Ovingdean Grange by W. Harrison Ainsworth

As he spoke, his thoughts involuntarily reverted to Micklegift, but he did not think it needful to mention his misgivings to the king. “I had previously prepared my father for the honour and gratification he might expect in a visit from your Majesty tomorrow; but his impatience will be so great that he will be far better pleased that it should occur to-day.”

“I hope we shall take him by surprise,” said the king. “I do not desire him to make any preparations. I must be received by him, not as the king, but as plain William Jackson. Besides, if by any accident the expected visit of to-morrow should have reached the enemy, and bring them to the house, they will be a day too late.”

“True,” replied Clavering, thoughtfully. “All things considered, I am not sorry that your Majesty has advanced the hour of your departure.”

At this juncture an opening in the trees displayed a fine view of the country, the prospect being terminated by Portsmouth, with its shipping, and the Isle of Wight.

The king stopped to gaze at the scene, and his little escort halted likewise. After looking for a few moments at the distant arsenal, with its forts, docks, and storehouses, he exclaimed, in tones of some emotion, not unmingled with bitterness.

“Oh, that yon noble arsenal, with its fortifications and stores, and the powerful fleet in its harbour, were mine! I should not need more to regain my kingdom. But all have fallen from me except you, my faithful followers, and a few others, and I ought, therefore, to estimate your loyalty at its true value.”

After a brief pause he continued, in a voice of deep emotion, “Now that the hour is almost come when I must exile myself from my country, and seek shelter on a foreign shore, I shrink from the effort, and almost prefer death to a flight, which has something cowardly and dishonourable about it—unworthy of the descendant of a royal line, and himself a king.”

“View not your withdrawal in that light, my gracious liege,” said Clavering. “There is nothing unworthy in your meditated flight. On the contrary, it is a course of action dictated by prudence. If a chance remained of regaining your kingdom, I and your faithful liegemen would urge you to stay. But the moment is unpropitious, and you do wisely to withdraw till this terrible tempest now passing over the land shall have exhausted its fury. Leave your misguided and ungrateful subjects for a while to the care of the usurper Cromwell—they will soon be heartily sick of him, and eager to recally ou.”

“What you say is true—perfectly true,” replied Charles; “I must go. Yet it is hard to fly from a kingdom, even when it is mine no longer.”

“Your kingdom is not lost, my liege,” cried Clavering. “You design not to abdicate.”

“Never!” exclaimed Charles. “I will sooner mount my murdered father’s scaffold than do so.”

“Then I am right in saying your kingdom is not lost, sire. A king is not the less a king because he can only rally round him a few faithful followers, Our spirit in time will animate others, and will catch and spread till the whole land is on fire. Treason and rebellion will be burned out, and your subjects eager to herald your return.”

“I trust it may be so,” replied the king. “Have any tidings been heard of the Earl of Derby? A court-martial hath sat upon him, as I am informed, by virtue of a commission from the arch-traitor Cromwell, and it hath, in violation of all laws of honourable warfare, since quarter was promised the earl on surrender, condemned him to death by the headsman. But his lordship hath since petitioned Cromwell, as I am told, for a remission of his sentence—with what result?—can any of ye tell me, gentlemen?”

There was a profound silence. And Clavering and Colonel Gunter, on whom Charles fixed inquiring glances, cast down their eyes.

“Your silence shows me that the petition has been ineffectual,” continued the king. “Not content with shedding the best blood of England, the murderous villain would pour out more. He would spare none of you if ye fell into his hands. O my valiant and chivalrous Derby, thou soul of honour and loyalty, and art thou to perish thus! When and where is the shameful deed to be done?”