“He is not old. Fifty-five is not an age to die.”

“He has lived too well perhaps. He has had the appointed span albeit he has packed into less years more than most men do.”

They were talking round the real issue which was how would Monmouth act now, and more important still, what did my father intend to do?

My father went on talking about the King’s death, how the evening before he became ill he had been in the midst of the company and seemed well enough. He had supped with his concubines—the Duchesses of Portsmouth, Cleveland and Mazarin—and had given them many caressing displays of affection as was his wont. There had been the usual gambling and music, and they had all been enchanted by the singing of a little French boy who had been sent over by the courtesy of the King of France.

The King had visited the apartments of the Duchess of Portsmouth and had been lighted back to his rooms, where he had joked in his usual benevolent manner. The gentleman-in-waiting, whose duty it was to sleep on a mattress in his room along with the spaniels which were the King’s constant companions, had said that the King had groaned in his sleep and when he arose did not seem well. He had taken a few drops of the medicine he had invented himself and which was called “The King’s Drops.” My father had had it given to him on more than one occasion and the King had described the ingredients to him: they were opium, bark of elder and sassafras all mixed up together in wine. Fifteen drops of this in a glass of sherry was considered to be a cure for all ailments. It had failed to cure the King, and when his servants were shaving him they were horrified to see his face grow suddenly purple, his eyes roll to the ceiling as he lolled forward in his chair. They could not understand what he was trying to say. They thought he was choking. He tried to rise and fell back into their arms. They feared death was imminent.

The Duke of York—the heir—came running to his brother’s bedside with one foot in a slipper and the other in a shoe. They had not known whether Charles had recognized him.

“York!” cried my father angrily. “It is a sad day for this country with such a King. Charles knew the people did not want James. Didn’t he say once: ‘They’d never get rid of me, James, because that would mean having you. Therefore the crown is safe on my head.’ Oh, why didn’t he legitimatize Monmouth!”

“There would still have been those who stood for James.”

“The Catholics, yes,” retorted my father angrily. Then he went on to tell us how attempts had been made to save the King’s life. Every remedy known had been used: hot irons pressed to his forehead, a liquid made from the extraction from skulls of dead men and women forced down his throat. He had been in great pain, but he had regained control of his speech and managed to joke in his wonted manner.

“We thought he was going to live,” said my father. “You should have seen the joy in people’s faces. They wanted to light their bonfires everywhere. Alas, it was a little too early to rejoice. There was a relapse and then there could be no doubt that he was dying. He showed more concern for his mistresses and his illegitimate children than anyone else.”

“And Monmouth?” asked my mother.

“He did not mention his name.”

“So now James the Second is King of England.”

“God help us, yes.”

“Carleton, you will not become involved. You will stay here in the country.”

“My dear Arabella, you know me better than that.”

“Does all this mean nothing to you? Your home, your family … ?”

“So much,” he answered, “that I shall protect it with my life if need be.”

They seemed unaware of me. I turned away and left them. He was comforting her, easing her fears. But I knew him well. He was a man who, when he had made up his mind that a cause was right, would stop at nothing to work for it. He had been the one who had stayed in England during the Commonwealth to work for the return of the King. He had lived in the midst of his enemies, posing as a Roundhead, he, the greatest Royalist of them all.

He had risked his life every minute of the day. He would do it again.

I was very uneasy.

We knew little peace from that moment. My mother went about the house like a pale ghost. My father was often at Court. I noticed how nervous my mother was becoming. She was startled every time we heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard.

We learned that the new King had heard Mass openly in the Queen’s chapel. The Quakers sent a deputation to him in which they testified their sorrow in the death of Charles and their loyalty to the new King. The wording of the petition was significant.

We are told that thou art not of the persuasion of the Church of England any more than we, and therefore we hope that thou will grant unto us the same liberty thou allowest thyself.

In April the new King and Queen were crowned. James showed his leanings clearly by arresting Titus Oates, and although none felt any great sorrow about that, it did indicate that the King wished for no voice to be raised against the Catholics. Titus Oates was made to pay a fine of one thousand marks, was defrocked and condemned to be whipped publicly twice, and every year of his life to stand five times in the pillory. This would perhaps be the worst ordeal of all, as he had gathered many enemies during his reign of terror.

It was May—a beautiful month. Twenty-five years ago Charles had come back to regain his kingdom, and for those years the country had been lulled into a sense of security and rich living. The Puritan rule was over; the meaning of life was pleasure. The King had set the example and the country was only too happy to follow. The reign had been marred only by the Popish Plot and the Rye House Plot; and both of these had been formed at the instigation of foolish, evil men.

Now the days of soft living were over. There was a new King on the throne, and he was a Catholic King in a country which was dedicated in the main to Protestantism. It was said that Charles himself had been a Catholic; if he had been, he had also been too wise to show it openly. James had no such cynical wisdom, and in that beautiful month of May the menacing clouds hung over our house.

My father said quite casually, but I could tell he was hiding his excitement, “The Duke of Monmouth has sailed from Texel with a frigate and two small vessels.”

“So,” replied my mother blankly, “he is coming to England.”

My father nodded.

“He will not be such a fool …” she began.

My father said: “He is the King’s son. Many say Charles was married to Lucy Walter. Most important of all, he will stand for the Protestant cause.”

“Carleton!” she cried, “you will not …”

“My dear,” he answered very soberly, “you may be sure that I shall do what I consider best for us all.”

He would say no more than that. But he was waiting. And we knew that one day the summons would come.

It was nearly three weeks later when it did.

Monmouth had landed at Lyme in Dorset and was appealing to his friends to join him. He was going to make an attempt to take the throne from James.

On the day my father left for the West Country a Bill of Attainder was issued against the Duke and a reward of five hundred pounds offered to anyone who could bring him to justice, dead or alive.

My mother was inconsolable.

“Why did he have to do this!” she cried. “This will be civil war. Why do we have to take sides? What does it matter to me what King is on the throne?”

I said: “It matters to my father.”

“Does it matter more than his home … his family?”

“He was always a man for causes,” I reminded her.

She nodded, and a bitter smile touched her mouth. I knew she was thinking of her arrival here when she had come with her first husband—Edwin’s father—and how she met my father, who was then living at the utmost risk … for a cause.

“Monmouth will never succeed,” she said vehemently, “I know it.”

“And I know,” I assured her, “that my father is a man who will win through.”

It was a grain of comfort … nothing more. There was little we could do but wait. It was then that she gave me the family journals to read and I learned so much about her and him that I was filled with a new tenderness towards them both.

News came from the West Country. Monmouth had taken Taunton and it seemed that the West was ready to declare for him. Flushed with victory, he had issued a counter proclamation to that of the King, offering five thousand pounds for the head of King James and declaring Parliament a seditious assembly.

“It was the braggart in him,” said my mother. He was young and reckless. He might be Charles’s son but he would never be the man his father had been.

“How can your father! How can he? Monmouth is doomed to failure. He has failure written all over him. I pray to God to guard your father.”

There was a jubilant message from my father. Monmouth had been proclaimed King in Taunton and was marching on Bristol.

We heard later that he did not reach Bristol, as the King’s army was approaching. So he went back to Bridgwater and there prepared for the great battle.

My father wrote to us on the eve of the battle and sent a messenger to us.

Be of good heart. Ere long there will be a new King on the throne and though his name will be James he will not be James Stuart. This will be James Scott, King of England.

Reading the letter my mother grew angry.

“How foolish of him … to write thus. The risk he runs! Oh, Priscilla, I fear for him. I fear so much.”

I repeated my belief that he would always win through. “Whatever happens, he will be all right. I know it.”

She smiled wanly. “He always got what he wanted,” she agreed.

The outcome of that fateful battle of Sedgemoor is well known. What chance had Monmouth against the King’s forces led by the Earl of Faversham and his second in command, John Churchill? Monmouth’s army consisted of rustics and men such as my father who, for all their bravery and dedication, were not professional soldiers.

Monmouth’s army was easily defeated and Monmouth himself, seeing the day was lost, was more intent on preserving his own life than standing to fight with those who had so loyally supported him.

Many people had been taken prisoner—among them my father.

We were stunned, although my mother had been expecting disaster ever since the death of the King, but that our pleasant lives should be suddenly so devastated was something we found it hard to accept.

The news grew worse. My father was imprisoned in Dorchester, and when my mother heard that the Lord Chief Justice, Baron George Jeffreys, would preside at the trial, she was overcome by a frenzy of grief.

“He is a wicked man,” she cried. “He is cruel beyond belief. I have heard such tales of him. And your father will be at his mercy. He said at the time of his appointment that he could not understand why Jeffreys had been given the post. Charles disliked him. He once said he had no learning, no sense, no manners and more impudence than ten carted streetwalkers. I know he opposed the appointment for a long time. It was a sign of his weakening strength that he at length gave way. Oh, I am so afraid. He hates men like your father. He envies them their good looks, their breeding and their boldness. He will have no mercy. There is nothing he enjoys more than condemning a man to death.”

My mother’s grief was more than I could bear. I kept thinking of wild plans to rescue my father. The thought of his being herded into prison with countless others was horrifying.

Thomas and Christabel came to see us as soon as they heard the news; they were genuinely grieved. Thomas had a grain of comfort to offer. “Jeffreys is a greedy man,” he said. “It is hinted that he will be lenient in return for some profit. They say he is hoping to make a small fortune out of these assizes, for there are some rich people involved.”

“Then there is a chance!” cried my mother.

“It would have to be done very tactfully and he would want a good deal, I daresay.”

“I would give everything I have,” she replied fervently.

Clearly the Willerbys had raised her spirits, for she came to my room that night. She looked very frail and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She stood against the door and I longed to comfort her, for I knew that without him her life would not be worth living.

She said: “I have made up my mind. I shall leave for the West Country tomorrow.”