Royal Sisters: The Story of the Daughters of James II

The King was still alive, but there was anxiety throughout the kingdom. He had lived for his own pleasure; he had set the tone of immorality not only in the Court but throughout the country; unknown to his ministers he had made treaties with France; and he was said to be a secret Catholic; yet rarely had the English so sincerely mourned the passing of a King.

In the streets they were weeping openly. Many of them remembered his coming back to them twenty-five years ago—the flowers strewn over the cobbles; the music in the streets; the bonfires; wine and dancing and merriment. And if it had not turned out as wonderful as they had believed it was going to, at least it had been gay and lighthearted and different from the gloom of old Noll Cromwell’s day.

They loved him; they called him the merry Monarch; they remembered some of his sayings which had often been repeated because they were wise and witty. And now he was dying, and leaving them—James!

Under the sorrow there was low rumbling of “No popery!”

In his bedchamber the King lived on. It seemed he could not die. They had tried all the remedies they knew; they had opened his veins with a penknife; they had put a hot iron on his head; they had purged him; they had placed newly killed pigeons at his feet.

Under all these ministrations he rallied for a time and when the news was spread through the streets, the people shouted in their joy; they made bonfires and all the bells of London were ringing at once. He had been ill before and he was well again. All those who had seen him riding through his capital, sauntering through his parks in the company of his ladies with his spaniels at his heels, all those who had seen him throwing at pell mell were certain that he had the strength of ten men.

But the rejoicings were soon over. He could not live and although as he said—and apologized for it—he was a long time a-dying, he was dying all the same.

James was kneeling at his bedside, weeping, begging him to take the sacrament before he died.

Poor James! he was a sentimental man and they were brothers. Later he would think of what his brother’s passing meant to him, but at this time he could remember only the long years of intimacy, of struggle and endeavor, of exile and strife and, at last, the homecoming.

Charles tried to frame the words: “James, best of friends and best of brothers.…”

The tears ran down James’s cheeks, and Charles begged forgiveness for those exiles which had been a necessity, but he was sorry for them.

The Queen came to the bedside; she was a heartbroken woman; there were others too, women, who followed her into the bedchamber, to remind him that though she was his wife they were the ones who had shared his company.

The Queen was sobbing; she begged him to forgive her if she had ever offended him. “Alas, poor lady,” cried Charles, “she begs my pardon! I beg hers, with all my heart.”

He could not breathe; there were so many people crowding the apartment and all day and all night they remained.

James came to the bed, his eyes alight with fanaticism; he bent his head and whispered to his brother that since he was at heart a Catholic he should receive the rites of the Catholic church.

“No,” said Charles, “you endanger your life, brother.”

But when had James thought of danger? He had the chamber cleared and Father Huddleston, who had once saved the King’s life at the battle of Worcester, was brought disguised into the death chamber.

“Brother,” said James, “I bring you a man who once saved your life; now he comes to save your soul.”

The sacrament according to the rites of the church of Rome was given with extreme unction.

Then the doors were thrown open and those who had been shut out were allowed to return.

The next morning Charles II was dead.

LONG LIVE THE KING

here was a quiet throughout the country. There was a new King on the throne—King James II—and everyone was waiting to see what would happen. The cries of “No popery” were no longer heard, but eyes were alert and there was an air of waiting, an implication that the present era was uneasy and perhaps temporary.

There was one who was in the minds of all, though few mentioned his name: James Duke of Monmouth, at present at The Hague, the guest of the Prince and Princess of Orange. What would he do now? His greatest enemy had been the Duke of York who was now King James II. Monmouth had ostentatiously called himself the Protestant Duke. And what was the Protestant Duke doing now?

Anne, heavily pregnant, was thinking constantly of the child she was to have. She indulged herself more than usual.

“I am determined this time,” she told Sarah, “that my child shall live.”

“He will be a step nearer to the throne when he is born than when he was conceived,” commented Sarah.

Anne wept then for Uncle Charles. “He was always so kind to me. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again. Of course, dear Mrs. Freeman, there were times when I had no notion of what he meant. He was so witty always, but kind with it, and you know that is a rare gift. Is that why he was so loved, do you think? Oh, how I miss him.”

Fat, pink fool! thought Sarah. You could be Queen of England before long and all you think of is crying for Uncle Charles!

Sarah had long talks with John. They were growing closer together; they were more than lovers; they were partners and their ambition burned more brightly than any passion; Sarah was once more pregnant and this time