James nods and smiles. ‘You are a French princess now,’ he says. ‘Mam would say that’s much better.’
I sigh at the mention of our mother. ‘What did she say about Harry?’ I ask.
James shrugs. ‘Denial, tears, empty promises and lies,’ he says shortly. ‘The usual.’
‘If only Charles were here,’ I say as a roll of thunder rumbles overhead and the puppy on my lap gives a little whimper of fear. ‘He would know what to do.’
Charles doesn’t come but instead sends the next best thing in the person of his friend, the Earl of Ormonde, a tall, cheerful man in his early forties with wavy sun bleached blonde hair and an eye for the ladies of the court, who flutter around him like moths drawn to a flame as soon as he sets foot in the Palais Royal a few days later. He’s covered in dust from the road and his handsome, grinning face is mottled with mud. He was one of those who left with Charles in July and he seems amused and not a little shell shocked to be back in Paris again so quickly.
‘Charles got your letter. Harry managed to get one to him as well,’ he says to James in his soft Irish accent when he arrives. ‘How are things here?’
‘Very bad,’ says James with an unhappy shrug. ‘She won’t listen to anything I say and even Lord Jermyn has given up trying to make her see reason. I’ve been trying to get permission to go to Pontoise to see Harry for myself but she won’t give it.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘She says I should go back to my regiment and stop meddling in matters that don’t concern me.’
‘Ah,’ says Ormonde softly but clearly undaunted by this catalogue of woe. ‘We’ll see about that, shall we?’
James pats him regretfully on the back as he goes down the gallery to Mam’s closet, casting a comically mournful look back at us over his shoulder before he goes in. ‘Ormonde was always able to twist Mam around his little finger,’ James says with a laugh as the door closes behind him. ‘Charles knew exactly what he was doing when he sent him to us.’
Or perhaps not. Ormonde storms out of Mam’s closet after less than half an hour, shaking his head incredulously and looking as if he would dearly like to wring her neck. ‘I am sorry to speak so of your mother, Jemmy,’ he says grimly after he picks his way towards us between the curious courtiers, ‘but the woman has become quite impossible. It’s always the small, dainty looking ones that seem to sour the most with age.’ He gives a wicked smile. ‘Which is why I decided to marry the tallest, most strapping wench that I could find.’
James grins. ‘I did try to warn you about Mam,’ he says.
Ormonde sighs and pinches between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger as if staving off a particularly terrible headache. ’She wouldn’t listen to a single thing that I had to say. She even pretended to throw the letter that I’ve brought her from Charles into the fire. It landed at the side of the grate and I wager she’s fished it out by now and is avidly reading it so she can make herself even more angry with us all,’ he says. ‘I always used to laugh at Charles when he said that talking to his dearest Mam was like wading through treacle on a cold day but, my God, that’s not the half of it.’
‘Did you ask to see Harry?’ I ask softly, reminding them both of my presence.
Ormonde has the grace to blush and look a little abashed to have spoken of my mother with so little respect in front of me. Little does he know that I don’t much care right now and nothing he could say can possibly be worse than my own thoughts. ‘I did,’ he says, ‘and as I expected permission was immediately refused. She says that the prince is expected to return to Paris in the next few days so there’s no need for me to put myself out by visiting him at Pontoise.’
James looks thoughtful. ‘Do you believe her?’ he says.
Ormonde laughs. ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’
He rides out to Pontoise before sunrise the next morning, when most of the Palais Royal inhabitants are still snuggled in their beds, lost in a world of dreams and sleep. When Mam nervously asks where he is over our breakfast of hot chocolate, rolls, jam and cheese, James gives an evasive shrug then winks across the laden table at me. For the first time since this whole sad affair began several weeks ago, Mam looks worried. She goes pale, self consciously pats the greying ringlets arranged on either side of her thin face, peers at us both closely then gets up from the table and almost runs to her closet with her faithful Lord Jermyn close at her heels. He gives my brother a reproachful look over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him.
‘She’s gone to write to Montagu,’ James predicts with relish, buttering a roll then pouring himself another cup of hot chocolate. ‘She’s too late, of course. Ormonde will probably be on his way back by now.’
‘Do you think he has been able to see Harry?’ I ask, pushing my plate away and shaking my head when James offers me the silver hot chocolate pot. ‘The Abbé will surely not allow him inside?’
James laughs. ‘Ormonde could talk his way past the gates of Hell itself,’ he says.
I spend the rest of the morning prowling up and down the long gallery, which has tall windows overlooking the gardens on one side and the courtyard on the other. It’s a beautiful room, harmonious and bright, with pretty mythological scenes above the doors, soft Turkish carpets on the floor and lovely raspberry pink brocade curtains hanging at the windows. Now that Mam’s allowance is being paid more regularly by Tante Anne and she isn’t sending most of it away across the Channel to support the expensive war effort in England, we are able to improve our apartments at the palace and live more comfortably.
Just before dinner, there’s a great deal of shouting and a clattering of hooves from the courtyard and I run to the window to see Ormonde below, grinning and bellowing orders from his beautiful prancing chestnut horse. Beside him sits Harry, pale and thinner than I have ever before seen him but grinning no less widely on his own grey. He looks up and sees me at the window and raises his gloved hand. ‘Thank God,’ I breathe and run down the gallery to the marble staircase beyond.
I meet Ormonde and Harry in the huge vaulted entrance hall and immediately fling my arms around my brother. ‘I missed you,’ I whisper against his chest for I do not stand any higher. ‘Oh, thank God you are back with us again.’ He holds me tightly against him and I think I hear a slight sob as he buries his face in my shoulder.
James hurries down the stairs behind me. ‘You got inside the abbey then?’ he says.
‘There was never any doubt of that,’ Ormonde says with a laugh, taking off his feathered hat and shaking out his shaggy blond hair. ‘Your good Abbé did his best to keep me out but he could hardly refuse when I insisted that it was King Charles’ own wish that I see his brother and that I was prepared to sit outside and wait for as long as it took for him to let me in.’ He claps Harry affectionately on the shoulder then looks at James, a frown between his eyes. ‘We have things to discuss,’ he says and they both go off together.
Harry and I go out to the gardens. It rained overnight and the ground is damp and a little muddy so we perch on one of the marble benches that line the terrace. Behind us I sense my mother watching from the window of her little closet, half hidden behind the heavy blue watered silk curtains.
‘What was it like?’ I ask, taking Harry’s hand in mine. I’m worried by how wan and weak he looks. ‘Didn’t they feed you at the abbey?’
He laughs. ‘Not much,’ he says. ‘I had to eat with the monks and they aren’t exactly renowned for the variety of their cuisine. It’s amazing that Abbé Montagu has managed to become so spectacularly corpulent, all things considered. The morning gruel was particularly uninspiring.’ He gives a shudder. ‘I dreamed about the breakfast here - hot chocolate, warm rolls, jam and butter…’
‘Were they kind to you?’ I interrupt, silently resolving to sneak him to the kitchens for some food when we had done talking. The palace cook is rather fond of me and likes to dole out cakes, biscuits and other treats behind my mother’s back. ‘I know that our brothers don’t like the Abbé but I don’t
think that he is an unkind man.’
Harry shrugs. ‘He didn’t batter me with a crucifix while screaming that I should recant or face the fires of Hell, if that’s what you mean by kindness?’ he says wearily. ‘They put me in a monk’s cell and Montagu spent a lot of time talking at me, trying to make me see reason.’ He sighs and looks up at the grey, cloudy sky overhead. ‘It was never going to work. Mam won’t want to hear this but it was the memory of our father’s last words to me that kept me strong. He told me that I must never give up my religion or I would lose myself and the kingdom for my brothers. He made me promise that I would never do so and nothing that Montagu, Mam or their entire pack of canting priests can do will ever make me break my word.’
He pulls out a crumpled letter. ‘Ormonde brought me this,’ he says, handing it to me. ‘It’s from Charles.’
I look at the paper, recognising our eldest brother’s round, florid hand. ‘Consider well what it is to be, not only the cause of ruining a brother who loves you so well, but also your king and country. Do not let them persuade you either by force or fair promises; the first they never dare nor will use, and for the second, as soon as they have perverted you, they will have their end, and then they will care no more for you…’
I stare at Harry, utterly shocked. ‘I can’t believe that he would use such stern language about our mother,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘He must be very angry with her.’
‘Ormonde says that he has never seen him more furious,’ Harry says, taking back the letter and tucking it inside his brown velvet jacket. ‘He was so angered that he couldn’t speak for several moments and then had to go to his room alone to compose himself. He smashed a mirror by throwing a pitcher at it.’
I can feel the colour drain from my cheeks. ‘Does Mam know?’
‘There was a letter for her as well.’ Harry and I look at each other. ‘This is going to change everything,’ he says softly, looking guilty. ‘Mary has written as has Aunt Elizabeth. She won’t be pleased about that.’
‘No indeed.’ Mam’s jealousy of Aunt Elizabeth, who is our father’s only sister and the erstwhile Queen of Bohemia has reached obsessive proportions in recent years. Elizabeth was named for her godmother, Queen Elizabeth Tudor and bears more than a passing resemblance to that dread lady both in terms of her russet haired good looks and strong willed personality. Mam is terrified of her.
‘What will you do now, Harry?’ I ask, dragging my thoughts away from our enigmatic aunt.
‘I don’t know,’ he says miserably. ‘I can’t stay here though. This is just a brief respite. Mam will never leave me alone no matter what anyone does to dissuade her.’ He laughs then, a little bitterly. ‘I find it passing strange than I should be happier in Cromwell’s care than that of my own mother.’
A week passes and the ugly atmosphere at the Palais Royal becomes even worse when Tante Anne joins forces with Mam and does her best to cajole and then frighten Harry into converting to Catholicism. ‘How can you bear to make your mother cry so?’ she demands over dinner one afternoon. ‘Why can you not do this one simple little thing to make her happy? Your grandfather, King Henri of France would have been ashamed of you.’ She points at James, who ignores her completely and carries on spooning soup into his mouth as if he has not a care in the world. ‘It’s no good copying your brothers, young man. God knows, it is hard to have heretics for nephews but they are close enough to the throne for it to be well worth risking damnation. You, on the other hand, will never be king so ought to have more care for your soul’s wellbeing.’
Harry doesn’t reply but he looks at me for a moment and shakes his head.
After dinner, we all walk in the long gallery and Mam takes Harry off into her closet for what she claims is just a cosy little chat. James and I look at each other when the door closes behind him. ‘I wish to God that we could get him away from here,’ my brother says as we stand at one of the windows overlooking the courtyard and watch our aunt make her way in great state across to the Louvre, which lies on the other side of the Rue Saint-Honoré. It’s beginning to rain and a quartet of unhappy looking pageboys carry a large embroidered and tasseled brocade canopy over her head as she walks.
I look nervously at the closed door at the end of the gallery. ‘I wonder what is happening,’ I say. ‘I hope she isn’t too hard on him.’
Just then, the door is thrown abruptly open and Harry hurries out into the corridor. His hair is a mess, his jacket crumpled as if someone has taken hold of the front of it and I can tell that he is crying. ‘I won’t do it!’ he spins around and shouts into the room that he has just left. ‘I promised my father that I wouldn’t do it and nothing you can do will ever make me break the promise that I made to him.’
Mam storms out of the room behind him, her black silk skirts rustling angrily and cheeks ablaze with furious colour. She grabs Harry’s arm. ‘Is this your final word?’ she demands, shaking him. ‘Are you quite determined to disappoint me? Do you not care at all about your immortal soul? About being saved? Tell me, Harry, have you made your decision?’
He stares at her, his eyes wide then nods. ‘Yes.’ His face crumples as she raises her hand to him. ‘Please, Mam. Please listen. I hate that I am caught between your wishes and those of my brother and king. I hate that I cannot obey both of you.’ He twists away from her so that her blow when it falls lands on his shoulder instead of his cheek. ‘However, I find that obeying Charles is more in keeping with my own inclinations and duty. I cannot be a Catholic, not even to please you. I just can’t.’
‘How dare you!’ Mam shrieks, slapping wildly at his face as the few courtiers in the gallery look on in horror and embarrassment until James steps swiftly forward and gently pulls her away from our brother. ‘You have been turned against me by Cromwell! You are an unnatural boy and no son of mine.’ She pushes James away and takes a few shaky breaths as she tries in vain to compose herself. ‘Did you hear me, Henry? You are no longer my son.’
‘Please, Mam…’ Harry sounds utterly broken hearted.
‘You no longer have the right to call me mother,’ Mam screams, the tendons in her thin neck standing out painfully like cords. I look quickly away, ashamed to find myself thinking how ugly she looks at that moment. ‘Get out of my sight. Go on, get out. You are no longer welcome here. Go to your brother, if he wants you so badly. Go to your aunt! Damn you, go back to Cromwell.’
Harry stares at her for a long moment then turns on his heel and walks then runs from the gallery. I immediately run after him and chase him down the sweeping marble staircase to the hall and then out into the courtyard. ‘Harry…’ I fling my arms around him. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He pulls me close and kisses my cheek, the tip of my nose and then the top of my head. ‘Don’t forget me, Minette,’ he whispers. ‘I will never forget you.’
James appears behind us. ‘Ormonde is packing your things up again,’ he says briskly, ‘and Jermyn and a few others have offered to sell some of their last remaining jewels to pay for your journey to Charles in Cologne. They don’t want you to go thinking that you have no friends here, Harry.’
My brother nods and then begins to sob wildly like a child against my shoulder. ‘Did she mean it?’ he asks James after a while.
‘Of course not,’ James says with a smile. ‘She’s said far worse to Charles and me in her time. Don’t give it another second’s thought. All will be well in the end.’
We all turn when Mam, dressed for travelling in a feathered hat and blue sable lined cloak, appears on the steps to the courtyard and pauses for a moment to pull on her black gloves before stepping down to her waiting carriage. ‘I am going to Chaillot to hear vespers with the sisters,’ she remarks to no one in particular before sweeping past us with a pale and downcast looking Duchess of Richmond in her wake.
‘Mam…’ Harry leaps in front of her and kneels on the rain slick cobbles, his knees sinking into a muddy puddle. ‘Please, I beg of you, give me your blessing before I go.’ He lifts h
is hands to her. ‘Please, Mam…’
She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t even look at him. She just climbs into her coach and it pulls immediately away leaving Harry kneeling in the mud, with tears streaming down his cheeks.
Part Two
The Holy Innocent
1655-1659
Chapter Five
Paris, December 1655
My poor little mother was on the run from Parliament’s forces when I was born. Sickly, exhausted, frantic about the fate of her husband and other children and massively pregnant, she was forced to seek refuge in the west country city of Exeter and gave birth to me there in a rickety little house close to the centre of town. Mam was so thin and unwell that she fully expected to die in childbirth and in her despair and anxiety even wrote a will and instructions for her burial in Exeter Cathedral.
She was also worried sick about the coming baby for I was born a month too soon and was very small, silent and weak when I eventually made my precipitous appearance on a bright June morning eleven years ago. However, to Mam’s surprise and profound relief, we both survived the hideous ordeal of my birth and all was well for a time.
‘I knew that you would be the last of my children,’ she told me once, her dark eyes staring intently into my own. ‘My enfant de bénédiction and little good luck charm. It seemed incredible to me that we should both have survived despite all the odds being against us and in a way that made you all the more mine in a way that your brothers and sisters could never be.’
Mam’s happiness was to be short lived though as when I was just a few weeks old, the advancement of Cromwell’s troops meant that she had to pack up her things and leave again to seek safety with her own family in France. She wanted to take me with her but due to my small size and feebleness, she was reluctantly persuaded to leave me behind with my governess and nurses in Exeter. There I remained, safe and snug in my borrowed wooden crib and with no idea that my mother had been forced to disguise herself and creep away in the dead of the night and that Cromwell’s troops were preparing to lay siege to the city.
Minette Page 5