Monmouth expostulated.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! I’ll have no murder.”
“You cannot make war in gloves, sir,” retorted Lord Grey. “There must be killing. If we strike at the root we shall avoid undue slaughter.”
“I cannot have murder,” reiterated Monmouth. To show his displeasure he went aside with one Colonel Rumsey.
Ferguson drew his chair closer to Mr. Sydney’s.
“We want more than the Duke.”
Sydney shot him a warning glance. But Roxhythe was not attending; he was holding a languid argument with Lord Grey.
“I’m with you there. While the King lives we shall have trouble.”
“Our rights he destroys, our religion he curbs!” Ferguson’s eyes were fanatic.
“Monmouth would never consent.”
Ferguson lowered his eyes.
“If Monmouth is tiresome. …” he left a pause. “What think you of him?” By a faint movement of the head he indicated Roxhythe.
Sydney frowned.
“Untrustworthy. Too secret. But His Grace is blind to it.”
“I’d have no dealings with him.”
“Nor I. Except that he may prove useful.”
“How?”
“He could help to overthrow the guards at Whitehall. It is always well to have one on the inside.”
“Ay, but he would not do it. He’ll stop short of killing Charles.”
“He need not know. He is agog for the Duke to be disposed of.”
“He is double-faced. I fear that he’ll betray us.”
“Not a whit. For his own safety he dare not. If the Duke succeeds his day is o’er. And Rumsey vouches for him.”
Monmouth came back into the middle of the room.
“Gentlemen, it has come to my ears that there was lately a plot on foot to murder His Majesty and the Duke of York on their way from Newmarket!”
Grey shrugged and said nothing. Armstrong glanced at Roxhythe.
“My lord, did this come within your ken?”
“I heard rumours,” admitted Roxhythe. “Whence comes Your Grace’s knowledge?”
“From Wildman. He seemed to know much of the plot, and spoke of one Rumbald. Understand me, gentlemen, I will not have it!”
Mr. Sydney was hurt.
“Does Your Highness insinuate that any of us were privy to it?”
Monmouth shrugged peevishly.
“I know that Wildman was, so why not more of you? I will not countenance it!”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Should we not come to business, sir?” asked Grey.
“We cannot decide aught until we hear from Russell,” answered Monmouth.
“Then we are likely to remain inactive for some time!” Mr. Trenchard snarled. “All this indecision is ruinous to the cause.”
“I would I had not lost Shaftesbury,” mourned the Duke.
“He acted the coward’s part! We were well rid of him!” snapped Trenchard.
“Shaftesbury was a wise man,” murmured Sydney. “So, I think, is Lord Essex.”
“By the way,” drawled Roxhythe. “Where is Essex?”
“He is not here,” sighed Monmouth.
“I had perceived it, sir,” said Roxhythe drily. “Is he ever here?”
“Seldom.” Monmouth was cast down for a moment. “But I doubt he is very much in our interests,” he continued, more brightly.
Trenchard snorted.
“I cannot see that Russell and Essex their absence need hinder us from deciding on a course of action!” cried Ferguson. “We remain inert from week’s end to week’s end! Strike! Strike!”
“You speak like a fool!” Lord Grey was angry. “How can we move until we are sure of the West Country’s support?”
“I disagree!” Sydney took up the cudgels. “This talk of rising is impracticable! If we had the army with us it would be different, but what are we?—A mere handful, with possibilities of some counties behind us. Only fools count on possibilities!”
Armstrong joined in.
“Ye are insulting, Sydney! We must wait, and the possibilities will turn to certainties.”
“Ay!” Mr. Sydney sneered. “Next century!”
“Sydney is right!” Up started Ferguson. “We must strike a decisive blow at the root of the trouble! Kill the Papist James! I have three hundred Scotsmen in London today, and they will rise at my call! Storm Whitehall, and possess ourselves of the city! The other counties will never rise for us until they see that we mean business.”
“Wild and impracticable,” declared Armstrong. “We must wait.”
Sydney thumped the table.
“Wait till we ruin all by our waiting! Oh, ay, Sir Thomas! Good advice!”
“Do you provoke me, Sir?” Armstrong’s hand went to his sword-hilt.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” implored Monmouth. “I must beg you to be silent.”
“Highness, I’ll brook no insult from Mr. Sydney! He has sneered at my advice. Then let him suggest better, or withdraw his words!”
“I have already voiced my suggestion! I’ll voice it no more! It is meant for men who do not give way to squeamish, timorous doubts!”
Lord Grey arose.
“Mr. Sydney, you pass all bounds! Am I a timorous man? Your suggestions are foolish, and thoughtless!”
“Meant for men!” cried Ferguson.
“Ay, meant for men!” said Sydney. “All you and Sir Thomas do, Grey, is to counsel inaction! What good is there in that?”
“You had best have a care, sir! I do not stand criticism from you!”
“What’s that?” Mr. Sydney came to his feet. “You’ll answer for that, Lord Grey!”
“Will no one stop me this babel?” cried Monmouth. “It is disgraceful! I will not have it! Lord Grey, I beg you will not speak hastily! Mr. Sydney—”
“Mr. Sydney has insulted me, sir!”
“Sydney speaks very truly! You waver and hesitate, and have not the courage to strike a blow!”
“You had best guard your tongue, Mr. Ferguson!”
“Ay!” Armstrong was flushed. “An you dare—”
Roxhythe stood up. He seemed to tower above them. His lazy eyes travelled slowly round the room from the angry, distracted Monmouth, to the squabbling men by the table.
“An I dare?” cried Ferguson. “Dare? Dare? I’d have you know, sir, that I dare all! and—”
“Thank you. That will do.” The calm, haughty voice penetrated the din. There fell a sudden hush. All eyes were turned to the tall, graceful figure standing by Monmouth, with one hand upraised.
Roxhythe indicated a chair.
“Mr. Sydney, resume your seat.”
Sydney’s eyes flashed.
“Sir!”
The cold voice grew yet more gentle.
“Mr. Sydney?”
“I’ll—I’ll not have this—tone—to me. …” Mr. Sydney sat down, fuming.
Roxhythe turned to Grey.
“You too, my lord. Mr. Ferguson, you will please remember his Grace’s presence. This childish quarrelling is both futile and unseemly.”
“I’ll have ye know, sir, that Ferguson takes orders from no man!”
The faintest suspicion of a smile crossed my lord’s eyes.
“Do ye seek to rouse mine ire, sir?”
The
