The Great Roxhythe

“Under which King, Bezonian?”

King Henry IV Part II

To
my mother and father.

Book I

The Ways Run Parallel

I

The King and His Favourite

A large gentleman was strolling from group to group in one of the great galleries of Whitehall. He was very exquisite, this gentleman, adorned with all the coloured silks, velvets and furbelows which that Year of Grace, 1668, demanded. A great peruke was on his head, with flowing, dark curls that reached over his breast and below his shoulders. He carried his plumed hat in his hand, and at times he made great play with it, as if to point some witty remark. At other times he opened his jewelled comfit-box with a delicate flick of his wrist, and selected, with some care, a tinted sweetmeat. Once or twice he swept a low bow to some lady of his acquaintance, but for the most part he was occupied with the courtiers who were present, always lazily smiling, and with his brown eyes bored and expressionless. His height, and the breadth of his shoulders made him easily distinguishable in the gay throng, so that those who wished to speak to him soon found where he was standing, and made their way towards him. He was the Most Noble the Marquis of Roxhythe, the King’s favourite and the ladies’ darling, and his name was on many lips.

No longer in his first youth, my lord had nothing to learn in the way of polish. He was the perfect courtier, combining grace and insolence even more successfully than his Grace of Buckingham. His brow was incomparable; his air French; his wit spicy; his tailoring beyond words, remarkable. Even in those days of splendour and unlimited extravagance he was said to be fabulously wealthy.

All this was enough to gain him popularity, but yet another asset was his. This was the ear of the King.

For no one did Charles cherish quite so warm a regard. He had never been heard to speak harshly to the favourite, and the favourite had never been heard to take a liberty with his good-natured master. He had been with Charles on his travels; had fought at his side at Worcester, had entered London in his train in 1660, and was now one of the most influential men in town.

He was something of an enigma. As indolent and as licentious as his royal master, possessing strong personal magnetism, many engaging qualities, and excellent abilities, he never interested himself in the affairs of the moment nor exercised his influence either for his own ends or for those of some “party.” He belonged to none of the factions; he was no statesman; his lazy unconcern was widely known. He never plotted, and never worried himself over the affairs of the State. He had few friends, and some enemies. The King’s brother, the Duke of York, openly disliked him for the influence he held over Charles; influence that his Grace did not possess; influence that might be turned against him. Many of the courtiers covertly hated him for this same reason, but no one, for some inexplicable reason, ever intentionally annoyed him.

This afternoon, as he walked through the gallery, he found that the conversation was more serious than was either seemly or usual. On all sides was talk of the Triple Alliance with Holland and Spain which the King had signed but a few weeks ago. No one could quite understand why Charles had done this, but nearly everyone was pleased. Uneasy patriots who feared the French King’s yoke saw in this new bond a safeguard against France and a safeguard against the attacks of the Dutch; while the fervent religious party who had murmured at the King’s marriage to a Papist and at his good-humoured toleration of the Catholic religion thought this Protestant alliance a proof of Charles’ good faith.

The King occupied himself so little with affairs that many of the men who surrounded him came to the conclusion that he had had no mind of his own in the matter, but had blindly followed his ministers’ instructions. Others who had more insight into the King’s nimble, competent brain confessed themselves at a loss to explain his concurrence with a bond which must surely be disadvantageous to himself. These were his intimates; men who had some conception of the King’s friendship with his cousin Louis, and a knowledge of the condition of his private purse. They wondered, and surmised, and exchanged glances, but they were few in number, and the majority of men thought the King an indolent prince with no head for business and certainly no taste for intricate intrigue.

It seemed that the only man at Whitehall that afternoon who neither wondered nor surmised but who was content to receive the news placidly and without argument, was, as usual, Lord Roxhythe. He spent his time turning aside solemn questions as to his opinion of the bond by a series of flippant rejoiners. He grew weary at last of trying to turn men’s thoughts into lighter and more congenial channels, and withdrew to the side of Mrs. Chester, one of the Queen’s ladies. There he remained, and was exchanging languid badinage with her when a page broke in on the gathering about the lady’s couch and bowed low.

His Majesty desired my lord to go to him at once.

It was no unusual thing for Charles to summon his favourite to him privately, and no one thought it a matter for suspicion; not even Sir Thomas Killigrew who was unreasonably jealous of his rival.

My Lord Roxhythe cast an appealing glance at Mrs. Chester, and rose.

“Oh well, sir!” shrugged the lady with a little moue of pretended anger. “I know you will never stay by my side when His Majesty calls!”

“Sweetheart,” retorted Roxhythe, audaciously, “I would stay by your side as I could, but seeing that I may not, how can I?”

Mrs. Chester laughed immoderately at this, flirting her fan.

“You confound me with your woulds and coulds, sir! I know not the answer to your riddle, yet if I command your company … ?”

“Then on two sides my company is demanded, and on the both by Royalty.”

“How?” she dimpled.

“Why, Fairest, if His Majesty is King of England, you are the Queen of Beauty, and I know not whose claim be the stronger.”

As Mrs. Chester was no more than ordinarily good looking, this fulsome compliment pleased her very much.

“And so what would you do?”

“I would compromise, sweet.”

“Compromise! I do not think I like the word. But how?”

Roxhythe picked up his hat and gloves and bowed.

“I would take you with me to His Majesty so you might both have my company.”

Her laughter followed him across the gallery as he walked in the wake of the page to the King’s private closet.

Charles sat at his desk, his chin in his hand, but at Roxhythe’s entry he rose and came forward, hands outstretched.

Roxhythe took them in his, carrying them to his lips.

“Ye are recovered from your indisposition, Davy?” asked the King affectionately. “Do you know that ’tis five days since I have seen you?”