The French King thinks he leads Charles by the nose. I would say that it might be the other way round. No, while Charles is our King, we shall get along. It is the succession which concerns the nation. That is why we deplore that with so many sons who according to convention should not have been born-and who are a perpetual drain on the exchequer-he cannot produce one who would be worth a little expense and give the answer to the burning question, Who next?”
“Let’s hope that he lives on and on,” I said. “Let’s drink to the King.”
“A health unto His Majesty!” cried Leigh, and we all lifted our glasses.
Carl was getting a little sleepy at this stage and trying desperately to stay awake.
My mother had protested about his being allowed to drink as much wine as he liked, but my father said he must learn to take his liquor. Carl was learning.
Christabel drank sparingly, as I did, and the soft colour in her cheeks and the shine in her eyes was not due to the grape. She was different from the girl she had been so far. I realized that she was enjoying this with a sort of feverish excitement and I was sorry, for such occasions as this were not unusual hi our household. We always had celebrations when my parents returned from Court or I or Carl had been away on a visit. How dreary her life must have been in that gloomy rectory!
She was far more knowledgeable about affairs than I was and she seemed anxious that both men should have no doubt of this.
“It’s really a religious conflict,” she said. “Political conflict almost always is.
It is not so much a question of Monmouth’s legitimacy as shall we allow a Catholic to ascend the throne.”
“That’s exactly the case,” said Edwin, smiling at her. “James is a Catholic-no doubt of that.”
“I have heard it whispered,” said Leigh, bending forward and speaking in a whisper, “that His Majesty toys with that Faith … bat let it not go beyond these walls.”
I glanced at Carl who was nodding over his platter. Leigh was inclined to be reckless.
Edwin said quickly: “It is only a conjecture. The King would never wish to displease his subjects.”
“What is he going to do?” I asked. “Legitimatize Monmouth or let his Catholic brother come to the throne?”
“I hope … most fervently … that it will be Monmouth,” said Leigh, “for there will be a revolution if we ever have a Catholic King on the throne. The people will not have it. They remember the fires of Smithfield.”
“There has been religious persecution on both sides,” said Christabel.
“But the people will never forget Smithfield, the influence of Spain and the threat of the Inquisition. They’ll remember Bloody Mary as long as there is a king or a queen to reign over us. That is why it is imperative for Old Rowley to go on living for another twenty years.” Leigh lifted his glass. “Once more, a health unto His Majesty.”
After that we talked of the man Titus Gates who had caused a stir throughout the country by discovering, as he said, the Popish Plot.
Edwin told us that he had taken Holy Orders and had had a small living which had been presented to him by the Duke of Norfolk until he was involved in some legal trouble and had had to retire, after which he became a chaplain in the navy.
“He is a man who lives by his wits, I’m sure,” Leigh went on, “and this discovery of the Popish Plot is meant to work to his advantage in some way.”
“The country was ready to listen,” said Christabel, “because the people have always been afraid that Protestantism might be in danger and, of course, with the Duke of York heir to the throne, and its being known where his sympathies lie, it is easy to arouse people’s anger.”
“Exactly,” said Edwin, smiling at her with admiration I thought both for her intelligence and good looks. “The plot is supposed to be that there is a scheme among Catholics to massacre the Protestants as they did in France on St. Bartholomew’s Eve, to murder the King and set his brother James on the throne. Oates has succeeded in arousing the wrath of the people. It’s a dangerous situation.”
“And not a grain of truth in it, I’ll swear,” added Leigh.
“Yes, it’s nonsense,” agreed Edwin.
“Dangerous nonsense,” said Leigh. “But look what it has brought Oates-a pension of nine hundred pounds a year and apartments in Whitehall where he carries out his investigations.”
“How can it be allowed?” I cried.
“It is the wish of the people,” answered Leigh, “so cleverly has he worked up feeling against the Catholics. I heard a disturbing piece of news and I was horrified to discover that it was true. A friend of ours, Sir Jocelyn Frinton, head of a Catholic family, was taken from his house, accused of complicity and executed.”
“Horrifying!” cried Edwin. “It brings it home to you when it is someone you know.”
“Was he involved in a plot?” asked Christabel.
“Ah, Mistress Connalt,” replied Leigh, “was there a plot?”
“Surely your friend must have done something?”
“Oh, yes,” said Leigh bitterly, “what he did was think differently from Titus Gates.”
