In the sick room Charles lay infinitely weary, infinitely patient, infinitely sad. James bent to whisper in his ear. ‘Sir, you have refused the Sacrament of the Church of England; will you accept that of the Church of Rome?’
‘With... all... my... heart.’ The familiar words came low and slow.
‘I go to bring you a priest,’ James whispered.
‘Thank God. Then—’ and James could see the effort with which he gathered his failing strength, ‘There... must... be... no... danger... to you.’
‘Though it cost me my life I’ll do it!’ James said, very low. He turned to those staling the air of the King’s room—the five-and-twenty peers and all the Council; and the foreign ambassadors waiting, waiting till the King should die. And, more important than them all, the five bishops, ready to catch the King’s soul for their God.
‘I must speak with my brother in private,’ James said. ‘I must ask his wishes about those things that touch him and me alone. Go now, all of you. When we have made an end of talking I shall call you again.’
They thought it a strange request; he could see it in their faces and could not blame them. It was their right to be here. They looked at the King; and he, faintly nodding, they must obey. But, as they went James held back my lords of Bath and Feversham—Protestants both; but hearts more loyal nowhere to be found. ‘Keep guard; let no-one enter while I am gone!’ he commanded.
Catherine’s clock chimed nine as James came into the room. The waiting had seemed endless and she had almost given up hope.
James said, ‘He thanks God that, at this late hour, his soul may be saved. With all my heart, he said.’ They smiled one at the other at the words so perfectly Charles. ‘And yet he begged me to do nothing to bring myself into danger. That a dying man should so think of others!’ There were tears in the cold blue eyes she had never seen there before; not when his first wife had died, nor her infant sons, nor those babes his second wife had lost.
‘All is ready!’ the Queen said. ‘But—’ and in her distress she had actually forgotten the matter, ‘the priest... my priest has no English.’
‘The Lord has provided. Father Hudlestone is here. I saw him praying as I passed his room.’
‘God be praised. Good deeds come home to roost,’ she said and remembered that Charles, though it angered many, kept the good priest with him—Father Hudlestone had once saved his life. Now the priest should save his life again—life eternal. She stopped on a thought; she said, ‘The good Father risks his life in this. He’d not care overmuch. But Charles would care; and I should care!’
James nodded. ‘Charles would bring no man to his death—not though he save his own soul.’
Despairing, they looked at each other. In agony of spirit the dying man waited; the priest stood ready. But, between the King and salvation, a man’s life stood.
She said, at last, ‘Let the priest borrow cassock and wig; no-one, I think, will know him.’
He nodded. ‘I will go at once to Hudlestone and then to my brother. Madam, will you come with me?’
By the private stair that led to the head of the King’s bed—that stair by which he had led many a gay lady—Chiffinch, a ravaged creature, led the good Father. The curled wig upon his old tonsured head was so effective a disguise that the Queen must look twice to know him.
‘Sir,’ James said in the silent room where only my lords of Bath and Feversham kept guard, ‘here is the priest that once saved your life. Now he is come to save your soul.’
The King’s lips moved in thanks.
Hudlestone knelt beside the bed. ‘Sir, are you prepared to be received into the Catholic Church?’
Charles’ lips moved again. Catherine thought God Himself gave strength. He said, very slow, ‘I die in the Faith of the Cath... o... lic Church. I am sorry for my sins... sorry so long com... ing ... into the true Church. Jesus is... merc... i... ful. Hope... hope for sal... va... tion. Die in... char... it... y... all... the world. Par... don, en... e... mies. Ask par... don all... all I have off-end... ed.’
His eyes closed; sweat poured down the grey face. Hudlestone waited; Catherine wiped the wet face with a napkin.
‘Sir, will you make confession now?’ the priest asked; and Charles nodding, James went with Catherine to the window, where the fainting voice could not be heard. At the door Bath and Feversham kept watch.
When the Act of Contrition had been made, Charles said the prayer very slowly after the priest; thereafter he lifted weak hands and, by himself, said Mercy... sweet... Jesus.
‘Now your majesty shall make ready to receive the precious Body and Blood of our dear Saviour,’ the priest said.
Charles tried to lift himself in the bed. ‘Meet... my Lord... not... not... lying in my bed.’
‘Sir, lie still. God understands.’
Father Hudlestone put the wafer on the sick man’s tongue; he could not swallow it. James went to the door and called for water. Now Charles could swallow the wafer; he lay back quiet.
Father Hudlestone left the way he had come and the company returned. Now the bishops came again to their duty. When once more they offered the Sacrament Charles shook his head. ‘I... have... made... my peace... with... God.’
It was ten of the clock now. Charles lay back upon the pillow, his eyes closed; a look of peace upon his tormented face. Catherine sat looking down upon him. Let her eyes behold him while they might. Sir Edmund King saw how she swayed in her chair, one hand to her head. Yesterday she had fainted. He said, ‘Madam, it grows late and you must rest. I must bleed you a little, or I cannot answer for the consequences.’
In the Queen’s room he bled her in the arm; and, though relieved of the drumming of her blood and worn with grief of this long day, she could not sleep.
All through the night the brothers talked—the one that was King and the one soon to be King. His confession of Faith, his reception into the Church of his heart, had given Charles strength to say all that must be said. He bade Chiffinch bring his keys. When he tried to take them, they were too heavy. It was Chiffinch that put them into James’ hands. ‘I... give... them... to... you... with... great... joy!’ Charles said.
James knelt; the tears poured down his rigid mouth.
Charles said, slow and very clear, ‘I... pray... God... to... bless... the... count... ry... in... you, and... you... in... it.’ A spasm of pain—the only sign he gave of agony—twisted his face. Sir Edmund begged that he should take a little rest; but he smiled as who should say Soon there will be time enough to rest.
So the brothers talked; for the first time, perhaps, telling of the love in their hearts one for the other. And, in spite of the King’s weakness and pain, it was harder for James, the cold man that had never opened his heart.
It was midnight when Eliza Ormonde came for the Queen. She found Catherine full-dressed and kneeling—as these long hours she had knelt—before her prie-dieu. That Christ, all-loving, would accept her dear love’s soul she could no longer doubt; she prayed only that the passing be gentle. As she went through the gallery to the King’s rooms, she saw Louise standing grey as a ghost and could yet spare pity that this woman could not come to the man she had, in her fashion, loved, to look upon him for the last time.
When she came into the room Charles sent her a smile of great sweetness; she knelt beside the bed and he put out a hand and laid it upon her head. It has no weight nor substance; it lies like the hand of a ghost.
He said, ‘Kate...’ and there was so much tenderness in the word that her heart all-but broke. She knew that he wanted to ask her pardon and could not bear he should ask it. She knew that he wanted to say his thanks for long friendship, long kindness; she could not endure these things to be said. They must remain secret between her heart and his. She laid a finger upon his lips; they moved under it in the ghost of a kiss. She smiled at him; then, seeing how he lay there so tormented and so good, bearing all with a most patient courage, found herself praying that he might rest now without further torment; that God would call him now... now.
The room began to spin about her. The tormented figure in the bed and the bed with him, was moving slowly... slowly; and now in ever widening, ever quickening circles. There was a blackness rising before her eyes; a weight as of the whole world pressed her down. She put out her hands to thrust away the weight, to break through the darkness, that she might once more set eyes upon her dear love. She was pushing at the darkness with her two hands; she heard a voice speaking... Forgive me... I am not well. She did not know the voice was her own.
She opened her eyes upon the darkness; and it was not the darkness of night. Through the curtains a shaft of daylight came slanting... an infinity of motes dancing. The blackness, she saw now, was the blackness of mourning... black curtains about her bed, and at the windows, and upon the walls. They had been busy about that business while she slept. She understood the meaning. She fell back upon the bed.
Charles is dead. He died today. She sought carefully in her mind. Friday, the sixth day of February in the year of grace sixteen-hundred and eighty-five. Charles is dead. He died today. Friday the sixth day of February... over and over again.
James came into the darkened room. He was the King now and she must rise. She struggled upwards but he put out a hand. ‘Sister, lie still.’ And it was long since he had called her sister and not Madam. But still she struggled to lift herself.
‘I must see him!’ she cried out. ‘I must see him!’
‘No.’ And he remembered the dark agony imprinted upon the dying face. ‘He would not wish it.’ And since she struggled still, ‘I do not wish it!’ There was new authority in his voice; voice of a King.
He seated himself; a thing he had never done without her permission; but now it was right he should do so.
He said, ‘You would wish to know... everything. When they carried you away you were crying out he should forgive your weakness. You remember?’
She nodded.
‘He said—and the tears ran down his wasted cheeks, She ask my pardon? It’s I should ask hers. And I do it with all my heart. Yet, no need; no need. She forgave me long ago. Yet I am sorry. Tell her... tell her so...’
He stopped; for the first time since Charles’ illness, she was weeping.
‘Then he said Goodbye to me.’ James’ face was drawn with grief. ‘He said he had always loved me. He said he had sent me away because a King, at times, is forced to act against his heart... as I, myself, should find. And then he spoke of you...’
She was glad of the darkness that he could not see her tears.
‘The kindest wife, he said; the best, the most loving...’
But not most loved; he never said that; he never said it.
‘He bade me cherish you.’ He stopped; he said, unwilling, ‘He asked for his sons.’
No son of mine to bless his dying eyes. She lay there desolate, seeing them, the handsome boys, kneeling to take his blessing.
‘It was Bishop Ken admitted them. There’s some to censure him that he admitted the King’s bastards—fruits of his sin—to his dying bed.’
‘I cannot think God will take it amiss,’ she said; and it was as though Charles himself spoke there in the room.
‘Young Richmond was crying; at thirteen a boy should discipline his tears. I saw my brother’s head turn this way and that seeking... seeking; but he could no longer see. And if he could have seen? He’d not have found the thing he sought.’ James’ voice was bitter; blunt honesty drove him on. ‘His lips were moving; there was no sound in his voice. Jamie, he was saying, Jamie... he kept saying it. In all the world he loved his Absalom best.’
She was weeping now so that her whole body shook and trembled. He said, ‘Enough for now.’
She cried out at that. Every word, every last thought—though not for her—was precious.
‘When his sons were gone,’ James told her, ‘he spoke of... others.’
‘You may name them,’ she said.
‘His children are provided for, he said; and his French mistress, also. But he asked me to guard her dignity that the wind blow not too cold when he was gone. And he remembered the playactress, also. Let not poor Nelly starve, he said.’
‘It does him honour.’ But for all that there was bitterness in her mouth.
‘And then—it was growing towards morning—he spoke no more of those that were dear, but of that which was dearest of all—this land and this people; he blessed them both together. And we fell on our knees all of us within the room—and we prayed with him. Then he prayed that his people, everyone, would forgive him if he had done amiss or neglected anything that might have done them good. His voice was faint but by God’s miracle it was clear. And all the time he lifted his hands to God.
‘And then the pain took him...’ James’ face twisted. ‘It was very bad. Yet he thanked God that gave him strength to bear it; and he thanked those that had cared for him in his sickness. And then—had he not been dying, I had thought he jested—he said, Gentlemen, forgive me. I have been long a-dying.’
‘It was no jest,’ she said. ‘Never a man more perfect in courtesy.’
James nodded. ‘And now it was morning. He had not slept all night. He asked the time. Six o’clock, Tom Bruce told him; and never have I seen a young face so stricken. It is a good young man. I shall remember him.
‘Draw the curtains my brother said. Let me see the light... for the last time. So Tom drew the curtains; but it was not yet light. And had it been light... he had not seen it. And then... a little thing; yet it was perfect Charles. He whispered about a clock that must be wound. Tom Bruce said it must be his eight-day clock and I went and wound it. He could not see nor hear; but somehow he knew it ticked again, for he lay and smiled.’
Catherine, herself, could not forbear the smile; it was as James had said, perfect Charles.
‘He lay murmuring a little... of his children; of this one and that. But mostly of you. Kate, he kept saying, Kate... I think he wandered then, for he said something about a harbour and a home.’
She held her lips with her two hands lest the cry break forth.
‘After that he spoke no more save to say the name of God. And then he plucked a little upon the sheet and he sighed gently, and—very quiet—was gone. It was between eleven and noon.’
‘Life has stopped for him. And for me... for me, too. Stop the clocks; stop all the clocks!’ she cried out, her voice thin and high with grief.
‘Life begins for him—we must believe it!’ James said. ‘After all the agony—a gentle falling asleep. He died as Christian a gentleman as ever lived; he died the name of God upon his lips; he died in the true Faith. How should a man die better?’ And then he said, ‘Never such sorrow at the death of any King. Everywhere the people weep as for a child or a father, or a lover or husband. Pray God I die as godly as he; and that I be so good a King, so greatly loved.’
‘Amen to that.’
He was dead. She had been his wife, his counsellor, his friend... but never his love. Now she was nothing, nothing at all. And there was no child to comfort her. Those women had their children; but she had no child to bless her with his likeness. Her grief was so bitter, so dire, so eviscerating, it was as though she mourned husband and children together.
When James had gone she dragged herself from the bed, and prayed for the soul of Charles. And, having prayed, stretched herself upon her widow’s bed. She looked about the darkened room, lit only by the one lamp that burned before her clock and thought, All that is left... a perpetual darkness.