Rupert hesitates for a moment then takes my hand in his. ‘It would not be to my credit,’ he says with a winsome smile that reminds me, heartbreakingly, of my brother Harry. ‘I was a callow, graceless, argumentative youth back in those days.’
Charles laughs then, breaking the uneasy spell that has fallen upon us all. ‘Rupert the Devil we used to call you back then,’ he says, putting his arm around our cousin’s shoulders. It is easy for him to do so as they are nearly of the same height. ‘My father always used to say that you were the bravest and most hot headed boy he ever had the ill fortune to lead into battle.’
Rupert looks awkward. ‘I would have died for him,’ he says simply.
Charles sighs and nods. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘So would I.’
There’s an elaborate state banquet that evening in the great hall of the castle and Mam and I are the guests of honour, sitting at the very head of the table on either side of Charles. There’s a moment of awkwardness when Mam’s confessor Father Cyprien stood up and blessed the meal in the Catholic fashion, extending his chubby arms to make the sign of a large cross over all the dishes on the table. Charles says nothing and Mam, of course, is all complacent triumph to see the forbidden Catholic rites performed once again on English soil but I am alarmed by the murmurs of annoyed dissent that erupt along the table and from the onlookers who have crowded into the corners of the room to watch us eat.
‘That was not altogether wise,’ I hear Prince Rupert murmur in an undertone to the Duchess of Richmond, who has been deliberately placed at his side - another piece of mischief from Mary who likes to tease them both about old, half forgotten rumours that they were once lovers. This, apparently, is the tone of my brother’s new court - careless of morality and cheerfully licentious. I can tell that Mam, who is simmering with indignation, doesn’t approve but I rather love it.
‘A lot of men died to keep the Mass out of England,’ the Duchess whispers back in English, which I still struggle to understand but I know enough to get the gist of what she is saying. ‘I believe that many more would give their lives to ensure that it doesn’t return. Perhaps someone needs to remind Her Majesty of that.’
I feel suddenly faint and heartsick and in my distress clatter my spoon clumsily against the side of my gold plate, which causes them both to break off and look anxiously over at me. The Duchess’ expression is guilty and a little afraid but Rupert meets my eyes calmly. ‘Henrietta,’ he says sadly, his great dark eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
I open my mouth to reply, to tell them both that they are wrong and that my family don’t need reminding of how close we came to losing everything, but at that moment my brother Charles, who had appeared to be deep in conversation with my mother and oblivious to everything else, turns abruptly and takes firm hold of my hand. ‘I know,’ he says in an undertone, looking into my eyes and I see that beneath his merry, cheerful manner he is utterly exhausted and as chilled to the bone as I. ‘Do not worry yourself, Minette.’
‘How can I not worry when your safety is threatened?’ I say. ‘You are everything to me, Charles.’
My brother smiles then and lifts my hand to his lips. ‘It does my heart good to hear you say that,’ he says. ‘In fact, just having you here at my side makes everything seem easier. You can’t imagine what it has been like here for me.’ He sighs and squeezes my fingers. ‘To be surrounded at all times by people but still feel so alone. Nothing can quite prepare you for it, for what it is like to be a king in truth as well as name.’
I could cry for him, my poor brother. ‘You will never be alone for as long as I am alive,’ I promise him fiercely, ‘and if you wish it, I will stay here in England at your side for as long as you require me.’
Charles shakes his head sadly. ‘I cannot ask you to do that, Minette,’ he says. ‘I know that your life is in France now. Besides, I dare not incur Philippe’s wrath by holding on to you.’ He releases my hand and takes a sip of wine, raising the glass in a toast to our sister Mary, who is busily flirting with the handsome if rather portly gentleman beside her, who is wearing a full wig of the most luxuriant chestnut curls. ‘Mam tells me that he is madly in love with you.’
I feel my cheeks go warm. ‘I do not know if madly is quite the right word,’ I say carefully, remembering Philippe’s cool lips against my own and the contrast between his oddly chaste but affectionate kisses and the one that must never even be thought of. ‘We are very fond of each other though.’
My brother smiles. ‘That’s still better than most royal brides have a right to expect,’ he says. ‘Love is a fool’s game really.’
I sigh and look down the table to Mary and her young man, who are now whispering together furtively, no doubt planning an assignation for later. I quickly glance at Mam to see if she has noticed but she’s talking to James and appears oblivious to everything else. ‘You don’t really believe that,’ I say.
Charles laughs then. ‘No, but I wish that I did. It would certainly make life a lot simpler.’
That night I lie awake for a long time in my curtained bed at the very top of the great tower and listen to the crashing of the waves against the rocks at the bottom of the hill. If I went to my window I could look across the sea to where France waits for me but it feels too far away and so I prefer instead to remain tucked up in my warm bed and daydream about long, drowsy summer evenings at Fontainebleau until finally sleep comes to claim me for its own.
It takes two days to travel across the rain sodden Kentish countryside from Dover to London and we eventually arrive at the outskirts of the city at dusk. I peer anxiously through my mud splattered carriage window at the gloomy, rain swept streets lit up by the flambeaux carried by the gentlemen who escort us on horseback. It’s my first glimpse of London, a city that I have never before set foot in, and I can’t say that I am very impressed by its higgledy piggledy wooden houses which are all crammed close together and almost nose to nose overhead and grimy narrow streets that run with rivulets of water and are not nearly so well maintained as the ones I am used to in Paris. Our welcome is warm and very loud though and despite the rain and gloom, I feel my spirits rise as I wave to the people who have crowded the thoroughfare to see us pass.
There’s an even bigger crowd waiting for us when we reach the river, which we will be crossing by boat to reach the royal palace of Whitehall and their cheers and shouts become deafening as first Mam and then myself descend from our carriage, helped on our way by Charles himself who bows and grins at his subjects.
The original plan had been for Mam to enter the palace that had once been her home when she reigned at father’s side, at the head of an enormous and splendid state pageant but this idea was quietly dropped, probably because no one could predict just how enthusiastic the notoriously fickle Londoners would be about the return of their once deeply unpopular queen. We clearly need not have worried though as every face we can see is smiling and there are shouts of ‘God bless the Queen and Princess Henrietta’ as we make our way across the slippery cobbles to the waiting canopied barges. I see a look of relief pass between my brothers and wonder what ugliness they were expecting.
Our slow progress down the swollen and churning Thames is illuminated by bonfires and lanterns that have been lit alongside the river and punctuated by the constant ringing of the city’s church bells and angry shouts of our boatman as he forces other boats and barges out of our way. So much for the plan that we should enter privately and discreetly - the Thames is rammed with boats, all filled with people who have been waiting to see us arrive and who peer at us curiously as we float past.
‘I hear that people have been paying a sixpence each to take a seat in one of the boats this evening,’ I hear James whisper to Mary, who is wrapped up snug in a fur lined red velvet mantle. ‘The boatmen will be remembering us in their prayers tonight.’
There’s another great cheer from both the people crowding the riverside and those bobbing up and down in the boats as our barge reaches the royal landing
stage at Whitehall and Charles bounds over the side in order to help us off himself. ‘Home at last,’ he says cheerily to Mam but she doesn’t reply or move to take his outstretched hand.
Instead she stares up at the mildew speckled red brick walls of the enormous sprawling palace and I see with some alarm that tears are flowing thick and fast down her cheeks. ‘Mam,’ I whisper, moving close to her. ‘We are all here at your side. You are not doing this alone.’
‘I never thought I would return to this place,’ she says beneath her breath and as I take her hands in mine I can feel her trembling. ‘It’s been too long, Minette.’
I shake my head and direct a quick look of mingled appeal and panic at Charles, who jumps back on to the boat and takes her into his arms. ‘It hasn’t been too long, Mam,’ he says with great affection, kissing her head and then her hands. ‘Whitehall has been waiting patiently for your return.’
She collapses against Charles’ shoulder and sobs for a moment then regains her composure and moves quickly away from him. ‘I cannot forget that your father died here,’ she says, wiping away her tears with a handkerchief hastily handed over by James who is looking altogether less sympathetic than Charles, ‘and I was not here to give him strength.’
Charles sighs. ‘Come now, Mam, be of good cheer on this happy day,’ he says for indeed, what else could he say? ‘My father would not have wished you to feel any regrets.’
Mam looks doubtful for a moment then reluctantly nods and puts her hand on his arm and lets him help her off the barge. I follow closely behind with my hand on James’ arm, while Mary and Edward follow behind us. ‘I am taking second place to you, sister,’ she says to me cheerfully as I step off the boat.
I smile. ‘You would never get away with that in Paris,’ I say with a wink at Edward to remind him of the time he defended my honour after Anne-Marie entered a room before me. It all seems so silly and trivial now though as I make my way along the covered walk way and then slowly up the stone Privy Stairs to the palace that was my family’s home for decades before war forced them to abandon it, perhaps forever.
It’s an important moment and a hush falls upon us as we make our way to the royal apartments, which lie at the very heart of the palace and which will be our home while we stay in London. Mam is still clinging to Charles’ arm and I take hold of her other arm, afraid that she will break down again. All goes well though and instead she is quietly melancholy, a state with which we are all familiar and can cope with very well, as she walks through these once well known and well loved galleries and rooms, pausing every now and again to appreciate a pleasant view from a window or a forgotten family portrait hanging in a dusty corner.
‘When I first came back, it was almost as though the palace had been asleep,’ Charles murmurs to us. ‘That it had fallen into a deep slumber like a palace in a fairytale, waiting for the day that we would return and wake it up again.’
No need to remind anyone that Cromwell and his pack of regicides made Whitehall their home in our absence and that he died in his bed there. Better by far to pretend to ourselves that it remained silent, sleeping and untouched.
Mary takes me to the suite of rooms that will be mine during our stay, they’re lit by hundreds of candles which burn on polished silver sconces and cast deep shadows across the wooden panelled walls. ‘Charles had them decorated specially for you,’ Mary says with a smile as she leads me into my bedchamber, which is hung with deep pink taffeta at the windows and around the elaborately canopied bed. The ceiling has been freshly painted with plump mischievous cherubs flying around a perfect blue sky. Over the plastered and gilt decorated fireplace there hangs a lovely portrait of my parents together. My father is wearing a red and white doublet and leans with an almost amorous look towards Mam, looking younger and prettier than I have ever seen her, as she hands him a laurel wreath. However, while father’s gaze is fixed firmly on my mother’s charming face, she looks out of the painting with a wry smile dancing about her pursed lips.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say appreciatively, turning my back on Mam and Our Sainted Father and making my way to the lace and ribbon bedecked dressing table which stands in front of a window that overlooks the gardens. It’s covered with an intriguing array of silver pots, crystal perfume bottles and in the very centre is a pink velvet covered box, which I breathlessly open to reveal a perfect pair of pearl earrings, each one with three enormous pearls suspended from a diamond clasp.
‘Oooh,’ Mary exclaims over my shoulder. ‘Charles really has thought of everything, hasn’t he?’
I smile and hold one of the earrings up to my ear, carelessly sweeping back my ringlets so that I can see how it looks against the white skin of my neck. ‘I think that the lady he eventually marries will be very lucky indeed,’ I say to my sister with a laugh. ‘How spoiled she will be. I fear our noses will be quite put out of joint.’
Mary laughs. ‘We’ll have our own husbands by then,’ she says and there’s no mistaking the hopeful gleam in her hazel eyes.
‘Do you have someone in mind, sister?’ I ask, putting the precious pearls back into their box and firmly closing the lid. ‘Our cousin Rupert perhaps or maybe that handsome fellow I saw you with last night?’
Mary pouts. ‘I don’t think Rupert is very interested in me,’ she says with a sigh, ‘and as for the Duke of Buckingham, if you mean the gentleman who sat beside me at dinner, he’s married already and has already had his wrist firmly slapped by Mam this morning so won’t be troubling me any more.’
‘Where is his wife?’ I ask, lifting up one of the crystal bottles and unstoppering it to take a hesitant sniff. The gentle scent of roses and violets fills the room. ‘He didn’t look very married.’ Does anyone these days though?
Mary grimaces. ‘He married General Fairfax’s daughter while trying to toady his way into Cromwell’s good books after falling out with Charles. As you can imagine, he’s starting to regret such a republican alliance.’
I’m intrigued. ‘Why did he fall out with Charles?’
Mary smirks then. ‘Because he tried to pay court to me and went a little too far with his attentions. Even by our family’s standards, it caused quite a scandal at the time.’
‘Is there any man left on earth who has not tried to marry you at one time or another, Mary?’ I exclaim, trying another perfume on my wrist and sniffing it. Lilies of the valley and the faintest wisp of amber.
My sister grins. ‘Apparently not,’ she says gaily. ‘You realise though that having been thwarted with me, the Duke will be turning his attention to you instead now?’ she says with a wink. ‘His sister is the Duchess of Richmond so I expect he’ll be haunting Mam’s apartments from now on.’
I make a decision then and put the perfume bottle down before turning to face my sister. ‘I want to see where it happened,’ I say simply.
Mary stares at me intently for a moment as the laughter drains from her eyes then slowly nods. ‘Of course you do,’ she agrees.
It takes only a few moments to throw dark hooded cloaks over our silk dresses, don a pair of black velvet vizard masks which I had packed to protect my face from the rigours of the notoriously bad English winter and then run down the private back stairs that attach my bedchamber to a small guard room below. Mary, who grew up in the palace and was every bit as mischievous as a child as she is as an adult, instinctively knows her way through what looks to me like a confusing labyrinth of corridors, courtyards and stairs and I breathlessly follow her lead, my heart hammering loudly in my ears as we sidle past loitering groups of courtiers, holding our masks against our faces so that we will not be recognised although it’s hard to disguise the distinctive Stuart red ringlets that peep out from behind our hoods.
Finally, we are out on the street and standing in front of a beautiful pale stone building, with tall elegant windows and a graceful columned facade that wouldn’t look out of place attached to the Louvre. Mary looks at me and takes my hand in hers. ‘It was here at the banqueting house,�
�� she whispers and I look about myself, feeling a cold shiver which owes nothing to the damp November weather make its way down my spine.
Ignoring the dozens of passersby who bustle noisily past, I stare down at the filthy straw and horse manure covered cobbles, imagining them splattered with blood then as tears fill my eyes I gaze up at the dark, leaden sky above.
‘He stepped out from that window,’ Mary says quietly, pointing up at the one of the windows above us. ‘There is a gallery behind it that runs around the banqueting hall. He made his way around that and then went outside to the scaffold which had been built high so that all could see.’
I look up again, imagining the scaffold looming over us and my father, a pale indistinct figure, trying hard not to shiver in his two white shirts and black silk breeches, kneeling before a block. I close my eyes then and imagine myself surrounded by a silent crowd of thousands of people, all holding their breath together as the headsman prepares himself then releasing it in a great collective sigh of relief as the axe swings down.
‘We should not linger here,’ Mary whispers and I open my eyes to see her looking at me with concern. ‘Charles would not like to hear that we have been here alone.’
I nod but do not move. I am unwilling to leave this spot as it is, ironically I suppose, the closest that I have ever felt to my father. ‘Does he ever come here?’ I ask after a moment.
Mary puts her pretty head to one side. ‘I think so,’ she says. ‘I know that he came here every night for weeks after coming back. He was secretive about it, of course, not wanting to rake those old wounds up again.’ She sighs. ‘He told me that he needed to see though, for if he means to remain here as King then he needs to be able to walk past this spot without wanting to cry and he needs to be able to live here without hating them all for what they did.’
Minette Page 24