“How so?”

“Since it was necessary to make a victim of the girl instead of a partner.”

“These people were insolent to me.”

“James, you too readily see insult. Take care. Men will say, since he looks for insults, does he know that he deserves them?”

Monmouth was silent. His father had never been so cold to him.

“You know the penalty for murder,” said Charles.

“I am your son.”

“There are some who call me a fool for accepting you as that,” said Charles brutally.

Monmouth winced. Charles knew where to touch him in his most vulnerable spot. “But … there is no doubt.”

Charles laughed. “There is the greatest doubt. Knowing what I now know of your mother, I myself have doubts.”

“But … Father, you have made me believe that you never had these doubts.”

Charles stroked the lace on his cuff. “I had expected you to have your mistresses. That is how I would expect a son of mine to act. But to behave thus towards helpless people, to show such criminal arrogance to those who are not in a position to retaliate … these things I understand not at all. I am a man of much frailty, I know. But that which I see in you is so alien to my nature that I have come to believe that you cannot be my son after all.”

The beautiful dark eyes were wide with horror.

“Father!” cried the Duke. “It is not true. I am your son. Look at me. Can you not see yourself in me?”

“You, such a handsome fellow—I, such an ugly one!” said the King lightly. “Yet never did I have to resort to rape. A little wooing was enough on my part. I think you cannot be a Stuart after all. I shall have you taken away now. I have no more to say to you.”

“Father, you mean … You cannot mean …”

“You have committed a crime, James. A great crime.”

“But … as your son …”

“You remember I have my doubts of that.”

The Duke’s face was twisted with his misery. Charles did not look. He was soft and foolish where this young man was concerned. He had made too much of him, spoiled him, petted him.

For Jemmy’s own sake, he must try to instill some discipline into that turbulent proud nature which lacked the balanced good sense to understand the temper of the people he so fervently hoped to rule.

“Go to your apartments now,” he said.

“Father, I will stay with you. I will make you say you know I am your son.”

“It is an order, my lord Duke,” said Charles sternly.

Monmouth stood uncertainly for a moment, a pretty petulant boy; then he strode towards Charles and took his hand. Charles’ was limp, and the melancholy eyes were staring out of the window.

“Papa,” said Monmouth, “Jemmy is here …”

It was the old cry of childhood which had amused Charles in the days long ago when he had come to see Lucy, this boy’s mother, and the boy, fearing he was not receiving his due of the King’s attention, had sought to draw it to himself.

Charles stood still as a statue.

“To your apartments,” he said crisply. “There you will stay until you hear what is to be done.”

Charles withdrew his hand and walked away.

Monmouth could do nothing but leave the apartment.

When he had gone, Charles continued to stare out of the window. He looked down at the river, beyond the low wall with its semicircular bastions. He did not see the shipping which sailed past. What to be done? How to extricate the foolish boy from the results of this mad prank? Did he not know that it was acts such as this which set thrones tottering?

There would be murmuring among the people. The Coventry scandal had not died down.

If he were strong, those three would suffer the just punishment of murderers. But how could he be strong where his warmest feelings were concerned?

He had to take a bold step. But he would do it to save that boy. There was very little he would not do for the boy. He must at all costs resist the temptation to give him what he so earnestly desired—the Crown. That he would not do—love him as he did, he would see him hanged first. Jemmy had to learn his lesson; he had to learn to be humble. Poor Jemmy, was it because he feared he was too humble that he strutted as he did? Had he been a legitimate son … then what a different boy he might have been. Had he been brought up with the express purpose of wearing the Crown, as he, Charles, had been, there would have been no need for him to make sure that everyone recognized him as the King’s son.

I make excuses for him—not because he deserves them; but because I love him, thought Charles. A bad habit.

Then he did what he knew he must do. It was weakness, but how could he, a loving father, do aught else?

He issued a pardon “Unto our dear son James, Duke of Monmouth, of all murders, homicides, and felonies whatsoever at any time before the 28th day of February last past, committed either by himself alone or together with any other person or persons …”

There! It was done.

But in future Jemmy must mend his ways.

While the King was brooding on the wildness of Monmouth, news came to him that his brother’s wife, Anne Hyde, had been taken ill. She was so sick, came the message, and in such agony that none of the physicians could do aught for her.

Charles went with all haste to his brother’s apartments. He found James distracted with grief; he was sitting, his face buried in his hands; Anne and Mary were standing bewildered on either side of him.

“James, what terrible news is this?” asked the King.

James dropped his hands, lifted his face to his brother’s, and shook his head with the utmost sadness.

“I fear,” he began, “I greatly fear …”

He choked on his sobs and, seeing their beloved father thus, the two little girls burst into loud wailing.

Charles went through to the bedchamber where Anne Hyde was lying, her face so distorted with pain that she was scarcely recognizable.

Charles knelt by her bed and took her hand.

Her lips twisted in a smile. “Your Majesty …” she began.

“Do not speak,” said Charles tenderly. “I see that it is an effort.”

She gripped his hand firmly. “My … my good friend,” she muttered. “Good friend first … King second.”

“Anne, my dear Anne,” said Charles. “It grieves me to see you thus.” He turned to the physicians who stood by the bed. “Has all been done?”

“All, Your Majesty. The pains came so suddenly that we fear it is an internal inflammation. We have tried all remedies. We have bled Her Grace … We have purged her. We have applied plasters to the afflicted part, and hot irons to her head. We have tried every drug. The pain persists.”

James had come to stand by the bedside. The little girls were with him, Mary holding his hand, Anne clinging to his coat. Tears flowed from James’ eyes, for Anne was half-fainting in her agony, and it was clear to all in that chamber that her life was ebbing away.

James was thinking of all his infidelities which had occurred during their married life. Anne herself had not always been a faithful wife. James thought bitterly of his repudiation of her in the early days of their marriage, and he wondered if his weakness at that time was responsible for the rift between them.

He could have wished theirs had been a more satisfactory marriage. Mayhap, he thought, had I been different, stronger when my mother was against us, if I had stood out, if I had been more courageous, Anne would not have lost her respect for me and mayhap we should have been happier together.

One could not go back. Anne was dying, and their married life was over. He wondered what he would do without her, for always during their life together he had respected her intelligence and relied on her advice.

There were his two little girls who needed a mother’s care. If the King did not get a legitimate child, the elder of those little girls could inherit the throne.

“Anne …” he murmured brokenly.

But Anne was looking at Charles; it was from the King’s presence that she seemed to gain comfort. She was remembering, of course, that he had always been her friend.

“Charles …” she murmured, “the children.”

Then Charles bade the little girls come to him and, kneeling, he placed an arm about each of them.

“Have no fear, Anne,” he said. “I shall care for these two as though they were my own.”

That satisfied her. She nodded and closed her eyes.

James, weeping bitterly, flung himself on his knees. “Anne,” he said. “Anne … I am praying for you. You must get well … you must …”

She did not seem to hear him.

Poor James! thought Charles. Now he loves his wife. She has but an hour to live and he finds he loves her, though for so long he has been indifferent towards her. Poor ineffectual James! It was ever thus.

Charles said: “Let her chaplain be brought to her bedside.”

He could tell by her stertorous breathing that the end was near.

The chaplain came and knelt by the bed, but the Duchess looked at him and shook her head.

“My lady …” began the man.

James said: “The Duchess does not wish you to pray for her.”

There were significant glances between all those who had come in to witness the death of the Duchess of York.

Anne half raised herself and said on a note of anxiety: “I want him not. I die … in the true religion …”

James hesitated. Charles met his eyes. The words which James was about to utter died on his lips. There was a warning in Charles’ eyes. Not here … not before so many witnesses. He turned to the bed. Anne was lying back on her pillows, her eyes tightly shut.

“It is too late,” said the King. “She will not regain consciousness.”