Loyal in Love: Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I

by Jean Plaidy

“Oh, the base treachery!” I cried and was mad with grief.

  In my heart I knew that this was indeed the end, but I knew too that I would go on fighting as soon as I had recovered from the shock. I would always fight…even with death and despair staring me in the face.

  Charles wrote to me: “I am almost glad of it. I would rather be with those who have bought me so dearly than with the faithless who have sold me so basely.”

  Now the Cavaliers were coming to Paris in large numbers. They came to the Louvre and as the royal family was not there and I had almost the whole of the vast palace to myself I lodged them there. Some of the French criticized me for allowing them to have Protestant services in the Louvre and I reminded them that King Charles had never denied me the liberty of worshipping in my own faith and I could at least do the same for those who came to me with the object of furthering his cause. Rupert came. He was disheartened and somewhat resentful against the King who had reviled him after the loss of Bristol and seemed to have forgotten everything he had done in his service.

  I placated him. I begged him to understand the state of mind in which the King must be…a prisoner of his enemies in the country which he had been chosen by God to rule.

  My son went to Holland in the hope of getting help, and there his sister Mary, now Princess of Orange on the death of her husband’s father, welcomed him warmly. Poor Charles did not have a very happy time for almost immediately he contracted small pox and was laid low for some weeks. I suppose I must be grateful that he recovered but I did at the time find it difficult to be grateful for anything, so weighed down was I by my misfortunes. My thoughts were all with my husband—a prisoner in the hands of his enemies!

  Looking back, I wonder whether there might have been a hope even then of saving his crown and his life, for some people seemed to think that he could have come to terms with Cromwell. Now it is clear that he did not understand the people with whom he had to deal. He had some idea that if he offered them peerages they would agree to set him back on the throne. He never could understand men like Cromwell. I can see the situation more clearly now. When it happened I was as blind as he was.

  Charles did smuggle out a letter to me in which he stated that he was going to win them over and as soon as he gained power he would hang them all.

  Cromwell was too wise a man not to realize this possibility. I had always found it hard to see the enemy’s point of view, but I realized that Cromwell’s intentions were not entirely to gain power for himself—although this is what he did. Some thought him a bad man, but few could deny that he was a brave one. He never spared others, nor did he himself. He was a deeply religious man. He had said he took up arms for civil and religious liberty, but most of us have come to know by now that when people talk of giving the people religious liberty they mean liberty to worship as the oppressors think fit. I am sure my dear Charles did not wish to restrict the religious liberty of his subjects. Cromwell referred to himself as “a mean instrument to do God’s people some good and God service,” but he brought great tragedy to many an English family and more to that of his King and Queen than any other.

  I was delighted when my son James escaped to Holland. That was something to enliven the dreary days. He had been placed by the Parliament with his sister Elizabeth and brother Henry at St. James’s, though they were allowed to visit the King at Caversham and later at Hampton Court and Zion House, where he was kept in restraint. I would sit for hours imagining those meetings and longing to be with them.

  James had been playing hide and seek with his sister and brothers and during the game had managed to elude the guards and get down to the river where friends were waiting with clothes—those of a girl—and when he was dressed in them he must have been a rather attractive sight for James had always been a pretty child. His brother Charles would never have been able to disguise himself as a girl! They got him across the sea to Middleburg where his sister was waiting to welcome him. Charles was already there and I was sorry to hear that they were soon constantly quarreling with each other.

  I wrote to them reminding them that quarrels within the family were something we could not afford. We had enemies enough outside the family. There must be none within.

  So that weary year was passing. The King a prisoner, the Parliament wondering what they would do with him. I longed to be with him. I wanted to share his fate whatever it was. If I could join him in his prison and we could spend our last days together, I would ask nothing more.

  I wrote appealingly to the French ambassador, begging him to put my request before the Parliament. Let them give me permission to be with my husband. I would willingly join him in his prison. Let them do what they would with me if they would only let me be with him.

  I settled down to await an answer. None came. I learned afterward that the French ambassador had presented my letter to the Parliament and that they would not open it.

  Good news at last! Charles had escaped from his jailers. He was in the Isle of Wight and had found refuge in Carisbroke Castle.

  It was about this time that war broke out in France. I was so immersed in my own affairs that I was taken by surprise when it burst upon us.

  Poor Anne, she was distraught and terrified that her son would lose his crown. The war of the Fronde had started. It was really a revolt by certain factions against Mazarin to whom, in her infatuation, Anne had handed over the reins of government. Some people objected to this and it was the same old story: dissatisfaction with the rulers and then war…which is no good to anyone. The nobles were annoyed because there were too many foreigners in high places—Italians mostly, as Mazarin naturally favored his own race. Taxation was oppressive and the Parliament complained that their wishes were overruled by the arrogant Cardinal.

  The people were taking up arms and the name Fronde was bestowed on the uprising. It was scarcely a war as the name implied for it was called after a fronde—a kind of catapult used by the street boys of Paris to fight their mock battles with each other.

  When the people put up the barricades I went to see Anne. I felt I could be of some use to her, my experiences of discontented subjects being great.

  Anne, who had left everything to Mazarin to conduct, was less worried than she had been.

  “It is a slight disturbance,” she said.

  “My dear sister,” I replied, “the rebellion in England began as a slight disturbance.”

  I think she took notice then. She could not ignore that terrible example across the Channel. The Court fled from Paris and took up residence first of all in Ruel and afterward at St. Germain. When the Court left Paris I remained in the Louvre. The insurgents had no quarrel with me. But now I knew what it meant to live in abject poverty. My pension had stopped and because I had sent the bulk of it to help Charles I had nothing left with which to buy food and keep us warm.

  My little Henriette could not understand what it was all about. Poor child, she must have thought she had been born into a hostile world. I wished I could have given her a happy childhood…a royal childhood…the sort to which she was entitled. But we were together…I must be thankful for that.

  I don’t think I have ever been so miserably uncomfortable as I was that Christmas of 1648. I had suffered much before but now there was bodily discomfort to add to mental torture. I had endured illness but never before had I come near to starvation and, far worse than suffering myself, was to see my child cold and hungry. Her beautiful dark eyes seemed to grow larger every day.

  Paris was in chaos. There was a war and to make life more uncomfortable the Seine had burst its banks and flooded the town. From the windows we could see the roads looking like canals whipped up by the bitter winds. That wind whistled through the windows and there was no way of keeping warm.

  I could not see how we could continue in this way. My household was sadly in need of food. Even Henry Jermyn had lost his high spirits. What could we do? Where could we go? This was supposed to be our refuge.

  It was a dark and gloomy morn
ing; the rooms were full of the cold wintry daylight; outside the clouds scudded by, heavy with snow. My little Henriette was in my bed. I had gathered everything I could…rugs and drapery…to put over the bed and keep her warm. I sat in a chair beside the bed with a counterpane wrapped round me. Henriette watched me with wide eyes. I said: “Why don’t you try to sleep, my darling?”

  Her answer wrung my heart with misery. “I’m so hungry, Mam.”

  What could I say to that?

  “Perhaps there’ll be some soup today,” she went on, her eyes brightening at the thought.

  “Perhaps, my love,” I answered, knowing there was nothing in the palace with which to make soup.

  At that moment Lady Morton came in carrying a piece of a wooden chest which she put on the fire.

  “That’s a little better, dear Anne,” I said.

  “It’s the end of the chest, Your Majesty. Tomorrow we shall have to find something else. This will last through the day, and it should give a good blaze.”

  “Nothing seems to keep out these biting winds.”

  Anne looked pale and thin, poor woman. She had come through that miraculous escape…to this. Was she wishing that she were back in England accepting Roundhead rule? At least she might not be cold and hungry there.

  She went to the bed and felt Henriette’s hand.

  “It’s warm,” she said.

  “I keep it hidden away,” Henriette answered. “When I put it out it freezes. Will there be soup for dinner?”

  Anne hesitated. “We shall have to see.”

  It was like a miracle for there was soup for dinner after all. How strange life was! I was lifted up one moment and cast down the next. It must have been about an hour later when we had a visitor—none other than the Cardinal de Retz, one of the leaders of the Fronde movement. He had taken it into his head to see how I was faring at the Louvre and when he entered the room he stared in horror to see me huddled in my chair and my little daughter peeping out from under the mass of rugs which I had thrown over her.

  “Your Majesty,” he cried, “what is the meaning of this?”

  He knelt beside me and kissed my hand.

  I said: “You may well ask, my lord Cardinal. We are wondering in this place whether we are going to die of cold or starvation.”

  “But this is…monstrous!”

  He was truly shocked. I had always rather liked him. He had a reputation for being somewhat dissolute in his youth and that seemed to have put a certain kindliness in him, a quick sympathy for other people’s troubles which those who have lived virtuously sometimes lack. In any case he was horrified.

  He stammered: “That a daughter of our great King should find herself thus. My dear lady, I shall not waste time talking to you. I am going to have all you need for the time being sent in. I will see to that myself. Then I shall bring this matter up before Parliament. I am sure all noble Frenchmen will be horrified to know that you and your daughter are in this state.”

  I could have him kissed in my gratitude. He was as good as his word. Within a few hours logs and food were being delivered from his own house. It was wonderful to smell food cooking. We were all very jubilant that day.

  The next day he spoke of us in Parliament. A daughter and granddaughter of our great King Henri IV starving in the Louvre with her faithful attendants! It must be rectified at once. So eloquently did he speak that it was; and I was granted the sum of forty thousand livres.

  It was useless now to send this to Charles, so it was spent on bringing comfort to my long-suffering household, and I was happy for a while to see my little daughter’s eyes sparkle as she had her soup and afterward when she held out her hands to the logs crackling in the fireplace.

  My joy was short-lived. The New Year had come—the most bleak and bitter of my life. I had had no letters from Charles but news was filtering through. He had been taken from Carisbroke Castle to Hurst Castle and from there to Windsor. From there he was brought to St. James’s Palace to stand trial in Westminster Hall.

  “Trial!” I cried. “These villains will try the King! One day I promise you…one day…we shall see the heads of Cromwell, Essex and Fairfax on London Bridge. The indignity! What is he thinking, my dear Charles, and I am not there at his side.”

  I was hysterical with grief and fear. I should never have left him. I should have stayed by his side. No matter what happened it would be better for me to be there.

  My two chief comforters were Henry Jermyn and Madame de Motteville. Henry assured me that they would not dare condemn the King. “The people will never allow it,” he said.

  “Yes,” I cried, clutching at the smallest hope. “The people always loved him. I was the one they hated. Oh, Henry, do you really think the people will stand with him? Will they rally round him…flout those wicked Roundheads?”

  “They will indeed,” said Henry. “You will see. Soon he will be acclaimed. He will send for you. The family will be united.”

  Even if I did not entirely believe him it was good to listen to him. He was so tall, handsome and commanding that he always gave an impression of being about to set everything to rights. It was wonderful to have him with me at such a time. When I told him so, he kissed my hand and said: “Do you think I would ever leave you?”

  “If you did,” I answered, “that would be the end of everything for me.”

  Madame de Motteville, faithful as she was, could not comfort me in the same way. She was very anxious and it was all for my sake. She was so gentle and quiet, fearing the most terrible disaster and perhaps trying to prepare me to face it when it came.

  February was with us. I could not understand why there was no news.

  “What was the result of the trial?” I demanded. “There must have been a result. Why don’t we hear?”

  Henry frowned and looked out of the window. “It is not always easy to get news through,” he murmured.

  I noticed that some members of the household avoided looking at me.

  “Something has happened,” I said to Madame de Motteville: “What is it, I wonder.”

  She did not answer.

  I was getting frantic. I called Henry and said: “Henry, you know something, don’t you. For God’s sake tell me.”

  He was silent for a few moments and then he looked at me and said: “Be of good cheer. Yes, he was brought to trial and they condemned him.”

  “Oh…God help me….”

  Henry had his arm about me, supporting me.

  “All will be well,” he said. “Listen…listen…” His face was so distorted he could not speak. It seemed like minutes but it must have been less than a second. Then the words came rushing out. “All is well…. He was saved…at the last moment…. They were going to behead him. He was taken from St. James’s to Whitehall…. He came out of the banqueting hall there to the scaffold….”

  “Henry…Henry…you are killing me….”

  He took a deep breath and said firmly: “As he laid his head on the block, the people rose together. They cried, ‘It shall not be. Charles is our King. Down with the Parliament.’”

  “Henry….” I was almost fainting with relief.

  He said, “All will be well….” and he kept on repeating that.

  I thought his behavior and his manner of telling very strange but that was later. At that moment I could think of nothing but: He is safe. The people would not allow it. They were his faithful subjects after all.

  “His subjects have a great affection for him,” I said. “There are many who will sacrifice life and fortune for his sake. I am sure the cruelty of those who persecute him will only make those who love him the more eager to serve him.”

  I talked to Madame de Motteville, to Henry, to all my attendants, of the miraculous escape the King had had.

  “There will be more news soon,” I said. “Good news. This is the turning point.”

  There was no news next day. During the night I had lain in bed listening for the sounds of arrival. None came. Another day passed
and another.

  “It is strange,” I said, “that there is no news.”

  Tension was rising. Something very strange was going on. Even Henry seemed different. He had lost his gaiety and I fancied that Madame de Motteville was avoiding me.

  I had to do something because the suspense was becoming intolerable.

  I said to Henry: “Why do we not hear? The Court will know what is happening surely? I am going to send one of the gentlemen to St. Germain to find out if they have heard anything.”

  “I am sure,” said Henry, “that they would let you know immediately if they had.”

  “They are concerned with their own troubles. I shall send a man at once with instructions to come back to me with all speed.”

  Henry bowed and I sent a man whom I could trust to St. Germain.

  We had had dinner. Conversation was stilted. Nobody seemed to want to talk about what was happening in England, which was the only subject which interested me.

  My confessor, Father Cyprien, had said grace when the meal was over and as he was about to leave Henry went to him, laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something.

  I cried: “What is wrong? What are you whispering about?”

  Henry looked at me, his face stricken and I saw then that Father Cyprien’s hands were shaking.

  “What is it? Please tell me,” I begged.

  Henry came to me, his face a mask of misery. He said: “I lied to you. It was not the truth. The people did not come to his aid.”

  He led me to a chair and kneeling at my feet lifted his agonized face to mine.

  “I could not tell you. I had to lie…. It did not happen that way. They took him out to the scaffold in Whitehall…. He died…like the brave man he was.”

  I was frozen with grief. I stared ahead of me. I did not see them all round me. I saw only his dear face.

  I could not move. A stifled sob broke into my consciousness. It was one of the women. Henry was looking at me, his eyes pleading for forgiveness, for the lies he had told me…because he loved me.

  There was nothing now. He was gone, my King, my husband, my love. The murderers had taken him from me.