‘Are you sorry you took up Parliament’s cause?’
‘No. But sorry for the way I did it. I left the people who loved me as if they would just be waiting for me on a shelf when I returned. I should have been more … deliberate about my choices and the consequences. I’ve seen things – unspeakable things done to innocent people …’ He inhaled deeply, and a shadow crossed his face. She knew he was seeing some terrible image in his head, but she would not pry. ‘And I have come to admit to myself that my rashness was born more from a call to adventure and my own stubborn certainty than sacrificing for any cause.’
‘My husband is devoted to the Parliament cause. My parents think that same cause was birthed in hell. And I care not a whit for either side. When someone you love is killed or your property is confiscated, it makes little difference if the perpetrator carries a Royalist sword or a Roundhead pike. All I want is for it all to stop and things to return to the way they were. But even I am not so naïve as to think that can ever be.’
‘There’s something I don’t understand, Mary. I am very surprised that Squire allowed you to marry a Puritan. It doesn’t figure.’
‘Not allowed, Arthur. Encouraged. Strongly encouraged.’ She turned away from him so he could not read the bitterness in her face. ‘But that’s a long story best not gone into. Will you at least stay the night? Or a little longer? We still celebrate Christmas. Bess and Betsy would love it. I … I would love it too. For old times’ sake?’
‘Christmas.’ He said it as if it was a forgotten thing. ‘That would be really nice. Don’t tempt me. There will be no “pagan” celebration of mistletoe and holly, no jolly wassailing in godly London, you can be sure. But I need to return. I have been gone almost a fortnight. My employer calls me his “good right arm.” Thank you for the soup and bread and cheese. And the ale. I used to dream about Ann Powell’s brew when we were in the field.’
He reached out as if to take her hand, but didn’t, as if remembering they were not carefree children anymore and that she was a married woman now. But she couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek, tears welling in her eyes at the memory of the idyllic world they had lost.
‘Don’t worry about me, Mary,’ he said. ‘I will be fine. And I will find Caroline as soon as I get back.’
She lifted a small oiled-cloth package from the side cupboard. ‘For the journey,’ she said, handing him another slice of bread and cheese. ‘God go with you, Arthur Pendleton, and tell Caroline that Forest Hill is not the same without her but that we are surviving, and she is not to worry if she cannot find a place for us. We are probably just as well off here. We have hunting rights in the surrounding forests and plenty of fuel.’
‘May I take a message from you to Mr Milton?’
‘You need not bother,’ she said, feeling her face grow hot. ‘He knows where I am.’
He only nodded, giving her a look that implied more understanding than had passed in their conversation. ‘God be with you, too, Mary.’
She followed him out and watched him walk away with a heavy spirit, remembering all the good times they had had together. There was a time when she had even fantasized about … no use thinking of that now. But Arthur Pendleton and Patience Trapford? No two people could ever be more ill-suited. Not in the world she lived in. Sighing, she went in search of Cook to see if her little sisters had completed their errand, thinking what a crazy, mixed-up world they lived in now, a crazy, mixed-up, unhappy world.
Ben spurred his horse toward London with a heavy burden. He had lost the expectation of his future and the security of a world that he had taken for granted. When his mother died, he’d missed her, even cried after her as a child cries over a missing pet or a broken toy, but he’d been too young to realize the finality. But this time was different. He fully realized what he had lost and that it was never coming back to him. All that he had taken for granted: wholeness, family, a secure future, turned out to be as ephemeral as a soap bubble.
The carefree companion of his childhood was gone too. Should he have told her about what John Milton had written about marriage, his marriage to her? Was it cowardly not to do so? But such a thing was far too humiliating and painful to mention. How could any woman, especially a gently bred girl like Mary Powell, bear to hear that marriage to her was like being ‘chained to a corpse’ – and to read it in a pamphlet that all the world could see? If anyone was chained to a corpse, it was Mary. He’d only met the man once, but that was enough to know that the self-righteous, pompous and egotistical John Milton was no match for the beautiful belle of Oxfordshire.
As he surely must have anticipated, Milton’s advocating for legal divorce on grounds of incompatibility had caused an uproar in Puritan London. Did he think that because his wife’s name was never mentioned, and he only signed his argument J.M., that she would suffer no public shame? How many J.M.s in London could make such a relentlessly sound argument for something so universally unacceptable? Arthur hoped that Mary never had to learn of it. Few around Oxford read Puritan literature. Perhaps by the time she reconciled with her husband – if she reconciled – today’s news would be yesterday’s and who would even care? He was going to find Caroline. She would decide. She always knew what to do.
THE FICKLE TIDES OF WAR
He [Charles I] was fearless in his person but not enterprising and had an excellent understanding but was not confident of it; … And his not applying some severe cures to approaching evils proceeded from the lenity of his nature and the tenderness of his conscience … made him choose the softer way … He was also an immoderate lover of the Scottish nation … who he thought could never fail him.
Edward Hyde in History of the Rebellion (1648)
Christmas was almost normal at Merton College. It was not Whitehall or Hampton Court, but the Queen did her best. There were feasts and merry revels, flowing French wine and singing and dancing to lute and harp. Forest greenery threaded the chandeliers and adorned the mantles and doorways. Inigo Jones transformed the dining hall into a fantasy of gossamer color, where statues of cavorting fairies shimmered in diffused light. Rupert and his brother Maurice joined them for twelve whole days and they all made merry as if the gods of war had gone on holiday. On Twelfth Night a troupe of jugglers and acrobats performed, much to the children’s delight.
Henrietta’s only real regret for the Christmas of 1643 was that she had not been able to join the hunting parties. But Lady Fielding and Genevieve attended her with great devotion, and in the evenings Jermyn and young Henry Percy were often there, jesting and playing the fool with her dwarf Jeffrey. Best of all, during the month of December, she enjoyed her husband and her children in a way that was wonderful and rare. Five months pregnant, she was a wren, albeit a wren resplendent in blue satin plumage, feathering her nest and glowing with health. She always felt better when she was pregnant. By her reckoning this child had been conceived in the military encampment at Edgehill, the day of her reunion with Charles. She loved the child growing inside her even more for what the timely circumstances of its conception augured.
While the hunting parties sported with their horns and dogs and peregrines, she was somewhat content as she watched her belly swell, exulting in each flutter and kick. ‘Très bon, mon petit. Learn to kick with vigor. Life is hard for a royal child,’ she whispered.
The joyous season had begun auspiciously – only one day old – when she heard good news. She would not be likely to forget the day. The twenty-sixth of December, the feast day of St Stephen. That morning, Elizabeth had read Stephen’s story to her, in good Latin, from the Gospel of Luke, and later Charles and their sons had come in from the forest, accompanied by their Stuart cousins, swaggering and boasting of success. Young Henry squealed with delight when his father picked him up and swung him in the air. The young duke had become very attached to the father he was just getting to know. ‘Papa, one more time,’ he said between giggles. And then again, holding up one chubby finger, ‘one more
time’ and again ‘one more time,’ until Henrietta was getting dizzy just watching.
Charles nodded to Henrietta, ‘We will feast on venison this night, mon amour,’ then, laughing, he set his youngest son down, saying ‘no more times.’ He tickled the squirming child, who laughed so hard Henrietta was afraid he would lose his breath. ‘That is quite enough, the both of you,’ she said.
Smiling, Charles removed his hat and, bowing deeply in obsequious obeisance, said, ‘Your wish is our command, my dearest lady in all the world. Please forgive our excess of good cheer.’
‘You are forgiven. See it does not happen again,’ she said, extending her hand to him, suppressing a giggle.
‘I desire only your pleasure, madame,’ he said as he rose and took the seat next to her. But the look he gave her made her wish they were alone.
‘We bear good news. Do we not, Uncle? Splendid news that should put the Queen in an even better mood. Will you be the bearer, or shall I?’
Charles winced a little, and said, no merriment in his voice now, ‘Rupert, think you not that it might be unseemly to gloat over the untimely death of one of England’s able men and God’s saints?’
‘Able, aye. I’ll grant that. Cunning too. But one of the saints – if he be truly a saint on earth, now he may be a saint in heaven right enough,’ the brash youth sneered. ‘But the King’s enemy? If he is the King’s enemy, he is England’s enemy; if he is England’s enemy, he is God’s enemy. Think you there are saints in hell, Uncle? For that is surely where he resides, however he is called.’ And then, not at all chastened by his royal uncle’s rebuke, Rupert turned to the pages, who had accompanied them on the hunt and said, ‘Fetch the steward of the cellar, lads. We must toast the King’s health.’
Charles cleared his throat and said somberly, ‘I would remind you, Nephew, that Christ admonished us to love our enemies. We should pray for his soul.’
Henrietta, who was preoccupied picking at a gnarled French knot in her embroidery, suddenly tuned her ear. Who were they talking about? The tension between Charles and the Prince of the Palatinate sparked in the distance between where Charles sat and Rupert stood. Not an uncommon occurrence lately, but all in all Charles was far too lenient with the nephew who presumed too much on his soldier’s reputation. She watched in silence as the steward distributed cups and poured.
Rupert, ignoring his uncle’s hard gaze, lifted his glass and bellowed, ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’
Members of the returned hunting party hesitated and then echoed the salute, even young Charles and James. To fail to toast the King’s health was treasonous, despite the conundrum of the salute. The two younger children looked on with wide-eyed concern. The King was their father and the King was certainly not dead. Elizabeth looked at her mother in alarm. Henrietta shook her head, as if to say: pay them no mind. All is well. She reached for the girl’s hand, as she waited for the scene to play out.
Then came the coup de grâce. She had to hand it to the boy; he had a flair for drama. Rupert held up his glass again, ‘And to the swift and timely passage into heaven of “Saint” or, as they called him in London, “King” Pym.’
She put down her embroidery. Now they had her full attention. ‘John Pym, did you say? The Parliament leader? Comment? Quand?’
‘In his bed. In agonizing pain. His innards eaten away. Hardly an honorable death. They entombed his body last week. With much weeping and gnashing of teeth in that saintly town, I am told.’ Rupert smiled slyly. ‘One would almost think it divine retribution – though all of the godly “saints” in London mourned him with a great funeral of state.’
‘We will hardly wear mourning, here,’ she said tersely. Charles’s frowning silence warned her, and she hastily added: ‘We will leave that to those who knew him.’ Then, with a dismissive wave of her hand, ‘Perchance even loved him.’
But in her heart, she was celebrating. The strongest voice in opposition to the divine right had been silenced by the grim reaper’s skeletal hand, and blessed be that bony hand. And who was to say it wasn’t the very hand of God that smote him down?
‘Maman, I knew him. Should I wear mourning?’ a small voice said.
Henrietta looked at her daughter with irritation. ‘Don’t be foolish, Elizabeth. You are mistaken. You did not know John Pym.’
The girl crimped her mouth in umbrage. ‘I saw him twice. Mayhap thrice. At Lady Carlisle’s house. He was kind to me. It was he who brought Henry and me to Syon House. To protect us,’ she said.
‘Protect you from what or whom, child?’ her father asked, drawing her to him.
‘From Lord and Lady Pembroke and others who were not kind and who would not let us celebrate the mass.’
‘Did Lady Carlisle allow you to celebrate the mass?’
‘Sometimes. In secret. We were also allowed the Latin Scriptures. And my tutor Mistress Makin came to me regularly.’
‘Did John Pym know this?’
‘Lady Carlisle said he arranged for the tutor. He was a kind man. Like you.’
Charles nodded slowly, directing his gaze at Rupert. ‘I think that’s enough talk about Mr Pym, may God rest his soul.’ Then he took Elizabeth’s hand between his two hands and said, ‘We will pray for his soul,’ and, looking directly into her eyes, added, ‘But we will pray in English, which is your native tongue, Elizabeth. God hears in all languages.’
‘Then why may I not pray in Latin like Mother?’
‘Because you are a Princess of England, not of Rome. As to your mother, I suppose in some sense she is a Princess of Rome as well as France.’ He did not look at Henrietta when he said that, but returned his gaze to his nephews. ‘Now, the rest of you go and make yourselves useful after this morning’s sport. Arrange with the gamekeeper about dressing out the deer from today’s hunt. I shall abide here closeted with my family awhile.’
Henrietta’s mood had in no way been diminished by Charles’s little lecture on Christian charity. After all, it was an old argument between them. What mattered was that finally something was going their way. They spent the rest of that day and the next entertaining themselves in their little nest of family bliss. She finished embroidering the receiving blanket for the newest addition to their royal brood, watching while Charles played with Henry and Elizabeth or monitored James and Prince Charles in fencing contests with their royal cousins.
These halcyon days were only occasionally interrupted when the King went out to consult with Sir Edward Hyde and various other emissaries from the field. Once, the woman Jane Whorwood came with a gift of gold candlesticks and silver coins – from the King’s supporters in London, she said. The King introduced her as one of his most loyal subjects and ‘a great help to us.’
‘We have met before, Your Majesty,’ the woman said, falling into a deep curtsy.
‘Yes, the gloves. I remember. We highly value your service, Mistress Whorwood,’ she said, and meant it, wondering how she could have ever been jealous. The woman was obviously nothing more than a loyal subject. Henrietta had seen nothing pass between them that would indicate anything else, and Charles was too honest to hide his feelings. His expression showed only kind indifference when he thanked her.
They stayed thus for a fortnight as if the war did not exist, until bad news came: dire, unexpected news; news that broke that part of the King’s heart where Scotland’s thistle flowers bloomed. Despite all the concessions Charles had made to the Presbyterians in Scotland regarding Laud’s prayer book and ecclesiastical rule, some of his Scottish subjects had betrayed him. They had made a devil’s pact – a Covenant – with John Pym to join Parliament’s rebellion. It was as if, with this last act before his death, the specter of King Pym now haunted them from his grave in Westminster.
She was in the presence room with Charles when Hyde delivered the harrowing news that a large army of Scots had taken up arms against their King in Covenant with Parliament. She tried to console him. Tried to advise him. ‘Send Newcastle immediately to engage. Th
ey must not get to London,’ she demanded. ‘Grant them no quarter. They are rebelling against their sovereign. Take heart, husband. At least the Catholic highlanders are loyal. I met with them on my way to you. They gave their allegiance before God. They will not break their oath. Put your trust in them alone.’
‘The Queen gives good counsel, Your Majesty,’ Edward said. ‘Put the rebels down swiftly, before their ranks swell. The Campbell clan is loyal: Lord Argyle will not betray you. And I can’t believe Montrose will stay with the Covenanters. Even though he is Presbyterian, he is at heart the King’s man.’
She sent the councilor whom she sometimes trusted, sometimes not, a look of gratitude. ‘Also, you can look to Ireland, Charles,’ she said quietly. ‘You can raise a Catholic army that will quell these rebels both here and in Scotland.’
Hyde did not comment on that. She knew he was opposed but at least he kept his lips sealed in her presence. Charles just stared into the middle distance, not acquiescing to their arguments but also not disputing their merit.
That was just the beginning of troubles.
Mid-January brought news that Parliament had decided to put Archbishop Laud on trial, even though the evidence against him was as weak as it had ever been. She wondered if that had been part of Pym’s agreement with the Covenanters – that with Parliament’s help they could at long last be avenged on their old nemesis, who forced the Common Book of Prayer on the Scottish kirk. Finally, late in January, Charles came out of his closet to take some action. On St Vincent’s Day he convened a new Parliament of loyalists at Oxford and, at his urging, they declared the Scots Covenanters foreign invaders and voted to raise an Irish army to defend the King of Three Countries. In February he dispatched the nephews to lead the fighting in Wales and the Welsh Marches. More than ever, the western territories must be held.
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