To Serve a Queen

by Josephine Bell

  But the former Princess Elizabeth was notorious for her misplaced generosity. She had been reprimanded for it in the early years of her marriage when many of those who had gone with her to her new home had long overstayed their welcome and had to be dismissed. She could not now increase her Court and needed to exercise the most severe economy, in which she often failed and which rendered her most unhappy, though her sanguine nature did not allow her to brood.

  At the time of Francis’s first visit she was in the latter half of her ninth pregnancy, having already six sons and two daughters. Colonel Ogilvy warned his nephew of her condition.

  ‘It is a yearly event with Her Majesty,’ he said. ‘Penance she pays for her husband’s constancy.’

  Francis was inclined to be shocked by such cynicism, but he could not help being amused as well.

  ‘Meaning he has no mistress to distract his attention elsewhere?’

  ‘Precisely. Nor is he totally occupied upon the field of battle, though he is not always here, but going about to raise arms and men in his desperate cause. They say he writes letters to the Queen at least twice a week.’

  ‘The pen being more active than the sword?’

  Colonel Ogilvy looked at the young man beside him with some surprise at this sally, spoken with a certain bitterness.

  Perhaps, as Will Stubble had hinted, the boy had enlarged his experience of women in some unsatisfactory manner. A brief romantic encounter instantly destroyed? Unlikely in so short a time since his arrival. Well, he must suffer the usual pains of growth. And he had some unusual inborn advantages.

  When they arrived together at Bohemia’s door they were accepted into the house and placed in a room to wait. A secretary came to them almost immediately. He was a Dutchman, very formal, very polite.

  ‘Madam is pleased to receive you both,’ he explained. ‘But asks your patience as she is engaged at this moment with her physician.’

  ‘Would Her Majesty not prefer us to return another day?’ Colonel Ogilvy asked gravely.

  ‘No, sir. Madam was most emphatic. Her consultation with the Doctor Mayerne would be brief. She bids you wait.’

  They were left alone for about half an hour, at the end of which time a lady-in-waiting of uncertain age, but mature, came to take them to her mistress. As he walked behind his uncle and this lady Francis heard her telling him to avoid all talk of battles and disasters, since Her Majesty was in a delicate state of health, having recently been most unwell.

  ‘That I must believe since you tell me the physician is the celebrated Doctor Mayerne.’

  ‘You have heard of Doctor Mayerne?’

  ‘Madam, who has not heard of King James’s distinguished physician, who attended the late king and all his family, including Madam, your mistress, from her girlhood up?’

  The lady-in-waiting received this quiet snub in silence. Francis both admired his uncle’s temerity in speaking so to such a formidable lady and felt a little sorry for her because she was clearly lacking in any kind of wit to answer him.

  And so they came into the room where the exiled queen was waiting for them, sitting on an ample chair in a well-kept, slightly faded gown of a loose cut to suit her swelling body. Like the lady-in-waiting her face was made up with white and red paint, but not so thickly applied as to hide her slightly aquiline beauty and very pleasing, friendly expression.

  Francis had scarcely time to take in the picture she presented, to settle his uniform headgear into his left elbow and make his military salute followed by a low bow, when pandemonium broke out in the room.

  From behind the Queen’s chair two small dogs rushed out, barking and snapping. From the folds of the window curtain three monkeys swung chattering to the floor, galloped across the room and while one of them scrambled quickly to the back of the royal chair and from there to the royal shoulder, the other two rushed about the visitors screeching and baring their teeth as the various attendants tried to keep them away.

  Colonel Ogilvy, swearing under his breath, backed to the wall making wide sweeping movements with his right arm, that would have been most effective if it had held the sword he dared not draw in the presence of royalty and which only earned him a series of quick bites that did not, however, penetrate his glove.

  Francis, with a dog snarling and barking front and back, stood still, defying them quietly. This gave the third monkey a chance to rush in and climb rapidly up his leg, from there to his smart new tunic, where it seized the frogged fastenings in either tiny hand and stared fiercely into his face, its own cheeks swelling and emptying as it recovered its breath.

  Francis was now still more afraid to move, lest the excited little beast should loose its mess over his uniform as its fellows had already done upon the floor. Very slowly and carefully he lifted one hand to stroke the small head with a gloved finger. The monkey continued to stare, but as he went on stroking it the eyes grew dull, the eyelids began to droop, the little fingers to loosen their grip.

  ‘Bring him to me, sir,’ the Queen ordered. ‘I see you have his measure.’

  Francis went forward and knelt, so that she could reach her pet simply by putting out a hand. Which she did, at the same time motioning him to rise.

  By this time order had been restored to the rest of the room and the general relief found expression in hearty laughter, led by the Queen of Hearts herself.

  Francis joined in, finding enormous relief in the simple, natural low comedy of the whole scene. The Queen had spoken a few words of thanks to him as he knelt before her that had reminded him very closely of her brother’s kindness. In fact she reminded him very closely of the King of England. He found himself comparing his memory of the English monarch with the lively intelligent handsome face before him and thinking, with a certain sadness, that this noble lady would have made a worthier king and Charles a gentler queen had the sex of each been the opposite to what it was. This was only a fleeting thought, however, for Her Majesty beckoned to Colonel Ogilvy to advance and soon had the audience upon a proper footing, formal exchange, formal gestures and all.

  ‘We remember your father well,’ the Queen told Francis in a comfortable, friendly voice. ‘You must not be surprised at my reference to him, for we were very close to our beloved brother, the Prince Henry. It was he who called for us upon his deathbed, when they feared to let us to him on account of his fever. And His Highness had a great respect for Master Nimmo. He often spoke to us of his great skill in the treatment of injuries.’

  Francis managed a short speech of thanks for Her Majesty’s condescension and amazing memory. At which the Queen laughed heartily but with no hint of unkindness.

  ‘Do not praise us openly,’ she said. ‘For in seeking to bring you here your uncle, the colonel, made known to us who you are. Also our good physician reminded us of Master Nimmo and his encounters with His Highness, which tales took us back into that happy past, our childhood.’

  Francis longed to ask her if she remembered his mother, who had been much at Court when she had been employed by the Lady Chiltern in the household of the young prince. But he did not dare to presume on the Queen’s kind informality. Besides, Colonel Ogilvy wished to report to her and perhaps discuss various matters connected with the coming campaign for freeing the Palatinate. Though the Elector was away from The Hague at this time trying to settle matters with Count Mansfeld and his mercenary army. For since the Count’s recent activities had cast some doubt on his continued loyalty, it was proper that the Queen should know what was planned and how it was proposed to carry it out.

  ‘We will hear you more privately,’ the Queen said, suddenly assuming a perfectly regal manner. She signalled to her chamberlain to clear the room of minor visitors and servants, some of whom bore away the noisy pets. Her chief lady-in-waiting dismissed two other ladies and a bevy of maids-of-honour.

  Before the ladies retired the Queen called upon one of them, who returned, curtseying low.

  ‘Mistress Louise, take Master Leslie to the pages’ parl
our and discover a companion there for him. His father was known to your father. Master Leslie must meet our dear Mayerne. You may tell him so.’

  ‘I thank Your Majesty,’ the girl said, blushing prettily.

  ‘I am always at Your Majesty’s most humble service,’ Francis added, with the best bow he could muster.

  ‘Away then, children,’ the Queen said, smiling so sweetly that Francis’s heart turned over in such an ecstasy of loyal worship that he sighed aloud.

  When they were out of the room the girl said, ‘You were disappointed with your interview?’

  ‘Disappointed!’ Francis stared in astonishment. The eyes that stared back into his were full of lively humour, but with an intelligent sharpness added that chilled him a little. ‘Nay,’ he went on, ‘I am honoured above measure that Her Majesty should show so much interest in such an insignificant subject …’

  He broke off, overwhelmed again by the warm condescension he had been shown.

  ‘Yet it is neither a magnificent nor a truly well-ordered Court,’ Mistress Louise went on, ‘and I may say so freely because Madam, as the natives call her, does not care for pomp, neither can she in any way afford it. She is never out of debt to those who supply her wants. She expects their goodwill, for it hath never yet failed her.’

  ‘I found this audience infinitely superior to that I attended at the Prince’s palace,’ Francis argued, stoutly defending the Queen.

  ‘Ah!’ Mistress Louise smiled broadly and the hint of malice sparkled even more strongly in her dark eyes. ‘You should know there is great rivalry between the Courts, because the Princess of Orange was until her marriage a lady-in-waiting to Madam, but now she has been elevated to first lady of the province, she claims precedence.’

  Francis was shocked. The right ordering of rank, he had been taught from a child, was of the utmost importance, especially among the nobility, of whom royal persons were unquestionably the head.

  ‘The Princess was born Amelia of Solms,’ the girl continued with relish. ‘A great lady, but not royal. The quarrel continues. There is rivalry in the matter of court attendants. I think I would not have been promoted to maid-of-honour had Madam not decided to send away the Lady Anne Wolmer.’

  Francis turned his head aside to hide the warmth he felt rise in his cheeks. But his voice was steady as he asked, ‘Wherefore so? She is Lord Aldborough’s daughter, is she not?’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘I have met Lord Aldborough.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mistress Louise was surprised and therefore at once desirous of knowing more. ‘Then you will know his lordship came here upon an errand from the Duke of Buckingham, who, they say, has imagined some scheme whereby he would marry his daughter to the young heir of Bohemia, seeing Madam is still in direct succession to the throne of England.’

  This time Francis was not shocked because this piece of gossip was plainly the purest scandal. Instead he laughed so heartily that Mistress Louise was offended, though she said nothing. In any case they had now arrived where she had been bidden to take him, so she handed him over to an attendant who would introduce him to the Queen’s chief page and having accepted his polite and gracefully delivered thanks, went away.

  She hoped she had made an impression upon him equal to that he had made upon her. A great, gangling innocent, she thought, but with that appearance, that strength, both of body and mind, or was it obstinacy …?

  Her vanity would not have allowed her to accept the truth, even had anyone who knew her well told it to her. Which was that Francis forgot the little gossip and her faintly spiteful manner the moment she left him, but felt again the full impact of the Lady Anne’s remembered beauty. That Lord Aldborough was in Holland on the Duke’s business was very likely, even if the tale he had heard was too preposterous to believe. That his daughter had been for a time accepted by the Queen as a maid-of-honour was also nothing strange. He was determined to find out the truth of it, making this excuse to himself though he was perfectly well aware he only wanted to further his acquaintance upon any pretext whatever.

  He was fortunate. Perhaps, being a young man of true Scottish persistence, he would inevitably have got what he wanted. But it was made easy for him through the continued kindness of his uncle. When orders came for Francis to join the English troops of the King of Denmark’s army, Colonel Ogilvy took him again to the Court of Prince Henry to take his leave and express his thanks for the hospitality he had been shown in Holland.

  The rest followed naturally. The Princess of Orange showed no sign of tiring in her enjoyment of grandeur, pomp and ceremony. Francis found it quite easy to repeat his courtesies to the lady and when that brief ceremony was successfully completed to merge himself among the other visitors and attendants until he found his way to the Lady Anne Wolmer.

  She was as beautiful as ever, more so, he told himself, because neither of them was as shy as on the first occasion. They exchanged news of the days since they had first met. Francis described the Queen of Bohemia’s gracious welcome, the amusing, cheerful confusion that had greeted him.

  ‘Those monkeys!’ Lady Anne laughed. ‘How terrified I was when I saw them first. A strange, horrible kind of dwarf man I thought them.’

  ‘Had you never seen pictures of monkeys in books?’

  ‘I have never been very attentive to my books, sir, I fear. Dancing, singing, riding to the hunt. Her Majesty is a great huntress. Did you know that?’

  ‘I have heard it, my lady. Of course you were with Her Majesty for a time.’

  ‘Yes. I was loth to leave, but I had no say in it.’

  Very discreet, Francis thought. But innocent, too, he was ready to swear, as her attraction deepened in him.

  ‘Her family,’ he began, desperately trying to prolong their conversation, which threatened to come to an end.

  ‘Oh, her children!’ Lady Anne smiled. ‘So many of them, too. The older ones live at Leyden in an establishment of their own. Others are with the Palgrave’s mother, the Dowager Electress. Some, poor mites, have died …’ She paused, then said with an assumed lightness, ‘I believe she prefers her monkeys and her dogs.’

  Francis brought the conversation to an end as promptly as he could without offence. He was bitterly disappointed. How could anyone ascribe such callousness to a being as warm-hearted, as loving, as brave as the gracious Winter Queen? Especially someone who seemed to possess all the attributes he most desired in a woman, he told himself with youthful pomposity. Could the Lady Anne be unfeeling? Lack imagination?

  Later that day he told himself he did not care. Later that night he told himself he was in love with Anne Wolmer. He would carry her image in his heart. If he survived the season’s campaign he would seek her out again.

  Two days later, travelling south with Will Stubble beside him, his mind was totally bent upon the coming season of battle.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a season of bitter disillusion, bitter disappointment. And for most of the old reasons that had spelt failure at Cadiz, when on paper success was at least a possibility.

  True, he did see some real fighting, from which he and Will Stubble escaped with their lives at Lutter. This was in August, after a summer of marching and counter-marching, of brief skirmish, advance and retreat, as Denmark attempted to make progress against the Spanish forces under Tilly.

  ‘It seems we must attempt to bring the foe to battle and defeat him,’ Francis explained to Will. ‘For His Majesty dare not fight a defensive war, since he is without means to support the troops he hath brought together.’

  ‘And has little aid from the Count,’ Will added. ‘Those poor starving wretches be marched hither and thither without rest till they drop dead or desert. No good can come of some action.’

  No good indeed. In May, Mansfeld, trying to rush south, met Wallenstein’s trained and seasoned men at the Bridge of Dessau and was defeated. He retreated through Silesia with the remains of his army, closely followed by his victor. He was trying to join
with Bethlen Gabor, ruler of Hungary.

  King Christian attempted the same move, but he failed. At Lutter he was attacked by Tilly, now reinforced by Wallenstein: he was completely defeated. His own troops fought bravely, but they were no match for highly trained men under experienced officers and directed by a brilliant strategist.

  Francis acquitted himself bravely in a confused action that he never really understood. When the order came to retire he was still unwounded, he had experienced no hand to hand combat, but Will Stubble had fallen with a bullet in his thigh. Francis carried his friend on his back a couple of miles until he found a stray horse which seemed as dispirited as the other stragglers who had passed them. It stood patiently while Francis deposited Will on its back and then got up behind him. It was three days before they managed to regain their unit.

  ‘So you were not cut down or shot as we feared,’ one of the younger officers said, looking at Francis with a smile of amusement and easy contempt, for he was still smarting from the shame of the disaster and pleased to vent it upon an even less fortunate companion.

  ‘My man was wounded,’ Francis answered. ‘In the leg by ill fortune or we could have run as swift as the rest of you.’

  ‘You stayed for him?’ The Dane was astonished.

  ‘What else? He saved my life at Cadiz. I owed it him. Besides …’

  Francis stopped speaking. He could not give words to his feeling for Will, his very deep affection, his dependence upon the older man’s honest judgement. Will was no scholar, he could neither read nor write. He was not above five years older than the boy, but he knew life, he had learned to see men clearly by their deeds, not their words. He was very necessary to Francis. And so the young man had carried that great weight to safety and had found a surgeon to extract the bullet and rejoiced it had not smashed the bone nor torn the vital arteries and sinews.