CHAPTER XIII

FRANCE CHALLENGES

The sentry on duty at the foot of the great staircase in Hampton Court Palace was nearly asleep.

The palace had been silent for hours; ever since he had relieved the soldier before him he had not heard a sound. It was now nearly three o'clock and beginning to be dark on the huge, gloomy stairway, for it was mid-November and a mist had risen all day from the river.

The sentry yawned and then shivered. Wren's palace was neither very cheerful nor very well warmed. The sentry preferred Whitehall, with the noises of the city without and the coming and going of people to the public galleries.

His Majesty was in residence at Hampton Court, but that made little difference. 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 was well known, to open Parliament, and the moment it was up he would be off again to Holland--a poor compliment to England; and now there was not the excuse of the campaigns.

The sentry yawned again and stretched himself, after carefully resting his musketoon against the dark wall; then he looked up the stairs, which were painted with great, scrambling, heathen figures that swarmed up to the roof, where they were lost in the fast gathering shadows. He then walked up and down to keep himself warm, and began to wonder how much longer now before he was changed; it was difficult to keep count of the time because he had lost the last chiming of King Henry's great, painted clock.

Presently the door at the head of the stairs opened, very slowly, but with a distinct sound in the perfect silence.

The sentry caught up his musketoon, thinking that this was one of the officers from the guard-room, and peered cautiously up the stairway.

It was, however, a gentleman in private clothes who was slowly closing the door after him with, it seemed, some difficulty.

The sentry, who knew no one had gone up, wondered who it could be. The stairs were so dark that he could distinguish no more than a slight figure, hatless, and wearing a cloak.

There was a moment's pause and silence, then the new-comer began to descend the wide, shadowed stairs, and the sentry knew who it was--there was only one person who moved about the palace with that slow and painful step, and that was the King.

The man drew back, rigid, to his post. He wondered that the King should be coming down the state staircase unattended and on such an inclement day. As he stood, stiff at the salute, he watched the frail figure crawling 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 to cough or gasp for breath, his hesitating and unequal steps began to rasp in the sentry's brain--he wished some one else would come. It seemed an intolerable length of time as the King made his difficult progress from step to step, and the cloaked figure with the bent, hidden face and the one white hand, so thin that every bone in it showed, moving slowly down the baluster, affected the solitary watcher with a sense almost of terror.

As the King approached this terror increased, as if some ghostly or unearthly presence neared. The hall and stairway rapidly darkened, and the King was but a shadow among shadows when he at length reached the last step and stood grasping the post with his left hand and holding his heart with his right.

He stood there so long and so silently that the sentry's sense of discomfort increased, and he felt a strong desire to turn and fly.

Presently the King moved, with difficult, faltering steps, across the hall, and unlatched the door that gave on the courtyard. As he did so, a full ray of ghastly light fell across the obscurity, and the reason of the sudden darkness was explained, for a thin cloud of snow could be seen against the grey masonry of the palace.

The sentry, who knew that it was dangerous for the King to go out save when the weather was very fair, was startled to see him standing there with the chill wind stirring his cloak and the bitter light of the snow on his face. He stepped forward instinctively, but the King did not hear him.

After a few seconds William passed out, and, acting on an irresistible impulse, the sentry followed him.

The King turned to the left under the covered arcade, and, half resting himself on the inner wall, made weary progress, the snow drifting in through the open arches as far as his feet. He was continually so shaken with his cough that he had to pause, and once the sentry caught a short ejaculation of pain.

They had made almost the circuit of the courtyard and had come to another entrance to the palace, when a second sentry crossed their path. William murmured something, passed him without looking back; the soldier stared 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 out alone--to go out this weather at all?--why, he could hardly crawl, and his cough hurt one to hear.

The second sentry only knew that they were to stay at their posts; he advised his companion to go back to his lest the captain discovered. As for the King, it was known that he was not good for long anyhow, and it was no business of theirs.

The other soldier was not so sure; he thought my Lord Albemarle ought to know, at least. The King might easily be murdered by the French or the Jacks, and then they would be blamed.

But by now William had disappeared. The soldiers continued arguing in subdued voices, when they were interrupted by the approach of a slim gentleman in furs and velvet, who came with an easy, graceful step along the 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 were talking. His suspicions, that never lay very deep, were instantly roused, 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 hath gone out unattended in this foul weather, and I was bold enough to follow 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 state staircase."

My lord narrowed his eyes on the man.

"You were on guard once outside Whitehall on the day the bishops were acquitted. I spoke to you--'God and the King'--you recall, fellow?"

The soldier was silent with astonishment at the memory of my lord; for himself, he recollected very well, but it was marvellous that a great nobleman 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 heel and went rapidly across the dark, snowy courtyard. He had reached the farther court, untouched by Sir Christopher and still of the fashion of the 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. This weather is death."

William took his arm.

"No, Robert, 'tis the fireside that is death to me--to sit and doze like a sick woman in shawls; but come into the great Hall, where we may be undisturbed. 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 to offer 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, and mounted a few steps to the left of it that led straight into the great banqueting hall of Cardinal Wolsey, that, all dismantled and unfurnished as it was, had the air of a vast, deserted church. It was even colder than the outer air, and only an obscure light filtered through the tall stained-glass windows.

But William liked the place for its very sombreness. He led the way to the room beyond, that was hung with old arras and suits of armour, and lit by an oriel window, brilliant, even now, with coats and emblazonments.

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 back against the stained-glass, he was wrapped in his cloak to the chin, and his face was quite colourless; only his eyes fixed Sunderland with a look 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 and sixty voices in the House for my impeachment. My friends could not face that. And I am too old, sire, and too tired to brave what I once would have braved."

William nodded.

"I would not ask it of you."

Sunderland detached the Lord Chamberlain's gold key from his crimson waistcoat and placed it on the pale oak table.

"I shall be always at your service--just the same," he said; "but I shall never climb again." He smiled. "This is the sum of it, sire--I have no title that I was not born to, I shall have an impaired estate, a detested 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 news is 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 he had been duped, that his laborious schemes had ended in humiliating failure. It was not easy to tell a dying man that his life-work was all to do again.

"Well?" urged the King imperiously.

"Sire, when the King of Spain died and left his crown to Philippe D'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, for the first time in his life, he had made a huge political mistake, a blunder, in trusting France, and that France had been all this time laughing at him, that he had been King Louis' dupe, that he was despised and challenged by the court he had once humbled, William gave a little gasp like a sob, and sat very still.

"Louis," continued Sunderland, "defies you, the Republic, and the Emperor, and thinks of nothing but seating his grandson on the throne of Spain."

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 did not think even they would have broken a solemn treaty made in the face of the whole world! I must confess I am a dupe," he added proudly, "but if 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, but I am he who met them single-handed once and could again." His voice, broken and weak as it was, expressed an extraordinary enthusiasm and resolution. "France shall pay for this. I will commit Europe to demand payment, even if I do not live to see it given. Dear Lord! doth Louis think that while I draw a breath a Bourbon shall rule over Spain, the Netherlands, Milan, Sicily--the Indies?"

He rose and began to walk about; his eyes had flashed no brighter in his youth. 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 say so? The sword shall bring them to their knees yet; that is the only way to deal with France."

Sunderland sat silent. He was appalled at the thought of the task before the King if he would resist the aggressions of Louis; for the English were in no humour for another war, and had been from the first inclined to the King of Spain's will, not the Partition Treaty--principally, perhaps, because William had framed the latter.

My lord ventured to hint some of this.

"I know," answered William quietly. "The blindness here is incredible--the ignorance, the malice, astonishing. It is the utmost mortification 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 into this_. And there is the Republic--when did she fail? She is with me always."

He came and sat by Sunderland again, rested his elbows on the table and looked 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 through in '72 and '88. It would be the greatest action of his life--and he had perhaps a few months, at most a few years, to live. There were as many odds against him as there had ever been; so many, so continuous, had been his humiliations and sorrows, that a few moments ago he had not desired to live another day. Now he found himself called to the supreme task of all his laborious career--a task which, if successful, would crown his work with ultimate triumph, however distant, and which, if it failed, would make his whole life useless indeed.

He looked at his wasted hand lying on the table. Every breath was a pain to him. He had scarcely the strength to sit upright. He had to be lifted on to his horse, or into his coach. The doctors gave him dates beyond which he could not live; but his spirit was unchanged since the day that it had inspired him to wrest his country from the conqueror, and it rose now to such a strength of enthusiasm that it actually laughed at the weakness of the poor body that held it...

William of Orange looked up smiling.

"I shall succeed," he said. "I shall succeed."