Charles sat at the head of the table, facing the door, his back to the fireplace. He lounged in his chair, a pair of spaniels in his lap—a lazy good-humoured man who slept well and had no trouble with his digestion so that he looked tolerantly upon the world and was inclined to be merely amused by many things which infuriated less tranquil men. His fits of anger were brief and he had long since lost interest in punishing the Duke. He knew Buckingham for exactly what he was, had no more illusions about him than he had about anyone else, but he also knew that the Duke’s own frivolity of temperament kept him from being truly dangerous. The trial was necessary because of wide-spread public interest in the case, but Charles no longer wanted vengeance. He would be satisfied if the Duke gave them an entertaining performance that afternoon.
At a signal from the King the door was flung open and there stood his Grace, George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham—dressed as magnificently as though he had been going to be married, or hanged. His handsome face wore an expression which somehow mingled both hauteur and pleasant civility. For a moment he stood there. Then, erect as a guardsman, he crossed the floor and knelt at the King’s feet. Charles nodded his head, but did not give him his hand to kiss.
The others stared hard at him, trying to see into the heart of the man. Was he worried, or was he confident? Did he expect to die, or to be forgiven? But Buckingham’s face did not betray him.
Arlington, who was chief prosecutor, got to his feet and began to read the charges against the Duke. They were many and serious: Being in cabal with the Commons. Opposing the King in the Lower House. Advising both the Commons and the Lords against the King’s interests. Trying to become popular. And finally, the crime for which they hoped to have his blood—treason against King and State, the casting of his Majesty’s horoscope. The incriminating paper was shown the Duke, held up at a safe distance for him to see.
Among these men Buckingham had just two friends, Lauderdale and Ashley, and though the others intended at first to conduct the investigation with dignity and decorum that resolution was soon gone. In their excitement several of them talked at once, they began to shout and to interrupt one another and him. But Buckingham kept his temper, which was notoriously short, and replied with polite submissiveness to every question or accusation. The only man for whom he showed less than respect was his one-time friend, Arlington, and to him he was openly insolent.
When they accused him of trying to make himself popular he looked the Baron straight in the eye: “Whoever is committed to prison by my Lord Chancellor and my Lord Arlington cannot help becoming popular.”
He had a glib answer for the charge of treason. “I do not deny, gentlemen, that that piece of paper is a horoscope. Neither do I deny that you got it from Dr. Heydon, who cast it. But I do deny that it was I who commissioned it or that it concerns his Majesty’s future.”
A murmur rushed round the table. What was the rascal saying? How dare he stand there and lie like that! Charles smiled, very faintly, but as the Duke shot him a hasty glance the smile vanished; his swarthy face set in stern lines again.
“Would your Grace be so good, then, as to tell us who did commission the horoscope?” asked Arlington sarcastically. “Or is that your Grace’s secret?”
“It’s no secret at all. If it will make matters more clear to you gentlemen I am glad to tell you. My sister had the horoscope cast.” This seemed to astonish everyone but the King, who merely lifted one quizzical eyebrow and continued to stroke his dog’s head.
“Your sister had the horoscope cast?” repeated Arlington, with an inflection which said plainly he considered the statement a bald lie. Then, suddenly, “Whose is it?”
Buckingham bowed, contemptuously. “That is my sister’s secret. You must ask her. She has not confided in me.”
His Grace was sent back to the Tower where he was as much visited as a new actress or the reigning courtesan. Charles pretended to examine the papers again and agreed that the signature on them was that of Mary Villiers. This brought furious and impassioned protest from both Arlington and Clarendon, neither of whom was willing to give up the fight for the Duke’s life or, at the very least, his prestige and fortune. He was caught this time, trapped like a stupid woodcock, but if he got away this once they might never have the like opportunity again.
Charles listened to both of them with his usual courteous attention. “I know very well, Chancellor,” he said one day when he had gone to visit the old man in his lodgings at Whitehall, “that I could pursue this charge of treason. But I’ve found a man’s often more use with his head on.” He was seated in a chair beside the couch on which Clarendon lay, for his gout now kept him bed-ridden much of the time.
