by Jean Plaidy
But if he was determined, so was I. He had a strong supporter in Mr. Lovell and I was wondering more and more how I could get rid of him. To have him dismissed openly—which was what I should have liked to do—would have caused an outcry. Charles would hear of it and Charles was the King, whose word had to be obeyed, even by his mother. My children were not so ready to indulge me as their father had been.
The idea struck me that if I could send Henry away to some renowned tutor, the services of Mr. Lovell would no longer be required. I thought of Walter Montague who was the Abbot of St. Martin’s near Pontoise and also my Grand Almoner. He was a great friend of mine and an ardent Catholic, having been converted nearly twenty years before when he had witnessed the exorcisms of the Ursuline nuns at Loudon. We had been friends ever since he had come to France at the time of my marriage, and after his conversion we had become much closer. He would understand at once what I wanted and would be as keen as I was to turn my son into a Catholic.
I sent word to Charles explaining that Henry was too fond of the society of idle boys and that I believed he should be sent to some quiet place to study. What better than to Pontoise where our good friend the Abbot could supervise his education.
I could not dismiss Mr. Lovell or Charles would have been very suspicious and he would not believe that Henry had gone to Pontoise without his good tutor merely to study quietly.
It must have been disconcerting for Mr. Lovell to be the only Protestant—with Henry—in a Catholic community and very soon he did not see how he could remain there. It was not difficult to suggest that he take a little trip to Italy as I believed he had always wanted to see that country.
I was relieved when he went without fuss, not knowing that he had talked to Henry, explained my motives and those of the Abbot and urged him to stand firm until he could let his brother, the King, know what was happening.
The Abbot wrote to me that he had high hopes that the conversion would be soon. He had talked to the boy of the possibilities which lay before him. As Duke of Gloucester, son of one King and brother to another, he would have special advantages. It was a great honor to wear the Cardinal’s hat.
But Henry did not see it that way. “The boy has a strong will,” wrote Montague. “He says he cannot attempt to defeat me in argument but he knows what is right and what his brother expects of him and nothing will shake him in his determination to do his duty. He insists that his father told him to adhere to the Faith in which he was baptized and his brother, the King, wishes him to do the same. He added: ‘You can do what you like to me. I will cling to my Faith as I promised my father before he died.’”
As the weeks passed the Abbot was growing more and more impatient and Henry more stubborn. The boy wrote to me asking for leave to return to Paris, and seeing that it was no use keeping him there, I gave my permission.
When he arrived I noticed the firm set of his lips. I could see his brother Charles in him and it was ironical to realize that they had inherited their determination to have their own way from me, not their father.
Henry was clever too and I was incensed when I heard that he had sent for Bishop Cosin to ask his advice as to how he should answer the Abbot when he was cross-examined by him. Cosin was a staunch Protestant and a real enemy of the Catholics. My husband had sent him to Paris to act as chaplain to those of my household who belonged to the Church of England and at first he had worked from a private house until that had proved to be inadequate, when a chapel had been fitted up to accommodate the expanding congregation. Cosin was a man highly respected by all. At first I had believed I could convert him. He would certainly not have been accepted in England now because he was almost as much opposed to the Puritans as he was to the Catholics. He loved the rituals and ceremonies of the Church just as Archbishop Laud had, though whereas that had been Laud’s undoing, Cosin, who had escaped to France, prospered. Nothing could have been further from the truth than to imagine he would turn to Catholicism. He was fundamentally against it, and because he was one of the greatest speakers of the day, he was feared while he was respected.
To think that my son Henry had gone to him made me anxious and determined that something must be done at once.
I sent Henry back to Pontoise; but this time he had papers which had been written for him by Cosin and naturally the support of such a man increased his obstinacy.
I determined to act drastically and to send him to the Jesuit College of Clermont. When Henry heard what was to happen he grew white with rage. Once in a Jesuit college he would be unable to escape. He stormed at me: “I would rather be the prisoner of the Roundheads at Carisbroke,” he cried. “At least I was not bullied then to go against my conscience.”
“You are a wicked boy,” I told him. “You will be grateful one day when you see the light.”
It was on the very morning when he was about to depart that messengers arrived in haste from the King. There were letters for me and for Henry. Charles reproached me for having forgotten my promises not only to him but to my husband. There were letters of rebuke for several of my friends and particularly Henry Jermyn who, said the King, could have restrained me from my irresponsible actions.
Worst of all was the letter to Henry.
I read it myself for Henry could not resist showing it to me. I was incensed because Charles began by saying he was in receipt of Henry’s letter. So the boy had actually dared write to him!
“…it is the Queen’s purpose to do all she can to change your religion in which if you do hearken to her, you might never see England or me again…. Consider well what it is to be…not only the cause of ruining a brother who loves you well but also your King and country….
“I am informed that there is a purpose to send you to a Jesuits’ College which I command you, in the same grounds, never to consent to….”
What could have been more devastating to my plans!
When I read the letter I let it drop to the floor and took Henry into my arms.
“Dear child,” I said, “my thoughts are all for you. I wanted you to push aside these temptations…nothing matters so much as the salvation of your soul.”
“I am determined to save it,” said the young rebel, “by doing my duty to my King, my country and my religion—and that is the religion into which I was baptized.”
His eyes were blazing. So were mine. How could a son be so disobedient to his mother! I asked angrily.
“I am obedient to my King and my conscience,” said Henry.
Where had he learned such things? From Cosin, I supposed.
“Go to your apartments,” I said. “I will send Abbé Montague to you. You must listen to him.”
“I am weary of listening to him. My mind is made up.”
All my calm deserted me. I saw only a disobedient son for whom I had worked and planned. Charles, James, Mary…they were all turning against me. And now Henry…aided by his brother.
I cried out in fury: “If you do not embrace the Catholic religion I never want to see you anymore.”
Henry looked at me in amazement.
“Yes,” I cried. “Go! Get out of my sight. You are a wicked, ungrateful boy.”
Henry went and I did not see him until a few days later. I was on my way to Chaillot. I needed the peace of the place where I could contemplate this breach in the family. I could not bear it—most of all to see Henriette weeping all over the place. She had been so happy when Henry came; they were always talking about Charles’s adventures and how wonderful it would be when he regained his throne. And now Henry was in disgrace. She could not understand it and I could not bear the sight of her little woebegone face. So I would go to my beloved Chaillot for a few days.
As I was about to leave the palace Henry ran out and came to me.
“Mam,” he said quietly, and I knew he was asking that we forget our grievances which I should have been so happy to do if he would only fall in with my wishes; but he was as firm as ever in that, so I turned my face away from him.
I was smil
ing grimly on the way to Chaillot. I would show the boy what it meant to defy me. I was the Queen of England whatever those Puritans said. I was also his mother.
I heard afterward that he left me and went straight to the Protestant service—for it was a Sunday—but when he returned to the Palais Royal it was to find that there was no food for him and that even the sheets had been taken from his bed to indicate that there was no longer a place for him there.
It was Henriette who told me what had happened because he had come to say goodbye to her before he left. She was heartbroken.
There were Protestants in Paris to rally to his help. Lord Hatton and Lord Ormonde both hastily came forward and that very day my son Henry left Paris for Cologne. It was what he had wanted in the first place. He had gone to join his brother Charles.
I was very upset by what I called Henry’s desertion. Queen Anne comforted me. She too had hoped that my son would cease to be a heretic. We were at Chaillot together where we often discussed the difficulties of life. I reminded her that she had little to complain of. She had two fine boys and Louis, now seventeen, seemed secure on the throne; he was growing more and more kingly every day.
She smiled with pleasure. She doted on her elder son and I could well understand it. He did not bring her the sorrow my children brought me.
“I worry a great deal,” I said. “The months pass and the years…and my son is still without his throne and every day the wicked rebels of England would seem to grow stronger and because of their strength are accepted by others in a manner which is difficult to understand.”
I could not resist reminding her of my resentment that members of my own family should be ready to make treaties with the roundheaded traitors.
It was not Anne’s fault, of course. She was not the true governor of France—merely the Regent—and with Louis growing up she would not be that much longer. She mentioned that Cromwell now called himself the Lord Protector and that the people appeared to be accepting him.
“I worry a great deal about my little Henriette. What will become of her? Here she is Princess…daughter of the King of England…living as she does!”
“We must give a ball for her.”
“Oh dear sister, you are so good, but we could not afford the gown…and all the necessities. It would be a travesty of what a ball for a Princess of England should be.”
Anne was thoughtful. Then she said: “I will give some little parties in my apartments. The King and his brother will be there and a few well chosen younger people. Henriette shall come and show us how well she dances.”
I was excited. We could fit her up in a dress which would be suitable for such an occasion; she was only eleven years old as yet and the small party would be ideal.
I was very anxious for her to become good friends with her cousin. Louis was by no means unkind. He loved to dance and Henriette was the best dancer at Court. I can say that quite honestly, setting aside all maternal pride. She was delicate and dainty and she had appeared to enchant people when she had appeared in the Nuptials of Peleus and Thetis.
I was thinking: She is only eleven; Louis is seventeen. There is time. Oh, if only Charles could regain his throne his sister would be a fitting mate for the King of France.
How I looked forward to that occasion. Little did I realize how mortified I was going to be; and my little Henriette too.
I went back to Henriette and told her that she was going to an assembly in the Queen’s apartments. “It will be your party really,” I said, “for I suspect the Queen is giving it for you. She will insist that the King is there. Have you practiced your steps? You must not disgrace us. You will be dancing with the King of France and that, my darling, shall be as great an honor for him as it is for you.”
Henriette said: “Mam, you say strange things at times. How could that be?”
“Never forget you are the daughter of a King of England.”
“How wonderful it would be if Charles could win his throne and we could all go back to England. I can think of nothing to wish for which would please me more than to live with Charles forever.”
Foolish child’s talk! When he regained the throne she should still be here. Queen of France. I wanted nothing less for my favorite child. She was the only one who had not disappointed me—except Elizabeth, who had in a way disappointed me by dying, poor darling.
The great day came. How charming my little Henriette looked! Her dress might not have been splendid—La Grande Mademoiselle would have smiled at its simplicity had she been present and I was thankful that she was not. How I should laugh if my Henriette carried off the prize which she—ridiculous old spinster—was hoping to catch. Louis would never agree to marry a woman older than himself. It was becoming clear that Louis would have his way. “He is young yet,” I had said to Anne. “But you wait. That one has a will of his own and knows what is due to him.”
“He always did have,” said Anne proudly; and she recalled the incident when he had been taken to see the Carmelite nuns—which I had heard at least twenty times—when he had turned his back on them and showed great interest in the latch of the door. Anne loved to relate it because of his words. She had ordered him to stop playing with the latch and pay attention to the nuns. “But it is a good latch,” he had said, “and the King likes it.” “I reproved him,” said Anne, “for his ill manners toward ladies and holy nuns at that. ‘Come, say a word of greeting to them,’ I pleaded. Louis replied. ‘I will say nothing. I wish to play with this latch. But one day I shall speak so loudly that I shall make myself heard.’” Whether he actually said that or whether Anne embellished it to make it sound prophetic I was not sure. She was really besotted with her little King.
Well, he was not so little now and he was going to dance with Henriette. He must. Etiquette would demand that he ask first the lady of highest rank and as neither I nor his mother would dance, it would have to be Henriette.
I was seated beside Anne on a small dais. Henriette was just below us; the musicians were there but no one could dance until the King did and he had not yet made his entrance. It would be such a pleasure to sit here beside Anne while we watched our beloved children together. She would have her eyes on Louis all the time but I would point out to her the grace of Henriette and what a charming couple they made…so graceful…so royal.
Louis had arrived. He really did look quite magnificent. He was growing up. He was very sure of himself, very much the King. I glanced at Anne whose eyes were glowing with pride.
Everyone stood up as he entered except Anne and myself and he came to the dais and took first his mother’s hand, which he kissed, and then mine.
Now that the King had arrived the musicians began to play. Louis looked round the company; he seemed just a little bored. Nobody of course could dance until he did and everyone was eager for him to select a partner—which must be Henriette—and open the dance.
Louis did not seem in any hurry. I was watching him closely and I saw his eyes alight on Henriette but instead of approaching her he selected some relation of Cardinal Mazarin—a good-looking woman several years his senior.
The Queen was not very easily aroused to anger but she had always been adamant that etiquette should be observed. Not to do so was one of the few things which could really upset her.
She could not allow this to pass although it would have been easier for us all if she had. She rose rather unsteadily; like myself she had got cramped through sitting too long. She was beside the King just as he was offering his arm to the woman.
“Dearest,” she whispered but so that all those around could hear, “you have forgotten that the Princess Henriette is here. Your first dance should be with her.”
“I shall dance with whom I wish,” retorted Louis.
I could bear no more. This was an insult to my daughter. It had to stop at once. I dashed out onto the floor and laid a hand on Anne’s arm. I said quickly and so that all could hear: “My daughter cannot dance tonight. She has hurt her foot.”
/> Anne, who rarely lost her temper, did so at that moment. She had, out of the kindness of her heart, arranged this gathering for Henriette. That there should have been a breach of etiquette on such an occasion was more than she could endure and that it should have been caused by her son, who was the very center of her life—with his brother, of course—was enough to make her anger break through her usual lethargy.
I had never seen her so angry. She said: “If the Princess is unable to dance tonight then the King cannot either.”
With that she called Henriette to her. My poor child, overcome with shame, must of course obey the summons. When she was close enough Queen Anne took her hand and rammed it into that of Louis.
“Dance!” she commanded.
Louis looked at the frightened little girl whose hand he held and I think he felt some contrition for he was not naturally unkind and he must suddenly have realized how he had slighted her in the presence of many people.
They danced—but there was no life in either of them. He gave my daughter a rather wintry smile and said: “It is not your fault, Henriette. It is just that I am in no mood for children tonight.”
He was in a somber frame of mind for the rest of the evening. What did that matter? It was spoilt in any case.
The incident had a deep effect on Henriette. More than ever she wanted to get away and join her brother Charles.
The months passed. There was no good news from Charles; he was living that unsatisfactory life of peregrinations to which his fate had driven him. Henry was with him and, said Charles, very happy to be there. He was going to make a fine soldier. I did not want to hear of Henry.
My children were a disappointment to me…except Henriette, and if I could get her married to Louis I would snap my fingers at everything else and say that all I had done was worthwhile.
Meanwhile we went on in this monotonous and most unsatisfactory manner.
Then my daughter Mary proposed to come to Paris.
I was not very pleased with Mary since she had defied me over naming her son. William! What a dreadful name! It could not compare with Charles. I knew that the House of Orange was spattered with Williams but how much more appropriate Charles would have been…in loving memory of her father and in hope for her brother. But Mary had to be obstinate, as her brothers were. She had to have her way and was more influenced by that overbearing mother-in-law of hers than by me. So naturally I was not feeling very pleased with my daughter.