by Jean Plaidy
Cromwell was marching to Scotland and soon we had news of the royalist defeat at Dunbar and the capture of Edinburgh by the Roundheads.
Charles then marched south into England. It was a desperate move but I could see it was the only one to take in the circumstances. I hoped and prayed that there were some loyal Englishmen left in England to join him. Alas, he was disappointed in this and few came to augment the ten thousand men who constituted his army. Charles had impressed all with his bravery and his excellence in the field. He was always calm and serene and seemed not in the least perturbed by danger and disaster. It was a wonderful gift to have. I could admire it although it certainly had not come through me.
Battle took place at Worcester and when the news came to us it was the old story. Disaster for the royalists. Success for Cromwell. And what had happened to Charles? He had disappeared. It was then that the rumors started to come, thick and fast.
Most people thought he was dead.
My nights were haunted by evil dreams. Where was my son? What other and greater evils had Fate in store for me?
I was seated in my apartments in the Louvre sunk in the deepest despair when a man burst unceremoniously in. I stared at him, a little alarmed and then incensed by the intrusion. He was well over six feet tall, gaunt, and his hair was cut in the manner I loathed—that of the Roundheads.
He cried out: “Mam. It is I.”
Then I flew to him, tears streaming down my face. “It is you. Am I dreaming…” I stammered.
“No, Mam. I am indeed here…and the first thing I did was to come to you.”
“Oh Charles…Charles my son. You are safe then. Oh thanks be to God.”
“I come to you defeated, Mam. But it will not always be thus.”
“No…no. Oh, Charles, I have had such fears…such dreams. I will send for your sister. She has been sunk in melancholy. First she must know that you are here. Then you can tell me all that happened.”
I shouted for attendants and sent them running to the Princess Henriette.
While I waited I took his hands…I kissed them. I pressed him to me. He smiled in his rather sardonic way, but there was tenderness in him.
My little seven-year-old daughter ran into the room and into his arms. He picked her up and danced round the room with her.
“I knew you would come. I knew you would come,” she kept chanting. “They couldn’t kill you… not even wicked Old Cromwell.”
“No,” he said, “not even wicked Old Cromwell. I am indestructible, Minette. You will see.”
“And when you have won the crown you will take me to England with you. We shall be together forever and ever….”
“When I win the crown miracles will happen.”
I loved to see them together and wished fleetingly that Charles had the same affection for me that he had for his sister. But of course she was a child and children showed only adoration. I had a duty to perform and that sometimes made one displease those whom one loved most.
He must tell us of his adventures, I said. I could not wait to hear.
“You have been away a long time,” Henriette accused him.
“The absence was forced on me. I would rather have been in Paris than in Scotland with those Presbyterians. They are a grim crowd, dear Minette. You would not like them. It is a sin, they consider, to laugh on a Sunday.”
“Do they save up their jokes for other days?”
“Why, bless you, jokes are sin too. Think of the things you like doing best and I’ll be ready to wager that all would be a sin in the eyes of the Presbyterians.”
“Then I am glad you are back. Will it be like that in England?”
“Not while I am King. For that life is not for a gentleman of my tastes.”
He talked of his escape after Worcester and the terrible defeat his forces had suffered there. He had his faithful friends though and chief among them were Derby, Lauderdale, Wilmot and Buckingham. Yes, the son of that evil genius of my youth was one of Charles’s closest associates. He was about three years older than Charles and I hoped he was not going to exert a similar influence over my son as that which his father had held over my husband. But I fancied my son was not the sort to be influenced. I was eager to hear more. Charles had escaped from Worcester—a man with a price on his head. He told us how the Earl of Derby had produced a certain gentleman—a Catholic at that—Charles Giffard, to guide him through unknown country to Whiteladies and Boscobel; how he, the King of England, had paused at an inn for food and afraid to stay there and eat it had ridden away with bread and meat in his hands.
I had never seen Charles so moved as he was when he told us of his first glimpse of Whiteladies, the farmhouse which had once been a convent. It was the place he had come to for shelter, and the two brothers who were living there—the Penderels—were staunch royalists.
“There was I,” said Charles, “seated in this humble farmhouse surrounded by my friends, Derby, Shrewsbury, Cleveland, Wilmot and Buckingham with Giffard and the Penderels…planning what we should do next. The Penderels sent a message to Boscobel where more Penderels lived. You should have seen the clothes they gave me! A green jerkin and doublet of doeskin and a hat with a steeple crown. I looked like a country yokel. You would never have recognized me.”
“I think I should have recognized you anywhere,” I told him fondly.
“Wilmot had sheared my hair to this offensive cut. You know Wilmot. He made a joke of it—and a bad job, I must say. The Penderels trimmed me up afterward, for as they wisely said, it must not look like a job that had been hastily done. I had to try to walk as a yokel would, and to talk like one. They were hard lessons, Mam.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I told him. “But you managed well enough I have no doubt.”
“No, indeed not. I made a poor rustic. Wilmot said his lord the King kept peering out from under my Roundhead haircut. I walked so far that my feet were bleeding and Joan Penderel, the wife of one of the brothers, washed my feet and put pads of paper between my toes where the skin was rubbed. I can tell you I was in a sorry state. Then news came that the neighborhood was full of Roundhead soldiers…all bent on one thing. To find me and put me where they had put my father.”
I shivered and touched his hand gently.
“I’m sorry, Mam,” he murmured.
I nodded and he went on: “A very good friend came to Boscobel to warn me. He was Colonel Carlis, a man I greatly trusted. He told me I was most unsafe. The soldiers were searching every house and could not fail to come to Boscobel. What could we do? He went out of the house and saw nearby an enormous oak tree in full leaf. The Colonel said ‘That is our only hope.’ So he and I climbed the tree and hid ourselves among the leaves. The Penderels said we were quite invisible and unless the soldiers decided to climb the tree, they would never see us. And, Mam, there is my little miracle. From the tree we could see the soldiers searching the wood and the houses…and they never thought to look up into the oak tree.”
So we were back where we were. He was alive and well; he had had great adventures; and, as I had come to expect, all had ended in defeat.
He had become very cynical. I sometimes thought he had given up all hope of winning the crown and had decided to live where he could enjoy life. He liked his friends, good conversation—and women, of course. I was glad to see that he was rid of that brazen Lucy Walter, who had been blatantly unfaithful to him during his absence. I suppose two years was too long for a woman of that kind to wait. But she had the boy. What a pity that was! Charles seemed to have an affection for the child. From what I saw of the infant he was strikingly handsome.
I could not rid myself of the thought of the Grande Mademoiselle’s money lying idle when it might have been equipping an army. I still hoped for the match.
She was in exile from the Court at this time because she had openly helped the Fronde. Her father, Gaston, was a supporter of them too, which was disgraceful as he was going against his own family. Always flamboyant, Mademoiselle
had on one occasion gone into battle and it was significant that she had done this at the town of Orléans when the Fronde had taken it by storm.
What was she trying to be? Another Jeanne d’Arc!
She did show a certain interest in Charles. He had become something of a hero since his adventures after Worcester and I had never seen him talk as much as he did about them, for usually he was inclined to silence about his exploits. But these adventures seemed to have a fascination for him and he was ready to talk of them to any who asked him.
Mademoiselle gave a series of what she called “Assemblies.” She was still not able to attend Court but she snapped her fingers at that and made sure that she invited the most interesting people and that the food she gave them was far more delicious than that served at Court.
Charles was always invited to these occasions and I really believed she was considering him as a husband. She must be getting a little anxious now. She was twenty-five, no young girl, and the Emperor had married his third wife and again declined my ambitious niece.
On one of these occasions when I was present she made a point of talking to me. I think she took a malicious delight in raising my hopes that she might take Charles as a husband.
“He has changed since his adventures,” she told me. “He has become more mature…more serious…more mellowed shall we say? It is wonderful what hiding in an oak tree can do for a personality.”
“You too have changed, niece,” I reminded her. “You have also become more…mature. After all it must have been a great adventure to play the Maid of Orléans.”
“It was…indeed it was. I heard that the King of England is too fond of many women to be faithful to one.”
“You speak of women…not of wives.”
“Do you believe then that a man who has been promiscuous in his youth will in marriage become a model husband?”
“It is possible.”
“It would be something of a miracle. Think of your father, dear aunt.”
“I often do, and he was your grandfather, remember. We should both be proud of him. He was the greatest King France has ever known.”
“I trust my little husband will be as great.”
“Your…little husband!”
“Well,” she looked at me maliciously, “there is not much difference in our ages…eleven years and a few months. Louis is already fourteen.”
“He does not seem to be enamored of the prospect since he banished you from Court,” I said sharply.
“Little Louis banish me! Oh no, that was old Mazarin and his Mamma.”
“Nevertheless I doubt…”
She smiled at me sardonically and I dropped the subject for I was afraid my anger would explode.
THE FRUSTRATED MOTHER
Life was not all sorrow. At the end of the year I had word that Cromwell had decided to allow my son Henry to join me. I suppose this was because even Roundheads had some feeling, and the death of my daughter Elizabeth had caused a certain amount of dismay throughout the land. She had always been such a good child—a near saint—and her death had been so pathetic. Whatever the reason, Henry was given permission to leave.
Minette was delighted at the prospect of having a new brother with us. She asked countless questions, which alas I was unable to answer as my little son had been kept away from me for so long.
He arrived in Holland where his sister Mary received him and was so delighted to have him that she wanted to keep him with her. I had no intention of allowing that because I knew that she would endeavor to bring him up as a Protestant, and it was a secret resolve of mine that he should be, like his sister Henriette, Catholic.
He arrived in Paris and was so delighted to be with his own family. He immediately conceived a great admiration for Charles—whose adventures he had followed whenever he was able to—and he and Henriette worshipped him together. There was something about Charles which inspired this fervent devotion. I often wondered whether it was partly due to his height or was it his easygoing manner and superficial charm? In any case these two children adored him.
It was as though when something good happened something bad had to follow quickly. We now heard that the countries of Europe were accepting the new government of England and that Cromwell was making treaties with various countries. France was on the point of making one too, which would mean that the English government would be having a representative in Paris.
Charles said to me: “That would be an intolerable situation as far as I am concerned. You know what would happen. I should be asked to leave.”
“You should tell them to do no such thing.”
He looked at me in exasperation. “Dear Mam,” he said, “if the King of France, the Regent or Mazarin ask me to leave, I have no alternative but to go. There is only one course open to me. I must leave before they ask me to.”
I suppose he was right and in any case he began making arrangements.
Henriette was beside herself with grief; so was Henry. I was sorry to see him go but I reminded myself that when he was not there I could carry out my intentions with regard to Henry’s religious training.
Henry had begged Charles to take him with him. “I am not a boy anymore,” he cried. “I am nearly fifteen. That is old enough to fight.”
Charles hesitated. He was very fond of Henry and he liked the boy’s spirit. But I was against it.
“He is but a child, Charles,” I said. “He needs to be educated and where better than in Paris? It would be a sin to take him away from his lessons at his age.”
Charles saw this in time and Henry suffered bitter disappointment.
Charles said: “I promise you, brother, that in a few years you shall be at my side.”
And Henry had to be satisfied with that.
Before Charles left for Cologne where he had decided to stay for a while, he spoke very seriously to me. “Henry is a Protestant,” he said. “He is a Prince of a Protestant country. He must remain so. You must not try to make him a Catholic, Mam.”
That had been exactly my intention and he knew it.
I hesitated and Charles went on: “If you do not give me your promise, I cannot leave him with you. I shall either take him with me or send him to my sister Mary who, as you know, was loath to part with him.”
So I promised and Charles left. But after he had gone I thought that although I had promised, to bring up my son in the true Faith would be such a good thing that it would outweigh anything that was wrong in breaking a promise.
Henry had brought with him Mr. Lovell, the tutor whom the Countess of Leicester had given him when he was at Penshurst. The two were devoted to each other and Mr. Lovell was a firm Protestant. Charles favored Mr. Lovell because he had been such a good tutor and had been in fact responsible in some measure for the release of Henry. The tutor had personally gone to London and seen several of the leading men in Cromwell’s government and because Mr. Lovell was a good Protestant they listened to him, and his advocacy and the death of Elizabeth had been factors in their decision to release Henry.
Charles said Mr. Lovell was a faithful servant, the sort wise men grapple to them with bands of steel.
Mr. Lovell would stand in my way, I knew, and I might have to get rid of him, but I must work carefully and not let him know what I planned.
I was feeling more alive now that I had my two youngest with me and I could plan for them both. Henriette, the best loved of them all, gave me cause for anxiety. She was rather thin and delicate. I wished that she were more of a conventional beauty; although she had great charm and a lovely skin, her back, like mine, was not quite straight. I watched over her anxiously. I had great plans for her, which must be kept secret. I did not see why she should not marry her cousin Louis, in spite of the Grande Mademoiselle’s pretensions. What a glorious prospect! My little one Queen of France. But why not? They both had the same grandfather; she was the daughter of the King of England, and although the French government was so cruel and misguided as to recognize Cromwell, King
s were still Kings.
I was beside myself with joy when she was invited to take part in a ballet in which the King and his brother, Anjou, would take part. Henriette danced to perfection and I doubted there was anyone at Court who was as light on her feet as my child. And when she danced all that dainty elusive charm was apparent.
What a delight it was when the curtain rose on that scene to reveal my nephew Louis XIV, who was then about fifteen, magnificently attired as Apollo on the throne with the Muses around him. The piece was the wedding of Peleus and Thetis and my little Henriette had her part to play in it. I sat watching her, with my eyes filled with tears, sighing and regretting that her father could not be beside me to applaud our most enchanting child.
My hopes were high. She was eminently suitable to be the bride of the young King.
I had turned my attention to Henry and was finding him rather a stubborn little boy. When I talked to him about the glories of the Catholic Church he replied: “That may be, Mam, but it is not for me. I promised my father that I would cling to the Faith in which I was baptized and which is the Faith of my country.”
I laughed. “Oh, you are such a dear little boy and it is good to remember your father, but if only he were here he would understand. Think what the men of that Faith did to him.”
“I promised him, Mam,” he said firmly.
Well, he was young and he would be pliable. I would achieve what I wanted in time and that would mean that two of my children were saved. In the meantime, to show his independence, Henry went off every Sunday to the Protestant service which the English residents in Paris had set up.