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William did not know that MacIan, head of the McDonald clan, had waited until the last day of December and then had gone to Fort William to take the oath, only to find there was no magistrate there. This had meant that he must travel to Inverary, through the Highlands in difficult weather, and thus he had not taken the oath until the sixth day of January.
The Campbells decided that this would be a good way of destroying the rival clan, and keeping from William the fact that MacIan had belatedly taken the oath, assured him that if he ordered that justice should be done, they would see that it was.
William, weary of troublemakers, believing that he had to show a strong hand, decided to make an example and gave the required order.
As for the McDonalds of Glencoe, if they can well be distinguished from the rest of the Highlanders, it will be proper for, the vindication of public justice to extirpate that set of thieves. W.R.
Captain Campbell rejoiced to receive orders which were to fall upon the rebels, the McDonalds of Glencoe, and put all under seventy years of age to the sword.
Taking his band of soldiers to the glen, he was welcomed by the McDonalds, given hospitality, as was the custom of the district, and invited to stay as long as he wished.
There was revelry for a day or two; then the order was given; the passes were closed so that none might escape, and men, women, and children were slaughtered in what came to be known as the Massacre of Glencoe.
The news of what had happened was hurried south.
Innocent men and women murdered by the orders of the Dutch Monster! MacIan had sworn the oath—but because he was a few days late doing it his entire clan was destroyed.
“This is a deed which will be remembered long after Dutch William lies in his tomb,” growled the people.
There was no peace to be had. Ireland was still not completely subdued; the news of the Massacre of Glencoe was shocking the British Isles, and in Scotland many were ready to rise against the Dutchman whom they blamed for that tragedy.
On the Continent James was raising an army and Louis was helping him. His wife was pregnant and James had sent invitations to all those who should be present at the birth of one who was in the line of succession to the throne. Mary and Anne were sent invitations—and all were promised a safe conduct into France and liberty to return to England when they wished.
The discovery of Marlborough’s duplicity, while it had made William and Mary so apprehensive, had put heart into James. He believed that if he could gain one big victory many important men who now served William—somewhat discontentedly—would come over to him. Marlborough was one; Godolphin was another; he believed that Nottingham was a Jacobite at heart; and who was most important, Admiral Russell who could bring over a part of the fleet.
William’s health had taken a turn for the worse and he was spitting blood so frequently that he found it difficult to keep this a secret. Mary was beside herself with anxiety. But when he came to her and told her that he must go to Holland, for matters seemed to be coming to a head on the Continent, she knew that she could do nothing to dissuade him.
“I know that I can safely leave the government in your hands,” he said with more kindness than usual.
“I trust I shall not disappoint you,” she answered.
He pressed her hand, which was as near a caress as he could get.
“One thing that pleases me is that the greatest of all troublemakers is banished from Court. But what of the woman? I fancy she is more deadly than the man.”
So once more he sailed away and Mary was left to govern her turbulent realm alone.
Soon after he had left she developed a cold which because of the pressure of business she ignored. In a few days she was delirious and those about her feared she was dying.
In Sion House Sarah was so delighted she could not hide her pleasure.
“Think what this is going to mean, Mrs. Morley. He was spitting blood before he went to Holland. She is laid low. After all Providence cannot go on forgetting us. Evil is always punished; good rewarded. You will see.”
But Sarah had her anxieties; when she looked at Anne whose pregnancy should end in a month or so, she wondered if she were not in as bad a state as her sister and brother-in-law. She was enormous. Surely something must be wrong for a woman to be so large. If Anne should die that would be the biggest misfortune which could befall the Marlboroughs. Sarah bustled around Anne, never allowing her for one moment to be in a draught, cosseting, fussing to such an extent that Anne was often in tears merely to contemplate the devotion of her beloved Mrs. Freeman.
Meanwhile Mary was growing so ill that those about her were certain she was near her end.
Mary herself believed this. She was young to die—thirty; and she felt that she was leaving her affairs in the utmost disorder. William needed her, she was sure, far more than he realized. She thought of him, driving himself to work in Flanders when he was suffering acutely from all the disorders which had been with him so long that he considered them a part of his life.
There were times when she was so ill that she was not sure where she was. Sometimes she thought she was a little girl again playing in Richmond Palace with the Villiers girls. Sarah had intruded there, and was a shady figure in her dreams to disturb her. The pleasantest dreams were those in which Monmouth figured—gay and dashing, dancing with her at The Hague; and sometimes the face of Monmouth changed to that of Shrewsbury. She was depressed to be dragged from such dreams to the reality: her sickbed, with troubles crowded about her; rebellion abroad and at home; surrounded by spies so that she did not know whom she could trust; her own sister, under the influence of that venomous woman—her enemy.
To her surprise and that of everyone else Mary recovered.
She believed this to be a sign. She had been spared because she had more work to do on earth. She surprised everyone by the speed of her recovery.
There were letters from William. She must realize that James was amassing an army in Normandy at this time, and she must be prepared for invasion. She must be watchful for it was possible that those whom she felt she ought to be able to trust were at this moment working against her. If there should be an invasion he would immediately send Bentinck to her. He himself would not be able to come until he had raised the siege of Namur.
“He shall not be disappointed in me,” she murmured.
Sir Benjamin Bathurst was asking for an audience with the Queen.
In the midst of all the preparations, when a knock at the door would make Mary start and wonder what fresh disaster was about to be announced, Mary’s heart began to beat fast, for Benjamin Bathurst was the husband of Frances Apsley, the woman whom Mary had once loved best in all the world.
“Frances’s husband … to see me,” she murmured; and her thoughts ran on. Is Frances dying? Is she asking for me?
She was trembling a little when Sir Benjamin entered.
“Welcome, Sir Benjamin,” she said. “Pray give me news of Frances.”
“She is well, Your Majesty.”
“Ah!” Her relief was apparent.
He said: “I bring you this letter.”
She seized it and her eyes sought the once familiar handwriting which had meant so much to her, but this was another handwriting which she knew well.
“The Princess Anne has asked me to deliver this letter into your hands.”
So he came from Anne. Of course Anne had kept up her friendship with Frances. Anne had always had to imitate her in those days and because she had loved Frances passionately, Anne had had to do so too. And now Anne had turned to Sarah Churchill—a friendship Mary certainly did not share.
“Thank you,” she said. “I will read it at once. Pray wait a while. There is much I wish to ask you … about dear Frances.”
The letter was in Anne’s childish scrawl. Her pains had started and as she feared she was much worse than usual, she thought the Queen should come at once to Sion House.
Mary folded the letter, and put it into her pocket.
“Pray tell me of your wife,” she said. “It is long since I have seen her. She comes so little to Court. But of course now she has her family. I know how happy she must be with her children.”
Benjamin said that the children were well and that their mother was devoted to them.
“Dear Frances!” sighed Mary.
Sir Benjamin was surprised that the Queen should make him talk of Frances for he knew the contents of the letter he had brought.
Sarah said: “So she does not come. Her sister may be dying for all she cares.”
Barbara Fitzharding shrugged her shoulders. “It is because you are here.”
“And a mercy it is that there is someone to look after the Princess!”
“There are many of us,” Barbara pointed out.
“She needs someone whose sole care is for her. She needs affection and there are few who can give that.”
Barbara lowered her eyes. She would like to have told Sarah Churchill that she was not subtle enough; her loud voice and her loose tongue didn’t deceive anybody. Those who believed her motives were altruistic would have to be very simple indeed. But Barbara had no wish to quarrel with her, for Sarah’s behavior was just what was needed to give everything away. It would not be nearly so easy to gauge what was going on in this household but for her audible vituperations.
The midwife was with the Princess. This had been a longer labor than usual and Sarah was anxious.
She was at the bedside when the child was born.
A boy. A poor frail little boy, who breathed for a few minutes and then like so many of his predecessors, died.
Mary came to Sion House expecting, from the reports she had had, to find her sister on the point of death.
Anne was propped up in her bed and when Mary saw that she was no worse than after other accouchements she was angry. A campaign, doubtless, started by Sarah Churchill, to call attention to the poor neglected Princess who had been brought to bed in Sion House instead of Whitehall or St. James’s.
All this, when the country was in danger of invasion, and sisters could not stand together!
Mary sat beside the bed and said: “I had expected to see you in worse state.”
“I have had a very bad time,” sighed Anne.
“You look a little tired, that is all.”
Anne put her kerchief to her eyes. “And I have lost my baby.”
“You have little Gloucester, so you should be thankful. You have been more fortunate than I.”
“But think how many times I have been brought to bed … only to suffer loss.”
“We must accept our fate. I have come to talk seriously to you. There should not be quarrels in families. The times are too dangerous. We should stand together. So I have made the first step toward ending our quarrel by coming to see you. You must make the next.”
“But how so?” asked Anne.
“You know what I mean. Get rid of the Marlborough woman.”
“I have never disobeyed you but in this one respect,” said Anne. “I believe that some time you will see how unreasonable it is of you to ask me to give up my greatest friend. I will not do it.”
Mary stood up. “Then I have nothing more to say to you now.”
When she had gone, Sarah, who had naturally been listening, came into the apartment.
“Well done, Mrs. Morley. I am proud of you.”
“She came just to ask me to get rid of you.”
“Insolence! She is worried you know.”
“I gathered that. It is the thoughts of invasion.”
“James has an army assembled in Normandy. If he comes, you should be prepared. He will hate them … but he will be ready to forgive you. You should write to him without delay.” Sarah brought her mouth close to the Princess’s ear. “Tell him that when he comes to England you will go at once to him.”
“Oh, Sarah, you think he will soon be here?”
“No. But it is as well to be prepared. One can never be sure.”
“How right you are on all things, Sarah.”
“It is because my undivided attention is given to the affairs of my dearest Morley.”
THE FLOWERPOT PLOT
here were many people in England at this time who were wondering how to turn the situation to their advantage—some low born as well as high—and one of these was a man named Robert Young.
He was lying in Newgate Prison when he conceived the idea of fabricating a plot which would be a sham, of course, but which could be used by people in high places to rid themselves of their enemies. He had tried to get this taken up and even succeeded in having it brought before William himself, but William had treated the suggestion with disdain and had thought it too trivial to inquire from what source it came.
Robert Young had been cheating all his life—he lived by it, he delighted in it, and if it had not brought him great wealth it had brought adventure. His greatest skill was forgery; he could copy a signature after a little practice so that it was impossible to tell it from the original. Such a gift was invaluable to his schemes and he longed to make use of it. He had spent most of his youth in Ireland although he had been born in Lancashire. He claimed that he had been educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and although he had diplomas to authenticate this his name was not on the list of graduates. By producing his forged certificates he procured admission to deacons orders and became a curate in Waterford. He married, tired of his wife, and went through a form of marriage with Mary Hutt, the daughter of an innkeeper who, liking the adventurous life, was more to his taste. He did well as a curate, performing all sorts of illegal acts for a good price, but he had to run away when one of his flock became pregnant.
He was arrested for bigamy and sent to prison but was released when he promised to divulge a Popish plot. This he did by forging the signature of various people to whom he had written at some time or other merely for the purpose of supplying himself with signatures he could copy: On the point of being discovered he came to England.
It did not take Young long to forge more documents which he pretended had been written by the Archbishop of Canterbury. With these he managed to delude several clerics, live on their bounty, and extract money from them, until he was found out; at Bury he and Mary Hutt were imprisoned.
While he was in jail he wrote to the Archbishop of Canterbury telling him that he had been ill-used, giving him a long account of a fictitious Irish background, asking for his help and promising in return to uncover plots against the state. The Archbishop ignored this and on being released from Bury jail Young forged the Archbishop’s signature and worked the same trick in England as he had in Ireland, visiting wealthy clergymen, telling them he came from the Archbishop, and extracting large sums of money from them.
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