Hocking Joseph
The Coming of the King
CHAPTER XXV
THE JUDGMENT OF THE KING
It came about in this wise. I had been taken away by myself into an empty chamber, which was carefully guarded. Not that I was treated rudely. Rather marked respect was paid to me, and I lacked nothing which any man might desire. Nevertheless I had thought much of the scene through which I had been passing, and what it all portended. I could not help realizing that the king had dismissed us very abruptly, and that sore displeasure had rested upon his face as I had spoken. As for Constance, her condition troubled me more than my own. I had noted the look in the king's eyes as he had watched her, and remembering what men said concerning him, I feared much. I determined however that no harm should happen to her, whatever might befall, for did I not love her with all my heart, and had I not told her of my love? Moreover I had promised that I would protect her, and as I thought of this, even prison walls became as nought to me. It was while I was scheming how I should fulfil my promise to her that a lackey entered the room and bade me follow him.
This I did like a man in a dream, for a great silence had fallen upon the king's palace, and everything appeared grim and ghostly. He led me through long corridors, and tortuous ways, so that without a guide I doubt if I could ever have found my way back to the room from which I had come. Presently, however, I heard the sound of distant laughter, and the noise of songsters, then as some intervening wall kept these sounds from reaching me, I passed by an open window, and heard the nightingales singing amongst the trees close by.
The lackey spoke no word, neither good nor bad, to me. I thought he looked sleepy, and would gladly have gone to his rest. Perhaps this was true, for it was rumoured that the king kept strange hours, and expected peculiar service at the hands of his servingmen.
Presently I stood in a little ante-chamber, where I was bidden to wait until it was the king's pleasure to see me, and here I waited I should think a full hour. The first part of the time was weary enough, but the second part passed like a flash of light, and this was because, even although I had tried not to listen, I had to hear that which interested me past words.
Evidently I was close to the apartment where the king was, for every word he spoke reached me with great plainness; but it was not his voice which thrilled my heart, it was anothers, as I shall soon have to tell.
"I pray thy pardon, pretty maid," I heard Charles say. "I know thou hast had a long day's ride, and must be aweary, but I felt I could not sleep until I had speech with thee again."
"I have nothing to say to Your Majesty," replied the voice of Constance.
"But I have much to say to thee, fair Constance. It is not oft that even a king beholds one so fair, or hears one whose speech is so pleasing. Besides, it will be to thine interest to listen to me, and to regard my proposals favourably."
The king's voice was, as I thought, thick with much wine, and I fancied I could see the evil leer in his black beady eyes as he spoke.
"I have brought thee here to-night," he went on, "so that I may tell thee of many things. And first, I desire that thou shouldst tell me what thou didst refuse but a few hours since. Where is this Puritan sister of thine?"
"And if I told Your Majesty?"
"Ah, pretty Constance, if it had been thee – well I fear thou wouldst have too lenient a judge. But thy sister is the wife of Denman, a man whose immediate arrest I have commanded. A bitter, sour-faced, lying Puritan, a man who took a leading part in the murder of my father. And this sister of thine, well she tried to kill the man who sought to bring me back to my kingdom. That is not easy to forgive. Had it been thy little hand which would have done this, I should e'en have laughed at Monk's dour face, and forgiven. And yet I must not forget. Thou hast shielded thy sister; thou hast kept her from punishment, and therefore – well, unless – but let me think – "
"I have decided to forgive thee on two conditions," he went on presently.
"And they, Your Majesty?"
"The first is that thou wilt tell me where this sister of thine is. The second will, I trust, be pleasing to thee, for surely the king's smile, and the king's companionship should – "
"Pardon me, Your Majesty," cried Constance, "but there is no need to speak of the second condition since I will never accept the first."
"You will not tell me where your sister is?"
"No, Your Majesty."
The king laughed. "I must e'en find out without your telling," he said.
"You never can;" and there was defiance in her voice.
"Ah!"
I noted the anger in his voice, and I forgot that I was listening to conversation which the king never intended should reach my ears, so eager was I to know what would follow.
"It is said that I am of an easy temper," he went on presently, "and it is hard to be angry in the presence of one so fair. Yet must the king be obeyed. So be sure of this, pretty Constance. I will e'en find the whereabouts of your sister. As for your father, he is already under arrest, and it will depend on you as to whether he goes to the gallows with the rest of my father's murderers, or whether he hold his head high in the state."
"On me, Your Majesty?"
"Ay, on you, pretty Constance." And then he said words which I will not write down, so base were they.
"Of this be assured," he went on, and it was easy to see that wine had unloosed his tongue, and driven away his judgement. "I will give no quarter to these canting Puritans. Neither for that matter will I bestow any favour upon these Presbyterians. I will have only such religion in my realm as I please. Not that I am much wedded to religion at all, especially that of the stern and strict nature. But this I know, it is to the Episcopals that I owe my crown, and it was they who fought for my father during the rebellion. Depend upon it, therefore, I will make short shrift of these hot-gospellers, and I will see to it that only those who are loyal to the crown shall be tolerated."
"Then Your Majesty's promises will go for nothing!" And there was a sting of scorn in Constance's tones, as well as in her words.
The king laughed. "A man makes reservations even in his promises," he said, "and think not that I am going to allow my father's murderers to go around stirring up dissension, or hot-gospellers to preach rebellion. Nay, you will soon see. The Puritans had no mercy, and Grand Dieu neither will I!"
At this there was silence.
"So, fair Constance, I beseech you for your own sake to – to be obedient to my wishes, and – "
"Will Your Majesty be pleased to forgive me," cried Constance. "It ill becomes me to boast, but I am not afraid of death, and so I beseech Your Majesty to mete out my punishment without delay."
"You mean that – "
"It would be better for me to die than that my father's child should turn traitor or coward."
At this I could not help giving expression to my gladness; indeed so loud was the sound that escaped my lips that the king heard me.
"Who is there?" he cried angrily.
A minute later I was brought into the room where the king was. I saw that his usually pale face had become of a purplish hue, while his slits of eyes shot an angry light.
"How now sirrah!" he cried, as I stood before him, "hast thou heard aught of the conversation between me and this maid?"
"I heard it all, sire."
For a moment he did not speak, gazing first at Constance and then at me. I also cast a hasty glance at the woman I loved, and in spite of my helplessness my heart rejoiced. Her face was pale, but she showed no fear, rather there was a look of confidence in her eyes, and an expression of unalterable determination.
Whether Charles II. realized this I know not, but I saw he was in no humour to be played with. Perchance this was the first time his will had been opposed since he had come back to England, for since that day I had first seen him at Dover he had received little but fulsome adulation.
"Thou hast heard all!"
"All, sire," I replied steadily, for now I felt no scrap of fear. For let who will say otherwise, Charles II., although King of England, was not a man to inspire reverence or awe. He looked cunning rather than thoughtful, sensuous rather than noble; one who, if he was kind, was kind because it was less troublesome than to be cruel. He did not impress me with his kingly presence, rather I thought of him even then as a weak despot.
He seemed to hesitate a moment as if to recall the conversation which had taken place between himself and Constance, and then as if he realized that nought of great importance was said, his brow cleared and a look of resolution came into his eyes.
"Thou knowest then that this maid, Mistress Constance Leslie, hath again refused to obey her king?"
"Yes, sire."
"But, mark you, I will know the truth. Look you, young sir, I judged that you know where her sister is. Speak the truth. I can detect a lie a mile away."
"I will tell you no lies, sire!"
"Then I repeat the question, 'Do you know where this maid's sister is?'"
"No, sire."
"But you can make a shrewd guess? Come, yes or no. You believe you know where she is?"
"Yes," I made answer.
"Ah, that is good. And now we will see, Mistress Constance, who is master. Now we will see whether the king will not have his way." And then again he said that which I will not write down.
Surely, I have told myself since, he must have been brutalized by too much wine, or he would never have spoken as he did, for his speech was that of a villain in a fourth rate stage play, rather than of one in whose veins ran royal blood.
"I cannot get at you through your father," he said to her, "but I can and will through your sister. You care nothing for the old hot-gospeller; well, I can forgive you for that. But this sister of yours, well, you have suffered much for her already, and would suffer more. Ah, yes, pretty Constance, I see through you. To avert suspicion from her you have e'en gone abroad as the wife of this Denman; you have fetched and carried for him like a dog. Well, now, to save her, you shall e'en do as much and more for your king. For if you will not, I will make this sister of thine – but I will not speak of that now. You will be wise, and do my will. Now then, Master Roland Rashcliffe, you say you can shrewdly guess where this other daughter of John Leslie is. Tell me, I command you."
The king was gazing eagerly at me as he spoke, but instead of returning his look I turned for a moment towards Constance, and I saw that her eyes were imploring me not to speak. But there was no confidence in them now; rather there was a great fear. She could depend on her own fortitude, but not on mine.
"I trust Your Majesty will not insist on this," I said.
"And why, Master Malapert?"
"Because I cannot obey your command."
He took a step towards me as if in anger, but he stopped suddenly, and then I saw a change come over his face. The old cunning leer came back to his eyes again, the wine-inflamed, passionate man had gone, and instead I saw the cynical mocking man I had seen land at Dover.
He sat down on a low chair, and began to fondle his lap-dog, glancing at us both curiously as he did so.
"I am indeed fortunate," he said. "Mostly my servants say they will obey me, and then seek to have their own will, while you say you will not obey me and will have to do so in spite of all. Moreover, this youth said he had no favour to ask at my hands. Well, and what game are you playing, young master?"
"I am trying to be an honest man," I replied.
"Prithee come a little closer, for surely thou art a rare sight," he said. "For twelve years I have been trying to find an honest man and a virtuous woman, and up to now I have discovered neither."
"And yet your mother is alive, sire," I said.
Again his eyes flashed fire, and I thought he was going to call his servants, and order that I should be thrown in some dungeon. But again he mastered himself.
"I have not made up my mind whether I shall give you the cap and bells, or send you to the most stinking dungeon in Fleet Prison, Master Rashcliffe," he said quietly. "But of that anon; at present I am vastly enjoying myself. There is some reason in your mind which makes you think you can answer your king as you have answered him. You fancy you have some secret power over him. Come now, speak!"
"That need not be Your Majesty. I was ever taught that a man's duty was to protect a woman."
Again he eyed me keenly, and presently he laughed quietly.
"Ah, I see," he said; "now I understand. You have cast eyes on this pretty Constance, and seek to gain her favour by this means. I thought I should discover your motive. What! she hath looked coldly on you, eh, and now you seek to win her favour. Ay, and what more likely to do this than to stand by her in her difficulty! Is a man likely to do aught but for self? Tell me, do you expect to win the fair Constance's love?"
"Nay; I do not expect that," I replied.
"Ah, I see; but you hope, eh – you hope?" and again he laughed.
"Well, and why not, Master Rashcliffe? The king is still king in spite of these accursed Puritans; and I tell you this, Charles II. will not be ungrateful to loyal servants. General Monk is now Duke of Albermarle, is he not?"
I was silent, for why should I speak?
"Now then, suppose I promise to look favourably on this match, will you tell me where you believe this maid's sister is? Mark you, it will make no difference whether you tell me or no, for I mean to find her, if every house in England hath to be searched from cellar to cock-loft. Now, will you tell me?"
"No, sire."
"Ah, then there is some other thought at the back of your brain. But mind, you are both making a whip for your own backs. It is not often I am so patient as to-night, so tempt me not too far."
At this neither of us spoke, while Charles Stuart began to play with the ribbon around his dog's neck.
"What have you to say?"
"Nothing, sire."
"Yes, there is something. Three hours ago thou didst mention the name of Katharine Harcomb. What did she tell thee?"
"Of that which I have since seen, Your Majesty," I said boldly.
"Ah – and what is that?"
"That which if made known would alter the history of the nation, sire."
"Where is it?" he cried, as if forgetting himself.
"I do not know," I replied like a fool, for the moment I had spoken the words, I realized that I had thrown down the only weapon by which I could defend myself.
The king laughed again quietly.
"You are only fit for the cap and bells after all," he said quietly; "just the cap and bells. Still, a fool may be dangerous if you put a pistol in his hands, so the best way is to keep him out of harm."
"But others know where it is!" I cried, for his words made me angry.
"Who?" he cried.
I was silent.
"Tell me," he commanded, but I could not speak. For who was the old man of Pycroft? Where was he now? At that moment all I had seen seemed but a Jack-o'-Bedlam story, at which a cunning man like the king would laugh.
He seemed to hesitate what to do, but presently he rose and pulled a bell-rope, and before it ceased ringing the woman who had earlier in the evening accompanied Constance entered the room, while I saw two male lackeys at the door.
The king gave some commands in a low voice, whereupon she prepared to lead Constance away. My heart fell at this, for while I was brave and confident in her presence, my courage ebbed away at the thought of her leaving me. And yet it was not for myself that I feared, but for her. A great dread came into my heart concerning the indignities which I believed the king would place upon her, for I had heard his words, I had seen the look in his black beady eyes. But I could do nothing. I had to stand still while she left the room, and yet on her leaving I felt my heart grow warm with joy. And no wonder, for as she walked away, she turned around, and her eyes met mine, and then, although she never spoke a word of love to me, I knew that I did not love her in vain.
Let the king do his worst now, I did not fear, for I had a strength and a joy of which he knew nothing.
No sooner had the door closed than the king's mood changed again.
"Now then we will speak plainly, Master Malapert," he said. "You know where this maid's sister is?"
At this I was silent, for surely there was no need of speech.
"Well, it doth not matter whether you speak or no, that is as far as it concerneth me. As for you, it mattereth much. But there is the other matter; tell me what you know concerning that?"
Whether I was wise or no I will not try to say, but I told him what I had seen.
"You say you saw this contract?"
"Yes, sire, I saw it."
"Signed by me?"
"The name of Charles Stuart was affixed to it."
He took a pen from a table and scribbled hastily on a piece of paper.
"Like that?" he asked.
"A facsimile of that, sire," I replied.
For a time he was silent, and he took several turns up and down the room, as though he were thinking.
"You knew of this when I arrived at Dover?"
"Yes, sire."
"And when you went to the place again?"
"It was gone as I have told you, sire."
"You believe the old man hath it?"
"Yes, sire."
"And you have a suspicion where he is now?"
At this I was silent, for what could I say. I believed that he was at Goodlands, the house of John Leslie, and that his discovery would mean the discovery of Constance's sister, the sister whom she was ready to shield with her own life. Therefore, in spite of all the king's commands, I held my peace, never by so much as a word or a suggestion making known my thoughts.
Again the king grew angry, and he threatened not the wife of Sir Charles Denman, but Constance with a doom at which any honest woman must shudder, but even then I could not speak, for if ever a woman's eyes had commanded a man to be silent Constance's had commanded me. Besides, I had no faith in the man before me. The promises he made to-day would be broken at the very moment it pleased his fancy.
And yet I believed that the king was not altogether displeased with me, for even as he gave his commands concerning me he said —
"An honest man is a good thing, Master Rashcliffe, but when he is a fool he must be e'en treated as a danger."
Before the sun which was now rising went down, I was in a foul dungeon in Fleet Prison.
CHAPTER XXVI
FLEET PRISON
I was kept in Fleet Prison for wellnigh two years, and during the first year of that time I scarce ever spoke to a fellow-prisoner. Moreover, none of my gaolers ever had speech with me. So silent were they when they brought me my meals that I judged they had been commanded to be silent. It was easy to divine a meaning in this, for if the king had bidden that no man should speak to me he would be obeyed. And I believed that he had done this, else why was I treated differently from all others who were immured within those grim walls? Moreover there was a reason why he should give the command. He did not desire that his marriage with Lucy Walters should be known; he did not wish that the boy James Croft should be spoken of as the future King of England.
Of my sufferings during that year I will say but little. It is but little to a man's credit that he should make known his tale of woe, rather should he endeavour to make the best of his lot, and think of what comforts he had. And yet if I would tell my story truly I must e'en remark on the dark days I spent there, for they were dark days. For a time I almost wished that I had no hope that Constance loved me, for it seemed to make my burden harder to bear. But it was only for a time. I could not help being glad because of the lovelight I had seen in her eyes, even though the thought of it brought me pain; For bring me pain it did. How could it be otherwise? I remembered the words of the king, and I knew that he meant what he said. All nights have I lain awake, heedless of the vermin that swarmed the cell, thinking of what had become of her, and how she fared. For not one word did I hear. Whether she was dead or alive I knew not. Whether she had escaped from the king's power, or whether he cruelly persecuted her no one could tell me. And this made my burden hardest to bear. If I knew she was dead I think I could have borne up better, for I should know that she had died thinking of me. Ay, I knew that, for no woman could look at a man as she looked at me without thinking of him always. Even as I lay in the darkness I remembered that look, and rejoiced. My imprisonment I would not have minded one whit, if I knew she was safe. I did not even fear her being a hunted refugee as she was when I had seen her first of all. Nay, it was the thought of what was in the king's mind that drove me wellnigh mad, and many a time while I was in prison had I wished that I had seized his fleshy neck and strangled the life out of him, even although I suffered the tortures of hell as a consequence.
But I could do nothing. Day succeeded day, and week succeeded week, and I heard not so much as a breath of a whisper. Besides I could do nothing, for my prison door was safely locked, and not a vestige of chance to hear aught of the outside world came to me.
Thus a year passed away. During that time I had grown as weak as a child. Each morning as I awoke a great nausea mastered me, and my mouth was full of bitterness, until one day one of my gaolers watched me as I was retching, and saw how faint and giddy I was afterwards, and then a change was made in my condition. I was allowed clean clothes, a big tub was brought to me so that I could bath myself, and a better cell was given me.
It was just after this that I heard something which set me thinking. Two gaolers were outside my door, and I heard them talking.
"Young Master Rashcliffe is better, eh?"
"Ay, he is better. I am told he is to have more liberty."
"What, mix with the other prisoners?"
"Ah, why the change? Know you?"
"No, I know not. For my part I am glad. It was fair sad to see him. He was mad at one time."
"Ay, that he was. Well, the prisoners be treated more harshly now than in Old Nol's time."
"Ay, and there are far more of them too. Have you heard about the king's oath?"
"Nay, I have heard of no oath save that he is going to stamp out the Dissenters."
"Nay, it hath nought to do with that, although the place is full enough of them. It is about the black box."
"What black box?"
"Have you not heard? One of the big lords, I know not which, said that an old man had shewed him the marriage certificate between the king and that pretty Welsh wench, Lucy Walters."
"Ah, no, I had not heard."
"But it is so. Well, the king hath taken an oath that, while the lad of whom there hath been so much talk is his son, he never wedded Lucy. I hear the king was wellnigh angered to death when the thing got noised abroad."
"And what hath become of the old man who shewed the great lord the thing?"
"I know not; but the strange thing is that he claims to be Lucy Walters' father."
"And the king says it is a forgery?"
"Ay, that is his oath."
"That will end in the old man being caught and hanged."
"Ay, they will have to hang him, for of a truth every prison in England is full."
"Perhaps the king will hang the Dissenters instead, and yet I should be sorry. They cause no trouble in prison, even although there are so many. The only thing for which I do not like them, is that they look at one so mournfully if he should happen upon oath, or say something that is not over pious."
"Ha, ha! Then must they often look mournfully on you. But I do not like their pious talk. I would rather have to do with prisoners which ought to be here. As it is, the place is full of these pious people who were preaching and praying in barns instead of in the parish church, and singing their own hymns instead of abiding by the Prayer-book, while the blackguards who used to be clapped into prison in Old Nol's time are allowed to go free. Then prisoners were real prisoners – drunkards, and wife-beaters, and thieves, and wizards, and witches; but now we have hardly any but these pious people, who are guilty of nought worse than singing hymns and preaching."
"Still law is law, and the king is king. Besides, what would you, if the king and the bishops will have everybody pray according to the Prayer-book, what right have these Dissenters to pray in their own way?"
After this they went away, and I heard no more of them. For several days moreover there was no change in my condition, except that my prison was clean and my food a little more wholesome. At the end of a week, however, I found myself at liberty to move freely around among my fellow-prisoners, and it was then that I understood the meaning of the conversation I have recorded. For in truth the place seemed full of men who were sent hither because they had disobeyed certain Acts of Parliament, the which, as I understood it, meant that if any number of people worshipped God in any other way than that prescribed by the Prayer-book, or in any other place than the parish church, their meetings could at once be pounced upon by the constables, and the offenders haled before the magistrates, and sentenced to imprisonment. I was also told that these Acts prohibited any person who had been guilty of preaching the Gospel, other than those empowered by the laws of the country, living within five miles of the town where they had preached. With this news there came to me also the information that about two thousand clergymen, most of whom were pious Godfearing men, were ejected from their parishes because they could not obey laws which they believed were contrary to the laws of God. Moreover, many of these clergymen, believing they were called of God to preach, had continued to minister to their flocks, with the result that the prisons of England were full of them.
In addition to this, the law, having regarded not only Nonconformist preachers but Nonconformist worshippers as equally guilty, meetings were broken up, and the guilty people were clapped into gaol without more ado.
I had never taken any considerable interest in such matters, yet now that I saw these people in gaol, and heard their stories, I realized that what the squire and vicar of the parish where I had seen such a strange sight in the county of Kent had predicted had come to pass.
One old man interested me greatly, for he spoke kindly to me, and inquired lovingly after my condition. He had, so he told me, married late in life, and had a family of a wife and five children. When the Act of Uniformity was passed he was cast forth from his parish because he would not be re-ordained, and then having been guilty of preaching the Gospel to a few of his flock, and praying with them, he was seized by the magistrates and cast into prison.
"And what hath become of your wife and family?" I asked.
"Ah, that is what grieves me sorely," he replied; "for myself I do not mind one whit, except that I can no longer proclaim the glad news which I was called to preach; but to think of my poor delicate wife wandering helpless and homeless with my dear little ones grieves me beyond words. I can do nought but pray for them, the which I do continually."
"But why could you not obey the law?" I asked.
"Obey the law! How could I? I had been ministering to my people for many years, and God had given seals to my ministry by enabling me to lead many to the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world. Then came this law, which said that I had not hitherto been ordained of God, and must be ordained according to priestly traditions. Now, how could I do that? If I did, it would be tantamount to confessing that my previous ordination was not of God. Then, again, I could not subscribe to every word of the Prayer-book, for it is riddled with popery. The question which the Apostle asked came to me – 'Whether it be right to obey God or man judge ye,' and I could only answer it in one way."
"And be there many Nonconformists?" I asked.
"You can judge something of that by the number who preferred to obey God rather than man," he replied. "Two thousand and more have been ejected from their parishes, while thousands of the people belonging to their flocks are to-day suffering imprisonment for love of the true Gospel."
"And who do you blame for all this?" I asked. "The king?"
"Ay, I blame the king, but not him only. I blame the king because he promised us fairly. Had he not so promised he would not have been invited back. He promised that none of us should be disturbed, and that every man should worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience. As you know also the Act of Oblivion was passed, whereby all those who took part in the death of the late king should be forgiven. But what hath happened? His Majesty hath hanged many of those who thought it their duty to put that man to death, and not contented with this he hath dragged others from their graves and had their bodies degraded."
"Who among the living hath he hanged?" I asked.
He named some whose names I did not know, and then I heard the name of Master John Leslie.
"Master John Leslie!" I cried, "hath he been put to death?"
"Hanged at Tyburn," said the old man solemnly. "A good man and a faithful he was, although I agreed not with all his tenets. He was somewhat influenced by the Quaker doctrines of the man Fox, and would not allow himself to be called Sir John Leslie, although he was entitled to that honour."
"And his daughters," I cried, "know you aught of them?"
"They are both in hiding I am told."
"The wife of Sir Charles Denman hath never been captured then?"
"No, although how she hath escaped is a mystery, for Sir Charles hath fled out of the country."
"And the other sister?" I asked feverishly, for my heart was all aflame.
"Ah, the other sister. God only knows what hath become of her, for it is said that she found favour in the eyes of the king," he replied.
At this I could not speak another word, for it seemed to me that nought was left worth living for. But the old man did not heed my grief, instead he went on speaking.
