. And I could not bear that I should never see him again.

He had been reckless, foolish; he had believed that he could succeed. He had longed for that crown which could not by right be his. He had yearned for it as a child does for some bauble; and for a brief spell he had thought he held it in his grasp. King Monmouth! The king of those good simple people who had laid down their scythes and pitchforks to follow him to disaster and death.

Now he was dead and my father had allowed this terrible thing to happen. He had refused mercy. Jemmy, that poor frightened boy, had pleaded with him, and he had turned away; and so Jemmy, my dear cousin, Jemmy whom I loved, had suffered cruel death on the scaffold.

In those moments of grief the thought came to me that I could never forget ... and perhaps never forgive ... my father for the death of Jemmy.

I kept telling myself that he had acted as most would say wisely. But if he had never openly practiced his religion, if he had taken the same action as his brother, the King, this would never have happened, for my uncle Charles had been a Catholic and some said that Catholic rites had been practiced at his death. But Charles had been wise, my father foolish. I had loved Jemmy and my father had killed him. I would never forget and I could not find it in my heart to forgive him.

THE MISTRESS

Bevil Skelton, the new English Envoy to Holland, was not on very good terms with William. They had distrusted each other from the day of Skelton’s arrival and the reports Skelton sent home were very critical of William’s behavior.

I did not know at this time that my father, who had been against my marriage with William from the moment it had been proposed, was making plans to dissolve it and to arrange a new marriage for me.