James tried not to scowl; he did not like to be reminded of his mother.

“It is so long ago,” he said. “People never mention my mother, and Your Majesty has almost forgotten her.”

“I was thinking then that I never shall forget her while I have you to remind me of her.”

There was a brief silence and, suddenly lifting his eyes, the King saw his brother coming towards him. He smiled. He was fond of his brother, James, Duke of York, but he had never been able to rid himself of a faint contempt for him. James, it seemed to him, was clumsy in all he did—physically clumsy, mentally clumsy. He was no diplomatist, poor James, and was most shamefully under the thumb of his wife—that strongminded lady who had been Anne Hyde, the daughter of disgraced Clarendon.

“What!” cried Charles. “Another early riser?”

“Your Majesty sets such good examples,” said the Duke, “that we must needs all follow them. I saw you from the Palace.”

“Well, good morrow to you, James. We were just going to look at my herbs. Will you accompany us?”

“If it is your pleasure, Sir.”

Charles grimaced slightly as he looked from one to the other of the two men who fell into step beside him: Young James, handsome, sullen, and aloof, unable to hide his irritation at the intrusion; older James, less handsome, but equally unable to hide his feelings, his face clearly showing his mistrust of young Monmouth, his speculation as to what the young man talked of with his father.

Poor James! Poor brother! mused Charles. Doomed to trouble, I fear.

James, Duke of York, was indeed a clumsy man. He had married Anne Hyde when she was to have his child, ignoring convention and the wishes of his family to do so—a noble gesture in which Charles had supported him. But then, being James, he had repudiated her just when he was winning the support of many by his strong action; and in repudiating her—after the marriage of course—he had deeply wounded Anne Hyde herself, and Charles had no doubt that Anne was a woman who would not easily forget. Anne was now in control of her husband.

Poor James indeed. Contemplating him, Charles was almost inclined to believe that it might have been a good idea to have legitimized young Monmouth.

Monmouth was at least a staunch Protestant while James was flirting—nay, more than flirting—with the Catholic Faith. James had a genius for drifting towards trouble. How did he think the people of England would behave towards a Catholic monarch? At the least sign of Catholic influence they were ready to cry “No Popery!” in the streets. And James—who, unless the King produced a legitimate heir, would one day wear the crown—must needs consider becoming a Catholic!

If he ever becomes King, thought Charles, God help him and God help England.

Charles was struck by the significance of the three of them walking thus in the early morning before the Palace was astir. Himself in the center—on one side of him James, Duke of York, heir presumptive to the crown of England; and on the other side, James, Duke of Monmouth, the young man who would have been King had his father married his mother, the young man who had received such affection and such honors that he had begun to hope that the greatest honor of all would not be denied to him.

Yes, thought Charles, here am I in the center, keeping the balance … myself standing between them. Over my head flows mistrust and suspicion. This uncle and nephew are beginning to hate one another, and the reason is the crown, which is mine and for which they both long.

What an uneasy thing a crown can be!

How can I make these two good friends? There is only one way: produce a legitimate son. It is the only answer. I must strike the death knell of their hopes and so disperse that suspicion and mistrust they have for one another; remove that state of affairs and, in place of growing hate, why should there not be growing affection?

The King shrugged. There is no help for it. I must share the bed of my wife more frequently. Alas, alas! It must not be that for want of trying I fail to provide England with a son.

Later that morning the Howards sought audience of the King.

Charles was not eager for their company; he found them dull compared with sharp-witted Rochester. It was typical of Charles that although he personally liked the Howards and disliked Rochester, he preferred the company of a man who could amuse him to that of those whom he admitted to be of better character.

Edward Howard had recently been subjected to the scorn of the wits who criticized his literary achievements unmercifully. Shadwell had pilloried him in the play, The Sullen Lovers, and all the wits had decided that Edward and Robert Howard should not be taken seriously as writers; only the mighty Buckingham who was, of all the wits, more interested in politics and diplomacy, remained their ally.

Now Robert said to Charles: “Your Majesty should go to the Duke’s Theater this day. Pretty little Moll Davies never danced better than she has of late. I am sure that the sight of her dancing would be a tonic to Your Majesty.”

“I have noted the lady,” said Charles. “And mighty charming she is.”

The brothers smiled happily. “And seeming to grow in beauty, Your Majesty, day by day. A good girl, too, and almost of the gentry.”

Charles looked at the brother slyly. “I have heard that she has relations in high places. I am glad of this, for I feel sure they will do all in their power to elevate her, doubtless in compensation for her begetting on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“It may be so,” said Robert.

“And would it please Your Majesty to call at the Duke’s this day to see the wench in her part?” asked Edward a little too eagerly.

Charles ruminated. ’Tis true, he thought; they are dunces indeed, these Howards. Why do they not say to me: Moll Davies is of our family—a bastard sprig; but we would do something for her. She is an actress and high in her profession; we should like to see her elevated to the position of your mistress? Such plain speaking would have amused him more.

“Mayhap. Mayhap,” he said.

Robert came nearer to the King. “The wench believes she saw Your Majesty look with approval upon her. The foolish girl, she was almost swooning with delight at the thought!”

“I was never over-fond of the swooning kind,” mused Charles.

“I but spoke metaphorically, Your Majesty,” said Robert quickly.

“I rejoice. I would prefer to keep my good opinion of little Moll Davies. A mighty pretty creature.”

“And gentle in her ways,” said Edward. “A grateful wench, and gratitude is rarely come by in these days.”

“Rarely indeed! Now, my friends, I will bid you goodbye. Matters of state … matters of state …”

They bowed themselves from his presence, and he laughed inwardly. But he continued to think of Moll Davies. For, he said to himself, my indolent nature is such, I am amused that my friends should bring my pleasures to me rather than that I should go in search of them. There are so many beautiful women. I find it hard to choose, therefore deem it thoughtful of my courtiers to do the choosing for me. This avoids my turning with regret from a beautiful creature and having to murmur apologies: Not yet, sweet girl. I am mighty capable, but even I must take you all in turn.

Buckingham presented himself.

“Your Majesty, have you seen Mrs. Nell Gwyn in the Beaumont and Fletcher revival of Pilaster?.”

Charles’ melancholy eyes were brooding. “Nay,” he answered.

“Then, Sir, you have missed the best performance ever seen upon the stage. She plays Bellario. Your Majesty remembers Bellario is sick of love and follows her lover in the disguise of a page boy. This gives Nelly a chance to swagger about on the stage in her breeches. What legs, Sir! What a figure! And all so small that ‘twould seem a child’s form but for those delicious curves.”

“’Twould seem to me,” said the King, “that you are enamored of this actress.”

“All London is enamored of her, Sir. I wonder your fancy has not turned to her ere this. What spirit! What zest for living!”

“I am weary of spirit in ladies—for a while. I have had over-much of spirit.”

“My fair cousin, eh? What a woman! Though she be my kinswoman and a Villiers, I pity Your Majesty. I pity you with all my heart.”

“I conclude you and the lady have fallen out. How so? You were once good friends.”

“Who would not fall out in due time with Barbara, Sir?” You know that better than any of us. Now Nelly is another matter. Lovely to look at, and a comedienne to bring the tears of laughter to the eyes. Nelly is incomparable, Sir. There is not another on the stage to compare with Nelly.”

“What of that pretty creature at the Duke’s—Moll Davies?”

“Bah! Forgive me, Sir, but Bah! and Bah I again. Moll Davies? A simpering wench compared with Nelly. No fire, Your Majesty; no fire at all.”

“I am a little scorched, George. Mayhap I need the soothing balm that comes from simpering wenches.”

“You’d tire of Moll in a night.”

Charles laughed aloud. What game was this? he wondered. Buckingham is determined to put Barbara out of countenance; I know they have quarreled. But why should the Howards and my noble Duke have turned procurers at precisely the same time?

Moll Davies? Nell Gwyn? He would have one of them to entertain him that night.

He was a little put out with Buckingham, who had for most of last year been under a cloud, and, not so long before that, banished from Court for returning there without the King’s permission. Buckingham was a brilliant man, but his brilliance was marred continually by his hare-brained schemes. Moreover the noble Duke gave himself airs and had an exaggerated opinion of his own importance and the King’s regard for him.