‘Forgiven but not forgotten,’ Mam says bitterly, tracing a finger across the window we are standing beside. We have just heard that several regicides, men of the old Parliament, who signed my father’s death warrant were executed in the most ghastly way at the start of the month. Mam won’t tell me the details but I’ve heard some of the gentlemen of the court discussing it and know that the prisoners were hung, cut down while still alive before having their entrails removed and then being beheaded and quartered. To be frank, it’s the sort of punishment that I can imagine Louis ordering for someone who had injured him but not my brother, not my Charles.
‘They deserved to die,’ Mam says seeing my face go pale as I think about the tortures inflicted in the name of my family, of all the lives lost to war and rebellion, of the bloodshed that never seems to end even though we are supposed to be at peace now. ‘What those men did to your father was beyond redemption.’
I hesitate for a moment. ‘I just can’t believe that Charles would sanction such brutality,’ I say carefully. ‘I would have thought him more likely to forgive them all.’
Mam gives an impatient shrug. ‘They don’t deserve to live,’ she says brusquely.
‘But has there not been killing enough?’ I reply desperately. We are standing at a window that overlooks the courtyard and I hold my breath as a young man ambles, whistling merrily as he goes, across the cobbles to the gate. He has broad shoulders, a slim build and jaunty careless step that reminds me of Armand but when he abruptly turns and looks up at the window, shading his eyes against the sun, I see that it is not he but instead the handsome son of one of Mam’s courtiers. I sigh and turn away.
‘I would hound them all to the ends of the earth for what they did,’ Mam says furiously and I see that she is blinking back tears of rage. ‘I wouldn’t cease pursuing them until each and every one had paid the ultimate price for killing my husband and destroying our family.’ She looks at me accusingly, as if I too have betrayed her. ‘Would you really let them live after what they have done to us all?’
I hesitate then nod. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I would if they were truly sorry and able to prove themselves loyal and if not then I would let them leave in peace so long as they promised never to return.’
Mam turns away, gathering her heavy black taffeta skirts about her in preparation to leave. ‘They don’t know the meaning of loyalty and they forfeited all right to peace when they murdered your father,’ she says before sweeping majestically away.
We leave Paris at the end of October at the head of an enormous cavalcade of carriages and carts bearing not just our luggage but also hundreds of exiles who are taking this opportunity to return home to England. Their faces peer half excited, half terrified from the carriage windows as they take their last glimpse of the Palais Royal and busy Parisian streets that they have made their home for the last decade.
Some of them have even had children since coming here, who have been raised entirely in France and never so much as glimpsed their native land. Many of the children don’t even speak English and they gabble together in French as they perch on their mothers’ laps, their eyes wide and round with apprehension.
‘I am like them,’ I say to Mam sadly, pulling up the carriage window and tucking a blanket around my knees then lifting one of Mam’s soft eared spaniels on to my lap where it settles down for a sleep. ‘I can barely speak English either. Will they hate me for it?’ I can’t help remembering that the English hated Mam when she first arrived in England as a pretty little French princess not much older than I am now with a retinue of priests and no thought of anything but fashion, dancing and fun. Apparently they are not much given to frivolity in England.
Mam sighs and flutters her hands prettily. ‘They will love you for at heart you are one of them,’ she says sadly. ‘I never was, you see. I could never be mistaken for anything other than French but you are in every way a Princess of England.’ She smiles and pats my cheek. ‘Besides, to know you is to love you, my dear.’
I feel my cheeks go warm. ‘I wish that were true,’ I whisper.
‘Philippe certainly thinks so,’ Mam says slyly. My betrothed came with his mother and brother to say goodbye before we left and spent the whole painful interview clutching earnestly at my hands and gazing soulfully and rather weepily at me from eyes that bore the faintest suspicious trace of kohl.
‘Promise me that you will come back,’ he whispered as his brother rolled his eyes mockingly. ‘Louis says that you won’t. He says that you will stay in England forever.’
I sighed and kissed Philippe’s soft hands, first one and then the other, just as if I were his mother rather than his betrothed. They smelled comfortingly of orange blossom and sweet almonds. ‘I promise that I will come back,’ I said, pulling a face at Louis, who smirked and turned away to warm his hands over the fire. ‘I may have been born in England but France is my home and always will be. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.’
Tante Anne stepped in then and embraced us both, clasping my head to her warm, rose scented bosom where it rested uneasily against several ropes of enormous pearls. ‘Of course our sweet Minette will come back to us!’ she chided her son with a smile. ‘Why would she not when she knows that you are waiting for her?’
Chapter Nineteen
Dover, November 1660
I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, pull my hood up over my hair and take Mam’s arm to step out onto the rain lashed deck where my brothers and a small circle of courtiers are waiting for us. We have been moored in Dover harbour for half an hour now in the warship under my brother James’ command that has brought us here from France and I’ll admit that my first glimpse of England, with its apparently incessant rain and ominous grey storm clouds, is not one to inspire any stirrings of affection in my heart.
‘Philippe warned me that it always rains in England,’ I comment miserably over my shoulder to Mam’s ladies in waiting as they follow us up on to the deck, squired by my handsome cousin Edward who has travelled with us from Calais and is a great favourite with them all. ‘I had hoped that he was wrong.’
The Duchess of Richmond laughs and tosses her russet curls. ‘It’s not always so bad, your Highness,’ she says. ‘In truth there is nothing on earth quite so lovely as an English summer’s day.’ She pulls a face. ‘November, however, is a very different matter.’
‘I can see that,’ I say drily but then all of my complaints are forgotten an instant later when my brother Charles steps forward with his arms wide open in welcome. ‘Minette,’ he says in his deep, rich voice as I run to him, my feet skidding on the sodden deck floor. ‘My own sweet Minette.’
We kiss and I hug him with sheer delight. ‘Charles, oh Charles.’ I could cling to him forever, content always to remain within the warm, protective circle of his arms.
He pulls back a little to look at me then gives a rueful little smile. ‘I hear that your voyage was not as good as it ought to have been,’ he says. ‘How like the wind to rush us where we have no wish to go and then refuse to comply when we are desperate to see the ones we love.’
I laugh. ‘You have no idea how frustrating it was,’ I say. It’s true. The wind refused to raise for our journey and so our voyage across from Calais on a sea of glassy and almost sinister calm had taken two whole days rather than the hoped for mere hours.
‘I have every idea,’ my brother says, kissing me again. ‘I have never felt such impatience as I did while waiting for your arrival, my own heart.’
There’s a discreet cough from behind us and he gives me one last sad smile and releases me to greet our mother who stands alone and forlorn in the middle of the deck with her hood raised up against the chill rain and one hand shielding her eyes as she gazes pensively up at the cliffs of Dover which loom over us.
‘I remember the first time I landed here as a girl on my way to marry your poor sainted father,’ are her first words to Charles as he leans over her to kiss her pale cheeks. Poor Mam, she never did have v
ery good sea legs and the last two days have been a torture for her with the result that she has clearly decided to be her most maudlin and difficult now. ‘How unhappy I was that day.’
Charles heaves a dispirited sigh. ‘Come now, Mam,’ he says bracingly, taking her small hands within his own much larger ones. ‘Let us put the past behind us and think only of happy times to come.’
Mam gives a watery smile then puts her hand on his arm to let him lead her to the gangplank that will take us ashore. I follow behind with James, who is clearly relieved to have discharged his duty and be back in England once more. ‘You will be glad to see your son again,’ I whisper to him with a smile. Unable to evade Mam’s vigilance, we’ve barely had a chance to mention his little boy, another Charles, who is only a few weeks old.
James smiles with genuine pleasure. ‘I will indeed,’ he agrees. ‘He is a charming lad with, I think, a look of our father about him although Anne contends that he is too young to look like anyone much.’ He lowers his voice so that Mam won’t hear. ‘I hope that you will get the chance to meet him someday.’
I grin and gently nudge his ribs with my elbow. ‘I hope so too,’ I whisper back conspiratorially.
‘And my Anne too,’ James continues with a cautious sidelong look. ‘I know that you will like her very much.’
I nod and smile and don’t remind him that I’ve already met his Anne and didn’t like her one little bit. ‘I should be delighted,’ is all I say. ‘Although…’ I look at Mam’s back as she clutches Charles’ hand and nervously prepares to leave the ship. ‘It may be awkward,’ I say lamely.
James gives a grim little nod. ‘I know but surely even Mam will relent with time?’ he says as we watch her slowly make her way down the slippery gangplank, her face pale and tense with fear. ‘After all, she openly dotes on Charles’ brat by Mrs Barlow so you would think that she’d be pleased to have a legitimate grandchild at long last.’
I sigh. ‘You should know by now never to have any expectations of our mother,’ I say with a smile. ‘She will behave exactly as she pleases and to hell with us all.’
James looks at me with surprise as if a usually placid kitten has suddenly and for no reason unsheathed its claws. ‘This is not like you, Minette,’ he says with some concern.
We’ve reached the gangplank and I look at him sadly as I bunch my skirts decorously about my ankles and prepare for my inevitably less than dignified descent to land. ‘I am sorry, Jamie,’ I whisper, holding tightly on to his hand to steady myself. ‘It is just that I cannot forget how she treated Harry and I find myself wondering how easy it would be for her to…’
‘I know,’ my brother cuts me off before I can say the words that are deep within his heart also. ‘I wonder too.’
Charles himself catches me up into his arms as I come to the end of the gangplank and laughingly sets me onto my feet again. ‘Never before have I seen a gangplank descended with such grace,’ he compliments me as I look about myself curiously. ‘I wish that your betrothed could have seen it.’
I laugh, shaking out my ringlets. ‘I am glad that he could not,’ I say. ‘He would only find fault with my lack of elegance.’
Charles looks sad at that but says nothing.
‘It’s almost as if history is repeating itself,’ Mam says suddenly, turning to me as I reach her side. ‘Your great grandmother, Mary Stuart, fled Scotland when she was an infant and was raised in France before returning when she was eighteen to reclaim her throne.’
‘And we all know how that turned out,’ Charles adds, looking amused. ‘I’ll have to be sure to keep any unsuitable Scottish suitors away from our Minette.’
I shiver, irrationally thinking that this talk of our unfortunate ancestress is a bad omen for this visit to England. After all, we Stuarts have never exactly flourished here, have we? I catch James’ eye and he gives me a little nod. ‘Some things never change,’ he whispers with a glance across at Mam.
‘And nor do we wish them to,’ Charles adds reprovingly, overhearing us.
An immense crowd is waiting for us, with both richly dressed courtiers mingling with more common folk who have travelled down from the town to see us arrive. Everyone is staring silently with open curiosity at Mam and myself, the exiled queen that no one thought to ever see again and the princess who hasn’t set foot in her own country for over fourteen years.
Charles steps ahead of us then turns and bows low in the French manner while raising his feathered hat with a polished flourish that would have made Philippe stare with envy. ‘Welcome to England,’ he says loudly in English and obediently the crowds raise their own hats and give a loud cheer.
Overwhelmed, Mam frostily acknowledges them with a slight and unsmiling inclination of her head and so, as ever, it falls to me to charm them all, to forget the aches and exhaustion of our long journey and grin and curtsey with all the artless grace that I can muster as my brothers look on approvingly.
My reward is another rather more enthusiastic cheer and I blush and kiss my hands to them all, knowing that this adulation is for me alone and no one else.
‘Welcome home, Minette,’ Charles whispers to me before raising his voice to address the crowd, again in English which I have to concentrate to follow. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present my youngest sister, the Princess Henrietta-Anne of England, home at last.’
Their cheers and shouts of welcome are still ringing in my ears as we make our way by carriage through narrow cobbled streets to Dover Castle where Mary and the rest of the court wait to meet us. ‘I wouldn’t be so pleased,’ Mam whispers to me sourly. ‘The English are a fickle race.’
James sighs. ‘The people are glad to have us back again,’ he points out. ‘You should have been there to see the welcome they gave Charles, Harry and me.’
Mam gives a majestic shrug and I think with amusement that she has never seemed so French. ‘They are glad now,’ she says, ‘but how long will that last?’
We arrive at the castle, an enormous sprawling stone structure that brings to mind the Medieval romances of gallant knights and their ladies that I had been so fond of as a child. ‘I never thought to set foot here again,’ Mam whispers, her hand on her breast as if stifling the memories that threaten to overwhelm her. ‘Oh, Minette, if only your father were here with us now.’
We make our way at a brisk trot through seemingly endless freezing cold galleries and stairways, all hung with huge threadbare but clearly once gloriously colourful tapestries depicting scenes from mythology. ‘These were once the eighth Henry’s pride and joy,’ Charles remarks a little sadly as he escorts me past.
‘Perhaps you should have them restored,’ I suggest.
Charles smiles down at me. ‘Perhaps I shall,’ he says. ‘There’s so much to be done though. I hardly know where to begin.’
We reach the royal apartments in the main tower, a chilly suite of rooms with old fashioned painted and gilded panelling and ornately plastered and decorated ceilings that show signs of damp and decay. I don’t care about any of that though as the first thing I see as we step inside is my sister Mary waiting for us in a chair beside a roaring fire.
‘Hallelujah and at long last!’ she cries as we enter, immediately leaping up and rushing to greet us. I smile to see that she is as frivolous and giddy as ever with enormous pearls swinging from her ears and jingling gold and jade bracelets around her thin wrists. She flings her arms around me and holds me close, enveloping me in a cloud of delicious and expensive smelling rose and amber scent. ‘Sweet little Minette,’ she breathes, kissing my cheek and leaving a sticky smear of crimson rouge on my skin. ‘Our good luck charm.’
Charles calls for sweet spiced mulled wine to be brought and we gather together around the fire, reunited again for the first time in more years than any of us care to remember. There’s a hint of sadness in the air though, a gap where Harry should have stood amongst us all. Perhaps he is here in spirit, looking down at us from Heaven and wishing us well? Perhaps.
; We’re soon joined by Edward, flushed and cheerful as ever, who enters with his arm around a much taller man of about forty years old with the stern, handsome features of a Greek general and dark waving hair that falls about his broad shoulders. ‘Look who I found!’ Edward proclaims. ‘Skulking in a corridor.’
‘Rupert,’ Mam says frostily and I remember that she and Rupert did not part on the best of terms the last time he came to France when I was a little girl. We have not seen him since then although just the mere mention of his name is still enough to set the ladies of my cousin’s court sighing and fluttering their eyelashes.
I look at him curiously then blush and have to look away when his grey eyes meet mine.
‘Isn’t our little Minette a beauty?’ Mary says, dancing between us mischievously. ‘Don’t you think so, Rupert?’ Obviously the rumours about her plan to marry Rupert herself have come to nothing.
He smiles then and his face is transformed, the angular lines softening and becoming beautiful. ‘Yes, she is,’ he says gravely, his eyes still upon me. ‘I always knew that she would be.’
‘You visited Minette just before she escaped did you not?’ Mam says coldly.
Rupert gives a stiff bow, the perfunctory and impatient courtesy of a man who is a born soldier and has no time for courtly manners. ‘It was I who instructed Lady Dalkeith on the best way to smuggle the princess out of the country and provided her with the maps that she required to make her way across to Dover.’ He smiles at me and shyly, I smile back. ‘You were no more than a baby at the time, Henriette, and the most charming child that I have ever had the pleasure to behold.’
‘I wish that I could remember you as clearly,’ I say, extending my hand to him. ‘I do not think that I have seen you since I was a very little girl but I still remember the stories that you used to tell us.’
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