outside. Perhaps one day she would ask her father to explain. It would be when he was in a merry mood. Then perhaps he would tell her quickly and it could be forgotten.
She started suddenly because someone was standing behind her, and turning she saw Elizabeth Villiers, smiling her secret sly smile.
“How long have you been standing there?” demanded Mary.
“Does it matter?”
“I asked you a question.”
“I know, and I asked you one.”
“It is not good manners to answer a question with a question.”
Elizabeth laughed; she had a habit of laughing at ordinary remarks as though they were foolish in some way which Mary was too young to understand.
“When I was riding this morning I saw the King with my cousin, Barbara Villiers,” volunteered Elizabeth.
Mary sighed. Elizabeth brought her cousin Barbara Villiers into the conversation whenever possible. When she called her sister Barbara she always called her Barbara Villiers, although the others were merely Katherine, Anne, or whatever the case might be. Mary herself had never seen Barbara Villiers, Lady Castlemaine, but she was constantly hearing of her; and she was a little tired of the woman.
“My cousin Barbara is more important than the Queen.” “My cousin Barbara only has to say what she wants and it is hers.” “The King loves my cousin Barbara more than anyone on earth.” “My cousin Barbara is really Queen, not that dull old Catherine.”
Mary did not believe that. She loved her Aunt Catherine who was always kind to her; and she loved Uncle Charles; and when she saw them together they always seemed to be fond of each other and no one ever suggested—certainly not Charles—that Catherine was not the Queen.
“You are always talking of your cousin Barbara Villiers,” said Mary, turning back to the window.
“Well, would you rather talk of Margaret Denham who was killed because of your father?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You are a baby. You don’t know anything. You don’t really know why everyone is so glum today. All you know is that it’s because it’s the thirtieth. It’s silly anyway to pretend to be sad. It was all a long, long time ago. Before I was born.”
“What was?”
“The execution. That’s what they’re supposed to be remembering. But they are only really pretending to be sad.”
“When was it?”
“Don’t you know?” This was one of Elizabeth’s favorite remarks. She could never tell anything without prefacing her revelation with an incredulous observation on one’s ignorance. On this occasion Mary was too curious to pretend.
“No, I don’t know,” she said.
“They took him to the banquetting hall and chopped off his head.”
“Who?”
“Charles the First. Your grandfather, of course.”
“Who did?”
“The Parliament, of course.”
“They didn’t.”
“They did.” Elizabeth smiled knowledgeably. “It’s what they do to Kings and Queens when they don’t like them,” she said maliciously.
Elizabeth knew when to make an exit. She retired, leaving a very uneasy little girl kneeling at the window seat. There was no pleasure now in looking out of the windows and trying to count the snowflakes. Every time a bell tolled she shivered. The world had become very insecure. Mary’s imagination was showing her her grandfather, who looked like her father or her Uncle Charles, only much older; his head was not on his shoulders. It rolled in the snow making it red instead of white. She pictured the crowds watching and they were whispering about her grandfather and her father. Margaret Denham had died because of her father—her good kind father who would never hurt anyone. What did it mean? There was so much in the world that she could not understand and Elizabeth was telling her that the world could be a frightening place.
A terrible place indeed where the people cut off the heads of Kings.
Elizabeth’s voice kept coming back to her.
“It’s what they do to Kings and Queens—if they don’t like them.”
James Scott, who had been known as Fitzroy and Crofts and was now the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, rode from Whitehall to Richmond on his way to visit his uncle the Duke of York, whom he would always loathe because he believed that but for him the King might have been persuaded to legitimize him.
The King had said: “Now, Jemmy, ride over to Richmond where your uncle James is with his family. Make yourself pleasant. I like not quarrels in families.”
Monmouth had scowled; he knew his father was very indulgent toward him and he exploited this; but there were occasions when Charles reminded him that he was the King and then Monmouth knew it was