A fat short red-faced priest stood in the doorway, dressed in robe and sandals, a cowl over his tonsured head, a prayerbook in his hands.
“Good evening to you, Father Scroope.”
“Good evening, sir.” The priest was out of breath from hurrying up the stairs. “I came with all haste—but I was at her Majesty’s evening devotions when I got the message.” His eyes looked over the Duke’s shoulder and into the half-lighted bedroom beyond. “Where is the patient? There is no time to be lost—”
Behind him Buckingham closed the door, quietly turned the key in the lock and slipped it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. “There is no one sick here, Father Scroope.”
The priest turned and looked at him in surprise. “No one sick? But I was told—the messenger told me that a man was dying—”
He sat down in a high-backed chair while the Duke poured two glassfuls of canary wine, handed one to his guest, and then pulled up another chair so that they sat face to face.
“I wanted you to come as quickly as possible—so I sent a message that there was sickness. Don’t you know me now, Father?”
Father Scroope, who had already drunk down his wine and was holding the glass in his pudgy pink hands, peered closely at Buckingham, and slow recognition came to his face.
“Why—your Grace!”
“None other.”
“Forgive me, sir! I vow you’re so altered by your undress I didn’t recognize you—and the light, of course, is dim—” he added apologetically.
Buckingham smiled, reached for the wine-bottle and filled both their glasses again. “You say you’ve just come from her Majesty’s devotions?”
“Yes, your Grace. Her Majesty has learnt a great many new habits, but never to retire without evening prayers—for which God be thanked,” he added, with a pious roll of his eyes.
“You hear her Majesty’s confessions, as well, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Sometimes, yes, your Grace.”
Buckingham laughed shortly. “Much
“Ah, well, my lord—poor lady. That’s but a venial sin. And I fear we all of us commit it with her.” Father Scroope drained his glass again, and again the Duke filled it.
“But wishing won’t cure the matter. The fact remains she’s barren—and always will be.”
“She’s been with child, I’m convinced. But there’s somewhat amiss keeps her from carrying to term.”
“And always will. His Majesty will never have a legitimate heir by Catherine of Braganza. And if the throne goes to York the country’s ruined.” Father Scroope widened his popped blue eyes at this, for York’s Catholic sympathies were notorious, and Buckingham was well known for his hatred of the Church. But the Duke said quickly, “Not because of his religion, Father. The case is more serious far than that. His Highness has not the means to govern the country. It would fall into civil war again within six months if he came to the throne.” The Duke’s face was passionately serious. He leaned forward, the hand holding his wine-glass clutched on his knee, pointing with the forefinger of the other at Father Scroope’s bewildered round face. “It’s your duty, Father, as you love England and the Stuarts, to lend me aid in what I propose—and I may as well tell you frankly that his Majesty is behind me in this but prefers, for obvious reasons, to remain out of it altogether.”
“You’ve mistaken your man, your Grace! I can’t take action against her Majesty—no matter
“Not so hasty, Father, I pray you! Hear me out first. And remember this—you owe your first allegiance to your King!” As he spoke Buckingham looked like all the magnificent selfless patriots of history, and Father Scroope, thoroughly impressed, sat down again. “We do not intend to harm her Majesty in any way at all—make yourself easy on that score. But for the sake of England, the King, my master, and I have devised a plan for getting him another wife. This he can do and have an heir for England in a year’s time if her Majesty will agree to return to the life she once lived and enjoyed—the life of the cloister.”
“I don’t think I quite understand your Grace’s meaning—”
