V
Plots
“David, ye are a rogue! We see you less and less at Whitehall!” said Charles.
Roxhythe smiled.
“I crave your pardon, Sir. In truth, I am busied with Your Majesty’s affairs.”
“Let be! They are very well.”
“Sir, they may be well for the moment, but as long as Russell and Essex and Sydney are at large trouble will continue to brew.”
Charles waved his hand impatiently.
“How can you prevent their being at large? Let be!”
“Sire, one word I seem to have repeated a number of times: wait! I am deep in plots.”
“I am tired of plots and plotters.”
“Why, so am I. So I seek to make an end.”
“Ye are very mysterious, Davy! Are you playing some deep game, I wonder?”
“I am amusing myself, Sir.”
“That means that you will say no more. Well, well!”
My Lord Roxhythe accompanied His Majesty to Newmarket Races, as was his wont. Five days before the appointed day of departure he had speech with Charles.
“Sire, will you be advised by me?”
Charles, lolling on a couch, stretched out his long legs, yawning.
“Roxhythe, you have become as secret as the grave! What now?”
“I ask you to return to London in two days’ time.”
The sleepy eyes opened.
“Oho! More plots?”
“The strings of which I am gathering into my hands.”
“And you’ll tell me naught?”
“Not yet, Sir. I must first enmesh my victims.”
Charles yawned again.
“I am sick of plots.”
“So I shall not worry you with this. But return to London the day after tomorrow, taking the Duke of York with you.”
“Very well, David. As you please.”
Thus it came about that the King and his brother drove quietly past Mr. Rumbald’s house at Hoddesdon two days before the appointed time. And Mr. Rumbald, who had arranged with one Goodenough and various others, to lie in ambush till the coach passed and then to stop it, and to murder the occupants, was justly incensed. He saw the coach go by, but he was alone in the house, awaiting his fellow-conspirators who were to arrive on the morrow, and he dared not attempt the deed.
Meanwhile, my Lord Roxhythe visited His Grace of Monmouth who was living in seclusion.
Monmouth greeted him effusively.
“Dear Roxhythe! I have been expecting you.”
My lord disengaged himself.
“I have been at Newmarket, Sir, and could not come before.”
Monmouth drew him to a chair.
“Sit down, my lord! sit down! I think you know Mr. Ferguson?”
Roxhythe turned to look at the grim Scotsman.
“I have that honour,” he bowed.
“Yes, I have met his lordship,” said the pamphleteer harshly.
Roxhythe glanced round the room.
“I do not see Lord Russell?”
“He is away from town,” answered Grey, one of Monmouth’s staunchest adherents. “He works to raise the West Country.”
“He is too finicking,” said Mr. Sydney suddenly. “Too cautious.”
Sydney was a very thorough Whig. In the past he had fought under Cromwell.
“Oh!” protested Monmouth. “We have surely need of caution!”
Mr. Trenchard, rough and ready, uplifted his voice.
“He makes no progress. Taunton will rise at my call.”
Monmouth smiled.
“We are indeed pleased with you, Mr. Trenchard.”
Roxhythe bit back a smile.
“It seems we make very little progress in any way,” grumbled Sydney. “We cannot rely on any part of the country to rise.”
“We must have patience,” said Monmouth vaguely.
“Patience will avail us naught! The longer we wait the more we lose!”
Someone argued this hotly. Others joined in.
“Peace, peace!” cried Armstrong. “Do ye quarrel in his Highness’ presence?”
“Ay,” nodded Monmouth. “I cannot have this babel.”
“Highness, all this dillydallying is a weakness!”
“Lord Grey is right!” Ferguson sat up. “We have to strike at the head!”
“That is right,” struck in Mr. Sydney. “The Duke should die.”
“How?” interposed Roxhythe. His soft voice easily made itself heard above the bickering at one end of the room.
Ferguson glowered at him.
“There are many ways.”
“Yet one should be decided on.”
“He might be intercepted as he returns from the playhouse.”
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 smile crept down to Roxhythe’s lips.
“You would do well to sit down, Mr. Ferguson,” said my lord softly.
Ferguson flung over to the window.
“Thank you. Allow me to say that while you are all at variance, action is impossible.” He picked up his hat.
“Roxhythe hits the very root of the matter,” said Monmouth. “You are all under my displeasure.”
“How are we to be assured of Lord Roxhythe his loyalty?” sneered Sydney.
“Any insult to Roxhythe I take to myself!” flashed Monmouth. “Mort de ma vie! To what are we coming? You may be silent, Mr. Sydney!”
“What advice has Roxhythe ever given?” answered Sydney, waxing hotter. “What has he done to help us?”
“Lord Roxhythe has given me sager counsel than any of you!”
“I will give you one piece of advice, Sydney,” said my lord. “It is that you have a care to that unruly tongue of yours. It is like to lead you to disaster.”
“Do you threaten me, my lord?”
“I have never been known to do such a thing,” smiled my lord.
Mr. Sydney said nothing further. Roxhythe turned to Monmouth.
“Your Grace, I do counsel you to await Lord Russell his return. Be sure of your supporters; do nothing rashly. When the time comes, strike firm and true; above all, strike home. But do not endanger success by precipitous action. Permit me to take my leave.”
Monmouth smiled graciously.
“You speak with great sense, my lord. I am entirely of your mind.”
Roxhythe bowed and walked out.
“I applaud Roxhythe,” said Grey. “He at least has a brain.”
Late that evening, Colonel Rumsey presented himself at Bevan House. He was taken to Roxhythe’s private room.
My lord waved him to a chair.
“Sit down, sir. Did they continue to quarrel this morning?”
Rumsey chose the most uncomfortable chair in the room, and sat gingerly on the edge.
“They did, my lord. They fell to arguing over your loyalty. Grey upheld you; Armstrong of course deems you true. But Sydney and Ferguson mistrust you.”
“It matters not in the least. I have learnt enough to hang every man amongst them.”
Rumsey looked at him uneasily.
“My lord, I do not like the part I have to play.”
“No?” said Roxhythe. “I am sorry.”
Rumsey twisted his fingers.
“My lord, expose the plot yourself! Do not ask me to do so!”
“I do not ask,” said his lordship sweetly.
“You have me in a vice!” Rumsey flung out his hands.
“Yes,” agreed Roxhythe.
“If I refuse to betray these men, you will do it and betray me with them. My lord, have a little pity!”
The scorn in Roxhythe’s eyes made Rumsey wince. The fine lips curled.
“I have no mercy for those who plot against His Majesty’s person,” said my lord. His voice was like ice; but it was ice that concealed a fire. “If I followed mine inclination I would have you strung up—ay, and quartered. But as a price for your obedience I give you your life, such as it is.”
Rumsey was white to the lips. Roxhythe fascinated him as a cat fascinates a mouse. He could not look away from that disdainful face.
“My lord,” he stammered. “Have pity! To turn informer! I—” He broke off hopelessly. Roxhythe was smiling. “I am afraid!” he cried desperately.
“So I perceive. If you refuse to do my bidding you will have good cause to be afraid.”
“My lord, my lord, why do you want me to do it? Why do you not do it yourself?”
“It is not my will. If you disclose my hand in the matter you will know what to expect.”
Rumsey passed his tongue between his dry lips.
“And if I do not? If I obey?”
“Have I not said? I give you your life.”
“How do I know that you will not hurl me to destruction when my work is done?”
“It were not worth my while,” answered Roxhythe pleasantly.
“And Keyling? Is he in your power too?” asked Rumsey.
“Certainly.”
“You—you—devil!” said Rumsey, almost hysterically.
“I should advise you to be more civil,” said Roxhythe. “I am not the man to be rude to.”
Rumsey bit his lip. Suddenly he looked up.
“My lord, have you not thought that I might implicate you? You have been in this plot—” He stopped, stricken by the sight of that slow, pitying smile.
“Do you think His Majesty is not aware of the part I play?” asked Roxhythe.