CHAPTER XIII
FRANCE CHALLENGES
The sentry on duty at the foot of the great staircase in Hampton CourtPalace was nearly asleep.
The palace had been silent for hours; ever since he had relieved thesoldier before him he had not heard a sound. It was now nearly threeo'clock and beginning to be dark on the huge, gloomy stairway, for itwas mid-November and a mist had risen all day from the river.
The sentry yawned and then shivered. Wren's palace was neither verycheerful nor very well warmed. The sentry preferred Whitehall, with thenoises of the city without and the coming and going of people to thepublic galleries.
His Majesty was in residence at Hampton Court, but that made littledifference. He lived so quietly and saw so few people, that he might,the sentry thought, as well have stayed at Loo. He only came, as waswell known, to open Parliament, and the moment it was up he would be offagain to Holland--a poor compliment to England; and now there was notthe excuse of the campaigns.
The sentry yawned again and stretched himself, after carefully restinghis musketoon against the dark wall; then he looked up the stairs, whichwere painted with great, scrambling, heathen figures that swarmed up tothe roof, where they were lost in the fast gathering shadows. He thenwalked up and down to keep himself warm, and began to wonder how muchlonger now before he was changed; it was difficult to keep count of thetime because he had lost the last chiming of King Henry's great, paintedclock.
Presently the door at the head of the stairs opened, very slowly, butwith a distinct sound in the perfect silence.
The sentry caught up his musketoon, thinking that this was one of theofficers from the guard-room, and peered cautiously up the stairway.
It was, however, a gentleman in private clothes who was slowly closingthe door after him with, it seemed, some difficulty.
The sentry, who knew no one had gone up, wondered who it could be. Thestairs were so dark that he could distinguish no more than a slightfigure, hatless, and wearing a cloak.
There was a moment's pause and silence, then the new-comer began todescend the wide, shadowed stairs, and the sentry knew who it was--therewas only one person who moved about the palace with that slow andpainful step, and that was the King.
The man drew back, rigid, to his post. He wondered that the King shouldbe coming down the state staircase unattended and on such an inclementday. As he stood, stiff at the salute, he watched the frail figurecrawling with dragging pauses through the dusk.
The King had one hand on the heavy balustrade, and, by grasping this,helped himself along. His head was bowed, and he continually paused tocough or gasp for breath, his hesitating and unequal steps began to raspin the sentry's brain--he wished some one else would come. It seemed anintolerable length of time as the King made his difficult progress fromstep to step, and the cloaked figure with the bent, hidden face and theone white hand, so thin that every bone in it showed, moving slowly downthe baluster, affected the solitary watcher with a sense almost ofterror.
As the King approached this terror increased, as if some ghostly orunearthly presence neared. The hall and stairway rapidly darkened, andthe King was but a shadow among shadows when he at length reached thelast step and stood grasping the post with his left hand and holding hisheart with his right.
He stood there so long and so silently that the sentry's sense ofdiscomfort increased, and he felt a strong desire to turn and fly.
Presently the King moved, with difficult, faltering steps, across thehall, and unlatched the door that gave on the courtyard. As he did so, afull ray of ghastly light fell across the obscurity, and the reason ofthe sudden darkness was explained, for a thin cloud of snow could beseen against the grey masonry of the palace.
The sentry, who knew that it was dangerous for the King to go out savewhen the weather was very fair, was startled to see him standing therewith the chill wind stirring his cloak and the bitter light of the snowon his face. He stepped forward instinctively, but the King did nothear him.
After a few seconds William passed out, and, acting on an irresistibleimpulse, the sentry followed him.
The King turned to the left under the covered arcade, and, half restinghimself on the inner wall, made weary progress, the snow drifting inthrough the open arches as far as his feet. He was continually soshaken with his cough that he had to pause, and once the sentry caught ashort ejaculation of pain.
They had made almost the circuit of the courtyard and had come toanother entrance to the palace, when a second sentry crossed their path.William murmured something, passed him without looking back; the soldierstared after him, then caught sight of the other following.
"What is this?" he asked, in a quick whisper.
The sentry explained as best he could. Ought the King to go outalone--to go out this weather at all?--why, he could hardly crawl, andhis cough hurt one to hear.
The second sentry only knew that they were to stay at their posts; headvised his companion to go back to his lest the captain discovered. Asfor the King, it was known that he was not good for long anyhow, and itwas no business of theirs.
The other soldier was not so sure; he thought my Lord Albemarle ought toknow, at least. The King might easily be murdered by the French or theJacks, and then they would be blamed.
But by now William had disappeared. The soldiers continued arguing insubdued voices, when they were interrupted by the approach of a slimgentleman in furs and velvet, who came with an easy, graceful step alongthe arcade. Both the men knew him; he was the great Earl of Sunderland.
His quick eye noticed two soldiers in place of one, and that they weretalking. His suspicions, that never lay very deep, were instantlyroused, he clapt his hand to his sword and paused.
The man who had followed the King found courage to speak.
"My lord, I humbly ask the pardon of your lordship, but His Majesty hathgone out unattended in this foul weather, and I was bold enough tofollow His Majesty, thinking of all the late plots."
"Who are you?" demanded Sunderland.
"May it please your lordship, the sentry at the foot of the statestaircase."
My lord narrowed his eyes on the man.
"You were on guard once outside Whitehall on the day the bishops wereacquitted. I spoke to you--'God and the King'--you recall, fellow?"
The soldier was silent with astonishment at the memory of my lord; forhimself, he recollected very well, but it was marvellous that a greatnobleman should remember such an incident during so many years.
Sunderland gave him no time to speak.
"Where did His Majesty go?"
The soldier humbly pointed out the way, and my lord turned on his heeland went rapidly across the dark, snowy courtyard. He had reached thefarther court, untouched by Sir Christopher and still of the fashion ofthe great cardinal and Harry Tudor, before he saw the King ahead of him,a solitary figure in the grey afternoon.
My lord was instantly beside him.
"Sire, I must speak with you, and at once."
William looked round calmly.
"Come to the river--I had a mind to see the river."
Sunderland, standing uncovered, answered with energy and decision--
"Sire, if you have no regard for your own health, consider mine. Thisweather is death."
William took his arm.
"No, Robert, 'tis the fireside that is death to me--to sit and doze likea sick woman in shawls; but come into the great Hall, where we may beundisturbed. Dr. Burnet is in my apartments with a packet of sermons."He paused to cough, and then added: "As for your news--you are going tooffer me your resignation."
"That," said Sunderland, "and something else."
"Important?"
"Of the greatest importance."
They turned back across the courtyard, came to a dark archway, andmounted a few steps to the left of it that led straight into the greatbanqueting hall of Cardinal Wolsey, that, all dismantled and unf
urnishedas it was, had the air of a vast, deserted church. It was even colderthan the outer air, and only an obscure light filtered through the tallstained-glass windows.
But William liked the place for its very sombreness. He led the way tothe room beyond, that was hung with old arras and suits of armour, andlit by an oriel window, brilliant, even now, with coats andemblazonments.
A circular seat ran round this window, and in front of it was a table.
Here the King and his minister seated themselves. William leant backagainst the stained-glass, he was wrapped in his cloak to the chin, andhis face was quite colourless; only his eyes fixed Sunderland with alook clear, vivid, and penetrating as ever.
"So even you are leaving me?" he said.
My lord laid his hat on the table and began to pull off his gloves.
"As to that," he answered, "I am assured that there are a hundred andsixty voices in the House for my impeachment. My friends could not facethat. And I am too old, sire, and too tired to brave what I once wouldhave braved."
William nodded.
"I would not ask it of you."
Sunderland detached the Lord Chamberlain's gold key from his crimsonwaistcoat and placed it on the pale oak table.
"I shall be always at your service--just the same," he said; "but Ishall never climb again." He smiled. "This is the sum of it, sire--Ihave no title that I was not born to, I shall have an impaired estate, adetested memory--but I have lived my life, and I have no regrets--none."
"You take with you my deep thanks and gratitude," responded William,with animation. "I could never have done what I have done but for you.You will remain my friend, if not my minister. What is your other news?"
"Of far greater importance, sire. Of terrible meaning to Your Majesty."
William's eyes flashed. He leant forward.
"To do--with France?" he breathed.
"Yes, sire. The courier from Paris will be here to-night, but the newsis all abroad in London now."
The King's hollow cheek flushed.
"Tell me," he commanded.
Sunderland hesitated; it was not easy to tell a great statesman that hehad been duped, that his laborious schemes had ended in humiliatingfailure. It was not easy to tell a dying man that his life-work was allto do again.
"Well?" urged the King imperiously.
"Sire, when the King of Spain died and left his crown to PhilippeD'Anjou, Your Majesty was not disturbed?"
"No--because of the Partition Treaties."
Sunderland looked away, and said in a low voice--
"King Louis hath flung over the Partition Treaties, accepted the will,and published a memorial justifying his action."
On hearing that he had been so cheated, deceived, betrayed, that, forthe first time in his life, he had made a huge political mistake, ablunder, in trusting France, and that France had been all this timelaughing at him, that he had been King Louis' dupe, that he was despisedand challenged by the court he had once humbled, William gave a littlegasp like a sob, and sat very still.
"Louis," continued Sunderland, "defies you, the Republic, and theEmperor, and thinks of nothing but seating his grandson on the throne ofSpain."
William sprang up with the energy of a strong man.
"My God!" he cried, "I was a fool to trust France. I should have known!I should have known!"
A colour was in his face, his eyes were brilliant, his breast heaved.
"Their effrontery!" he cried again; "their shameful effrontery! I didnot think even they would have broken a solemn treaty made in the faceof the whole world! I must confess I am a dupe," he added proudly, "butif faith and honour are to be disregarded 'tis easy to cheat any man."
He sank back on the window-seat and pressed his hand to his forehead.
"They think I am a cipher now--a King without an army--a dying man, butI am he who met them single-handed once and could again." His voice,broken and weak as it was, expressed an extraordinary enthusiasm andresolution. "France shall pay for this. I will commit Europe to demandpayment, even if I do not live to see it given. Dear Lord! doth Louisthink that while I draw a breath a Bourbon shall rule over Spain, theNetherlands, Milan, Sicily--the Indies?"
He rose and began to walk about; his eyes had flashed no brighter in hisyouth. He clasped his sword-hilt and half drew it from the scabbard.
"The sword, the sword!" he said, "no way but that. Did I not ever sayso? The sword shall bring them to their knees yet; that is the only wayto deal with France."
Sunderland sat silent. He was appalled at the thought of the taskbefore the King if he would resist the aggressions of Louis; for theEnglish were in no humour for another war, and had been from the firstinclined to the King of Spain's will, not the PartitionTreaty--principally, perhaps, because William had framed the latter.
My lord ventured to hint some of this.
"I know," answered William quietly. "The blindness here isincredible--the ignorance, the malice, astonishing. It is the utmostmortification to me that I cannot at once act with the rigour I should,but I have performed some hard tasks before. _I must bring England intothis_. And there is the Republic--when did she fail? She is with mealways."
He came and sat by Sunderland again, rested his elbows on the table andlooked down at the floor, supporting his head on his left hand.
He was face to face with, and had instantly and deliberately undertaken,a task more difficult and tremendous than those he had carried throughin '72 and '88. It would be the greatest action of his life--and he hadperhaps a few months, at most a few years, to live. There were as manyodds against him as there had ever been; so many, so continuous, hadbeen his humiliations and sorrows, that a few moments ago he had notdesired to live another day. Now he found himself called to the supremetask of all his laborious career--a task which, if successful, wouldcrown his work with ultimate triumph, however distant, and which, if itfailed, would make his whole life useless indeed.
He looked at his wasted hand lying on the table. Every breath was apain to him. He had scarcely the strength to sit upright. He had to belifted on to his horse, or into his coach. The doctors gave him datesbeyond which he could not live; but his spirit was unchanged since theday that it had inspired him to wrest his country from the conqueror,and it rose now to such a strength of enthusiasm that it actuallylaughed at the weakness of the poor body that held it...
William of Orange looked up smiling.
"I shall succeed," he said. "I shall succeed."