The Wondering Prince

by Jean Plaidy

  Had she known he was to come into his kingdom, she would have married him ere this. But it was not yet too late, for he was still unmarried.

  She went to his mother and, after kissing her hand, asked permission to sit beside her. Henrietta Maria graciously gave that permission.

  No longer an exile! thought Mademoiselle. She is almost condescending to me now. I shall have to let these Stuarts know that I consider it my privilege to walk before their daughter, for the girl is not yet Madame of France.

  Henrietta Maria’s fond eyes were on Henriette now.

  “A triumphant day for your daughter, Madame,” said Mademoiselle.

  “I rejoice to see her so happy.”

  “Is she happy? She does not seem entirely so. Do you think she is as eager for this marriage as … others?”

  “She will be. She is but a child. Philippe is eager … very eager.” Henrietta Maria stole a malicious look at her niece. “He is as eager to marry her as others are to marry him.”

  “Let us hope she will be happy.”

  “Who could fail to be happy in such a match, Mademoiselle?”

  “There will be matches in plenty in your family now, I doubt not.”

  “I doubt not,” said Henrietta Maria. “My son, the King, will not hesitate now.”

  “She will be a happy woman whom he chooses.”

  “There was a time, Mademoiselle, when you did not consider his wife would ever be in such a happy position.”

  “Nor would she have been had he remained in exile.”

  “He will remember the days of his exile, I doubt not. He will remember his friends of those days … and those who were not so friendly.”

  “Here at the French Court there have always been many to offer him sympathy and friendship.”

  “He owes much to his sister Mary.”

  “A charming princess. She reminded me of Charles.”

  “So you found Charles charming then?”

  “Who does not?”

  “Many did not during the days of his exile. But I doubt not that the charm of a king—to some—is more obvious than that of a wandering beggar.”

  Mademoiselle was growing angrier. Was the Queen suggesting she was too late? Had she forgotten the vast fortune which Mademoiselle would bring to her husband! She had heard that the King of England still suffered from a lack of money.

  Henrietta Maria was remembering it. She wondered what Charles would feel about marrying this woman. She must curb her impetuosity; it would not do to offend one who might become her daughter-in-law.

  She turned her gaze on Henriette, and was soothed. There was one who was to make the best marriage possible—since Louis was married.

  Mademoiselle followed her aunt’s gaze, and her anger was turned to something like panic.

  Too late for Louis; too late for Philippe. Could it be that she was too late for Charles?

  Henriette and her mother were ready to leave France on their journey to England. Henriette was longing to see her brother; but she was bewildered. Too much had happened to her in too short a time. The step from girlhood to womanhood had been too sudden. The thought of marriage alarmed her although as a princess she had been prepared for it, and she had been long aware that love played little part in the marriages of royal persons.

  She liked Philippe; she continually told herself that. There had been one or two quarrels when they were children, but was not that inevitable? He had not always been kind to her; but he had been only a boy, and all that would be changed now that he was in love with her. She could not doubt his love; he made it so evident. His eyes scarcely left her and he was obviously proud of her. It was touching to see the way in which he looked at his brother as though he were comparing Henriette with Marie-Thérèse, to the disadvantage of the Queen. How ridiculous of Philippe! And yet she found it to be rather charming and very pleasant, after all the humiliations she had received, to be so loved by such an important person.

  She would not wonder whether Louis was happy in his marriage; she would not think of Louis. Happily she was going to England and there it might be possible to talk with Charles, to tell him all that was in her mind and ask his advice.

  She sought her mother, but when she reached the Queen’s apartments she found Henrietta Maria lying on her bed, weeping bitterly.

  “What is wrong?” cried Henriette in great alarm. Her thoughts had gone at once to Charles. Had he lost the kingdom he had so recently regained?

  “Leave me with the Queen,” said Henriette, and the women obeyed.

  The Princess knelt by the bed and looked into her mother’s face. The small dark eyes were almost hidden behind their swollen lids, but Henriette knew at once that her mother’s grief was caused more by anger than sorrow.

  “Can you guess what is happening in England?” she demanded.

  “Tell me quickly, Mam. I cannot endure the suspense.”

  “There is danger of that woman’s being received at Court.”

  “What woman?”

  “That harlot … Anne Hyde!”

  “You mean … Anne … Clarendon’s daughter?”

  “Yes, I do mean that rogue’s daughter. That fool James has married her. Your brother has dared … without my consent … without the consent of his brother, the King, to marry her in secret!”

  “He … he loves her.”

  “Loves her! She has tricked him, as she would well know how to do. He married her just in time to allow her bastard to be born in wedlock. And he … poor simpleton … poor fool … acknowledged the child to be his.”

  “Mam, it may well be that the child is his.”

  “My son … to marry with a low-born harlot!”

  “Marriage with James will make her Duchess of York, Mam.”

  “If you try to soothe me I shall box your ears! I’ll not be soothed. Thank God we can go to England to prevent further disaster. Can you believe what I have heard! Your brother Charles is inclined to be lenient over the affair and will receive the woman at Court as James’ wife!”

  “Yes,” said Henriette, “I can believe it. It is what he would do.”

  “Charles is soft. There will always be rogues to get the better of him.”

  “No, Mam. He is kind. He says: ‘They love each other; they are married; they have a child. So … let us all be merry together!’”

  “For the love of the Virgin, daughter, let me not hear such nonsense from you. I thank the saints that we shall soon be in England and that I may be able to stop this folly.”

  “Mam, if Charles wishes to receive James’ wife at his Court …”

  “He must be made to see his folly. Does he want to lose that which he has just gained?”

  Henriette shook her head sadly. How could she say to her mother: Nay. It was you with your bad temper, with your insistence on having your way, who lost your crown. Charles’ kindness will make him popular with the people.

  One did not say such things to Henrietta Maria. One let her rave and rant, and if one were like Charles, one avoided her as much as possible.

  How regrettable this was! It seemed as though the visit to England would be spoiled. There would be trouble with James; and Henriette had been wondering what would happen when her mother and her brother Henry met again.

  “Ah, it is high time I was at your brother’s Court,” continued Henrietta Maria. “I have had this news from your sister Mary. She and I see eye to eye in this. She is incensed that that Hyde girl … her maid of honor … should have dared marry your brother. She blames herself. She remembers that she brought the girl with her when she visited us. She remembers that it was in her retinue that your brother first set eyes upon her. She knew they were meeting; but she—considering the girl’s lack of rank—thought her to be but the mistress of a few weeks. But to marry the girl … to legitimize her bastard!”

  “Please, Mam, do not speak of them. Let us wait and see what Charles has to say. It is his Court after all. He will finally decide what has to be done.”


  Henrietta Maria’s eyes narrowed. “He was never one to listen to his mother’s advice.”

  “Mam,” said Henriette, “I have been thinking of my brother Henry.”

  Henrietta Maria’s face grew darker still. “You may consider you have a brother of that name. I have no son called Henry.”

  “But, Mam, you cannot at such a time continue to turn your face from him.”

  “I swore that I would not look at his face again while he persisted in his heresy. I have no reason to believe that he has discarded it.”

  “Please, Mam … he is but a boy. He swore to our father the day before he died, that he would not change his religion. You must receive him. You must love him. You must remember that he is young and eager for the love of his family … and in particular he would wish his mother to love him.”

  “Then he knows what to do.”

  “He was separated from you for so long. He looked forward so eagerly to be with you and then …”

  “You make me angry, Henriette. I do not want to be disappointed in all my children. Would you have me break my vow?”

  “Would you have him break his vow to his father? God would forgive you, Mam, if you broke your vow in order to make him happy.”

  “You horrify me, daughter. Have my nuns of Chaillot … have Père Cyprien and the Abbé Montague not taught you better than that?”

  “Are we not told by God to love one another?”

  “You think strange thoughts, child. Listen to me. I have sworn I will never look on Henry’s face until he changes his religion. I shall keep my word.”

  Henriette turned away. Was the stay in England going to be so happy after all?

  She need not have worried about the future of her brother Henry. They were on their journey to Calais when a message concerning him was brought to them.

  Henry, Duke of Gloucester, had died the day before. He had been ill with the smallpox and had seemed to take the sickness lightly, so that all had hoped for a speedy recovery. He had been in the care of the King’s doctors, who did all they could for him; he had been profusely bled and assiduously attended; but in spite of their efforts—or perhaps because of them—his illness had ended in death.

  Henriette went to her mother, who was staring blankly, before her.

  This is terrible for her, thought Henriette, for she will be unable to forget the last time she saw Henry.

  She threw herself into her mother’s arms and they mingled their bitter tears.

  “Mam, you must not grieve,” cried Henriette. “What you did you did for your Faith. You believed you were right, and perhaps we cannot be blamed for doing what we believe to be right.”

  Henrietta Maria did not seem to hear her. “So …” she said slowly, “I have lost my son. My daughter Elizabeth … my son Henry … They are both lost to me, and they both died heretics.”

  Then she burst into bitter weeping, moaning that she was indeed La Reine Malheureuse.

  It may be, thought Henriette, that her regrets will make her lenient with James.

  But this was not so. Henrietta Maria could not regret that she would never now have an opportunity of breaking her vow; she saw her action as the right one, the only one a good Catholic could take. All human emotions were subdued in her quest for converts. Now she wept, not because her son had died, but because he had died a heretic.

  James met them at Calais with a squadron of ships—the first outward sign of the glories which awaited them. Henriette anxiously watched her mother’s greeting with her son, but it was formal and affectionate. The Queen had no quarrel with James; providing he would repudiate Anne Hyde she was ready enough to forgive him.

  James was a good seaman, but in spite of his prowess they spent two days in crossing the Straits on account of the calm; and when they arrived at Dover, Charles, with a brilliant retinue, was waiting to receive them.

  Henriette looked into his face and saw the difference which the restoration of his kingdom had made to him. He was jauntier than ever; but the cynicism with which the years of exile had endowed him would be with him forever; he was very affectionate with his dearest Minette, warning her that, even as a King returned to his throne, he would not tolerate too many “Your Majesty”s from her.

  To his mother he was graciously polite and showed all that affection which was demanded of him. The people, who had gathered to watch the royal meeting, were a little cool in their reception of Henrietta Maria; the population of Dover was largely composed of Puritans and Quakers, and they looked with distrust on the King’s Catholic mother; but the young Princess they thought charming, and they cheered her loudly, much to the delight of Charles.

  “You see how my people wish to please me in all things,” he whispered to her. “It seems they know that their appreciation of you pleases me far more than that which they have for any other.”

  He led his mother and sister into Dover Castle, where a great banquet was prepared for them. Charles placed his mother on one side of him, his sister on the other.

  “This gives me great happiness,” he whispered to Henriette. “Soon Mary will join us and then we shall all be together.”

  Later Henriette expressed the wish that Henry could have been with them.

  “If he were here,” said Charles, “we should have Mam turning her back on him.”

  “How did he die, Charles?” she asked. “Was he heartbroken? Did he long to speak to Mam before he died?”

  “I was with him, Minette. I persuaded him not to grieve. You see, I am a profane man, and I said to him: ‘If you side with Mam, you break your word to our father; if you do not break your word you are banished from our mother’s favor. Side with yourself, brother. Do nothing that can offend yourself, and then, surely, in God’s eyes, you have taken the right side.’”

  “You are a good man, Charles—the best in the world.”

  “You joke, Minette. I am the world’s biggest rake—or one of them. I doubt whether there is a man living who could compete with me. Now were my grandfather alive …”

  “You are the world’s kindest man, and it seems to me that kindness is one of the greatest virtues.”

  “If I am kind it is due to my laziness. That can scarcely be called a virtue. Nay, I beg of you, sister, do not see me as a better man than I am, for one day there may be disillusionment. Love me for my faults; for that is the only way in which a man such as I may be loved.”

  “What of James’ trouble?”

  “Trouble? James is in love, and his wife loves him. Can that be called trouble?”

  “Mam will make trouble of it.”

  Charles groaned.

  “She always hated Chancellor Hyde,” went on Henriette. “She says if his daughter enters Whitehall by one door, she will leave by another.”

  “Poor Mam!” said Charles. “So she is bent on making trouble. Does she never learn? Have the years of exile taught her nothing then?”

  It seemed not, for while they were at Dover—in that Puritan stronghold—she insisted that High Mass be celebrated in the great hall by Père Cyprien de Gamaches, whom she had brought with her.

  Charles was in a dilemma. To forbid it would mean trouble; to allow it would be to offend the people.

  Henrietta Maria, that diminutive virago, opposed to the Puritans of Dover! He smiled wryly. He feared his mother more, and hoped that in the excitement of the royal visit, in the pageantry so new to them after the years of Puritan rule, the people would overlook his mother’s tactlessness. So he decided that it would be wiser to risk offending the people of Dover than to cross his mother, who must somehow be reconciled to James’ marriage.

  In spite of the death of Henry, which cast a shadow over her pleasure, in spite of the apprehensive fears of the marriage which lay before her, this period seemed to Henriette the happiest of her life. In the grand entertainments which her brother had prepared for her she endeavored to forget the past and shut out thoughts of the future.

  She discovered that she was like Charles
; she could banish unpleasantness from her mind. She was very sorry for the Duchess of York, whose father was keeping her a prisoner in his house because the King’s mother had been so furiously enraged every time her name was mentioned. But she was able to forget her in the joy she found in her brother’s company.

  Mary, the Princess of Orange, had arrived in England, and there were special balls and fêtes to honor her. She was almost as fierce in her denunciation of Anne Hyde as Henrietta Maria was; and Charles, although his sympathies lay with his brother, was too lazy to enter into long arguments with his strong-minded mother and sister. It was easier to shelve for a while the matter of the Duchess’s banishment and give himself and his family the pleasure he had always promised this reunion should bring them.

  Scandal spread about the Court concerning the Duchess. She was a harlot, it was said; the Duke was not the father of her child; it seemed there was nothing too bad that could be said of the Duchess. Henriette shuddered; but she did not know that there was scandalous gossip concerning herself and Charles. She had no idea that sly gossips were asking each other: “What is the nature of this affection between the King and his sister? Is it not a little too fond to be natural?”

  There would always be scandals where there were Stuarts to provoke them.

  If the King knew of these rumors he did nothing to refute them. He was too lazy for one thing, too wise for another. He often said that one could not alter people’s thoughts, and to protest too strongly was often construed as evidence of guilt.

  Henriette was fast passing out of childhood. One of those who hastened her steps in that direction was George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. Almost as profligate as the King, he declared his infatuation for the young Princess and did all in his power to seduce her. He was sixteen years her senior, well versed in the art of seduction—having had plenty of practice—as cynical as his master, though lacking his lazy tolerance. Buckingham immediately recognized in the Princess that which had attracted de Guiche and so guided the attention of Philippe towards her.