The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  “Your dear friend the Earl,” said Partridge — he had oftentimes heard the story of our meeting at Enfield Chase — “is far too busy dodging the Queens daggers to come here. I doubt she would give him such a high commission, the trouble he is in.”

  “I hear she has forgiven him,” I said feeling like a gossipy old washerwoman — the English did enjoy their rumormongering. “He was under house arrest for only a week, and was never sent to the Tower, though Lady Leicester is allowed to come nowhere near the Court.”

  “Tell me,” said Partridge gesturing to the innkeeper for what seemed like our twentieth round of beverage, “do you believe the Queen ever meant to marry the slimy little Frog, or not? Tis said she and Alençon exchanged rings before he left England with a pocket full of her money.” Partridge stuffed a fat herring in his mouth and after chewing for a moment, stuck his fingers in after it and pulled out a bone.

  “Well,” said I, less than sober but not yet stinking, “she never did marry him, and they had courted for five years. I cannot believe she would consider Alençon for a husband. She is too fine.” I smiled sentimentally then, remembering the Queens grace and beauty and strength, the sight of her on a high horse that day so many years before.

  “Well, he is dead now, thank Christ. And may the Devil keep him.”

  I raised my glass to second that. “So, Partridge, will you come with me to the whores when we are done here? You can show me the best houses.” I had been in the field for many months and longed for the soft touch of a woman. General Roost had moved on to another command, and his ever faithful Marje had gone with him.

  Partridge never answered my question except with a loud belch. I looked up to see he had stopped eating and wore a very odd look on his face.

  “What is it, Partridge? Are you ill?” I peered into his eyes. “Are you drunk?”

  “I am legless,” he admitted, “tho I am not ill.” Then he hesitated, regarding me carefully before he spoke again. “But I do not go with women anymore.”

  His statement had the effect of stunning me, like a fish laying on the ships deck, clobbered with a large club.

  “Tis all right, Arthur,” he added with a lascivious grin. “I do not fancy men nearly as old as you are.” Then he giggled like a silly boy, and despite my self I found it infectious. Even as we laughed I knew I should be repulsed or offended at such perversion, but perhaps the great quantities of beer consumed had blunted all judgments. Or perhaps I had been more deeply imbued with Prince Williams lessons of tolerance than I had ever imagined.

  “Do you not miss the loveliness of a woman, the sweetness?” I asked feeling genuinely perplexed.

  “Sometimes they dress as girls,” he whispered drunkenly. “And you never know the difference till their petticoats are thrown up over their pretty painted faces.” He leaned over the table conspiratorially. “Arthur, you would not believe what —”

  “Say no more, Partridge! I fear I have heard all I need to know … and then some.”

  He leaned in closer. “Is my secret safe with you, then?”

  “Altogether,” I assured him.

  “Ah, what a friend you are,” he said, grabbing my hand across the table. We both looked down at our joined hands, then up at each other and roared with laughter once again. When we had finally quieted he drew a satisfied breath and said, “Will you come and join me when I visit Prince William tomorrow? Just after the noonday meal. His home. You have not yet met Louise.”

  I felt instantly sobered, as mention of the Princes new wife reminded me of the heartbreaking death of Charlotte, his true love. Twas a tragic loss, and all at the hands of King Philip, that tyrant whose real wickedness I had finally begun to understand. Several years back the Spanish monarch had placed a price of 25,000 gold crowns on his enemys head, and in the time since, five attempts had been made on Williams life. In one, the attacker had fired from such short range that Williams hair and beard had exploded into flame. In another, the aspiring assassin — a Dominican monk — had put a bullet thro an artery in the Princes neck just under the ear, a place which could not be properly bandaged without choking him. His life had been saved by Charlotte who — her self but weeks out of childbed — sat vigil by her husband day and night for a week, stanching the flow of blood with her very own fingers. Finally the wound had begun to heal, but the worry and exhaustion had taken a terrible toll. Within months the beautiful lady was dead. With a houseful of young and motherless children William had taken a companionable wife, daughter of the French Huguenot de Coligny, who he hoped would bring them all some comfort.

  I was keen to be in Williams company again, especially under such pleasant circumstances as Partridge had proposed, and had never been admitted into the privacy of his home. I quickly accepted the invitation, hoping my friend would remember it the next day when he was sober.

  Twas a fine summers afternoon as we strolled thro the streets of Delft towards the Prinsenhof. The whole city bustled with great and joyful preparations for Williams coronation, and a water procession had been planned. Already spotless streets were scrubbed and scrubbed again, houses along the parade route received new coats of paint, monuments were erected, stages for pageants built, and colorful banners hung. The canals were teeming with flower barges, and as we crossed a low bridge I chanced to see one filled with red tulips, thousands of them. I nudged Partridges arm and pointed. We stopped for a moment and stared as the barge floated past. Our minds — without a word spoken — both soared back across the years to that battlefield at Gouda. Partridge removed his hat and placed it on his breast.

  “Poor Hirst,” I whispered.

  “God rest his soul.”

  We walked on in silence, I pondering how Death was a thief, one with an arbitrary eye. On that bloody day he had surveyed the red field like a robber who chooses one bauble that catches his fancy and leaves behind many others of equal value.

  We arrived at the Prinsenhof, a refurbished nunnery, and were shown into the antechamber. Twas a large place, tho more plainly furnished than most would think suitable for a man of Williams station. I wondered if perhaps his years of privation as a soldier had curbed his appetite for grandeur. Suddenly we were fallen upon by two of the Princes pretty little daughters who ran circles round our legs and tugged at our jackets until their new stepmother, Louise, came out from the downstairs dining room, and with kind but firm remonstrances sent them off to the nursery to play. She begged us to wait just a moment more, for her husband was nearly finished with his dinner. Just then the dining room doors opened and Prince William emerged with his sister Countess Schwartzburg and a city burgher whose proportions and demeanor were uncannily akin to Partridges. Louise began the presentations but then William, a grin brightening his tired face, and with an arm round both of the large men said, “My dear, no need to make these two acquainted. They are father and son!” We all laughed at the small jest. The Prince beamed with delight to see me again and thanked me humbly for coming to Delft for his coronation. He was such a warm and kindly man, and I felt cheered to see him so carefree and happy.

  The burgher bid us farewell and departed. Then, still smiling, William asked us to join him in his study which was on the second floor. What happened next I have regretted every day of my life since, and no amount of comforting from friends who say I could have done nothing to prevent it, calms my mind or eases my aching heart.

  With no warning a small, pimply faced young man emerged from the shadows under the stairwell. I had barely time to think “What an odd place for a servant to be standing” when he drew back his cloak, produced a pistol and fired point blank into Williams chest. Even with my soldiers instincts I was unprepared for so violent an act in so serene a setting, and was struck witless. By the time I lunged for the man he had dashed out a side door. I gave chase. He threw down into my path a large pile of crates he had perchance stacked there for that very purpose and I stumbled, cursing my self soundly. As I pursued him past the stables and down the narrow lane I pr
ayed with all my might for the Princes life … but knew surely he could never survive such a wound as he had received. My hatred for this cowardly assassin grew with every step closer I came to him, and I thought “I shall tear him apart with my own two hands. Gouge out his eyes. Rip out his heart …” He had jumped upon a canal wall and seemed to be blowing frantically into a pair of ox bladders. I sprang. He tried to leap into the water with what I now realized were floats for his escape by canal, but I wrenched him back and flung him to the ground. By then Partridge and some housemen had arrived to help subdue him. But there was nothing to subdue. He lay still, smiling serenely up at us, that ecstatic abomination of a face, repeating over and over again, “My high and holy mission fulfilled, my high and holy mission …” Partridge had to stay my hand from throttling him.

  Balthazar Gérard. Fanatic Burgundian Catholic. Since the age of twelve he had believed it his sacred destiny to take the life of the Prince of Orange. In an ironic twist of fate, twas not even for Philips 25,000 crowns he had killed the Father of the Fatherland, but for Gods grace. Gods grace.

  As tho in a dream, forcing one foot before the other, I returned to the Prinsenhof to find William laid upon a dining room couch. Bloodied and grey faced, he clung to life, Louise clutching his hand to her heart. Everyone was weeping — women, children, men — for all loved this man so passionately, he who had loved his country unto death. When he felt the last breath of life slipping away, good William Prince of Orange summoned his voice and cried, “God have pity on my soul, have pity on my poor people!” then closed his eyes and died.

  His people were inconsolable, for he was while he lived — as his epitaph was later writ — the guiding star of a whole brave nation, and when he died little children cried in the streets. I mourned him longer and more deeply than any man or woman I had ever known. Suddenly, with the loss of a single person, a whole country was neither a comfortable nor happy place for me to reside. I never the less went back to the cavalry, for the only love left in my life was for horses. Besides, I was a soldier and this was the only war that mattered. My heart had been broken, but I continued still to fight.

  For more than a year I watched forlornly as Williams good works in the Netherlands, bereft of his leadership, began to come undone. Parma and his army were, city by great city, devouring the Low Countries, and all but the northern provinces had fallen. For the first time, I found my self questioning the Fates, but had for so long believed in the strength of my destiny that I knew no other way to proceed. Twas in this condition of mind that I received word from my sister Alice that our Father lay dying. I resigned my commission in the Dutch army and took passage back to England.

  Thirty-three

  Enfield Chase. From the small rise I could see in the golden light of late afternoon the whole of the greenwood, the foggy south marshes and in the distance, smoke from the manors several chimneys. I was finally home.

  This time the Channel crossing had been a swift one and had left me more queasy than terrified, but I none the less came away with a desire to travel those waters never again. I had ridden directly from Harwich, stopping only to feed and water the poor broken nag I now rode, he being the only mount I had been able to purchase on such short notice. He needed frequent rests without which I feared he would collapse entirely. I fought to keep my temper with him, knowing the fault was not his, but I was desperate to reach my destination. Alices letter had been clear. Father was failing and had begun to suffer. He was holding on to the slim thread of life until he could see me once more. I had a horror of any creature suffering, especially on my account, but I sore desired to see my beloved Fathers face again, and the closer I came to Enfield, the sharper that pang of longing became.

  Grateful to be on the downslope, and perhaps sensing my anticipation — or at least the smell of the stables — the old horse picked up his speed to a full canter. I rode thro the gates into the courtyard. All was quiet and well nigh deserted. The stables, usually bustling with men and beasts, were silent, the great doors already shut for the evening. But Enfield Manor seemed entirely unchanged, as tho time had stopped. Twas no larger nor smaller than I remembered, no more shabby nor tidy. The ivy trellis under the nursery window was still thick and sturdy enough to hold the weight of an eight year old boy climbing to his escape. I knew that inside was my whole family, into whose bosom I was soon to be welcomed. Yet as I dismounted I felt a stranger. I tried to recall my leaving, and what good reasons would have kept me from my home and kin for so long. But there was no time to ponder.

  Quietly I let my self in the front door. Some youngsters — my nieces and nephews I supposed — were congregated in the Great Hall trying their best to be sedate, tho as I slipped past them I heard one childish laugh and several other giggling voices hushing it. I took the stairs two at a time and came up behind a clutch of relatives at my Fathers bedchamber door. Alice saw me first and burst into tears as she rushed into my embrace. The others surrounded us and in that close pressed circle, I found the sweetest outpourings of love, familiar faces — older and wearier, tho no less lovely to my sight.

  “Thank God you are come!” cried Meg clasping both arms round my waist. “All he does is call for you. I will tell him you are here,” she said and went quickly into the room muttering, “Thank God, thank God.”

  “Arthur, meet your sister in law, Kate,” said John whose eyes were red rimmed from crying. He stepped aside and his wife, a tiny creature with inquisitive almond eyes stepped forward. Even with me bending down to kiss Kate she was forced to stand on tippy toes to reach me.

  “What think you on coming home after so long, Arthur?” she asked quite impulsively. “Tell us your first impression?”

  I thought for a moment. “Tis strange to be in a country not at war. Suddenly I am a soldier amidst peace.” I turned to John and Alice. “What think you on seeing me amongst you again?”

  “Only that you have grown,” said John, breaking into a warm smile. “My God, you stand a full head taller than anyone in our family!”

  Alice as waiting to give her answer. “How right it feels that you are home with us, Brother. That you are where you should be.”

  Meg emerged from the bedchamber, beaming. She stepped aside to let me enter. The sight of my Father was less terrible than I had imagined. His face and body were withered and weak, but he was sitting propped in his bed against the pillows, and at first sight of me his eyes shone with happiness, and not with pain as I had expected. He suddenly flung open his arms and in the space of those several steps into them, my own eyes filled with tears. He clutched me fiercely and I kissed him — his cheeks, his head, his hands. I, his chiefest joy, had kept my self from his sight all these years past.

  “Arthur …” His voice was feeble.

  “Oh Father, thank you for waiting.” I could hardly speak for my weeping. “If you had gone before I came I could never have lived with my self.”

  Then to my surprise he laughed, not largely but a laugh all the same. I sniffed back my tears and regarded him closely. He was smiling a crooked smile.

  “I had to wait, you see. If I had died before you came,” he said, “I would surely have gone to Hell.”

  “What a thing to say!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? You of all people, Father, going to Hell.”

  “Arthur, I have very little strength left, and there is something I must tell you. Tis why I have managed to cheat Death for so long. Why I have waited.”

  “What is it, Father?” I saw him gazing at me steadily. “What can be so important? You must tell me!”

  One last hesitation, then, “You are not my son.”

  I stared at him stupidly. Could think of nothing to say.

  “Neither was Maud your Mother.”

  “I was … adopted?”

  “When you were only a few weeks old.” His eyes stared past me. He seemed to be remembering. “A tiny little boy with a pair of lungs like bellows.” Now he took my hand in his and grasped it with what little strength
he had left. “I loved that babe from the first moment I set eyes on him.”

  “It matters naught who I was born to,” I insisted fiercely. “When you took me in I became your son!”

  “Yes, you did become my son. But I am dying, Arthur. And I want you to know you are not orphaned. Your parents …” He hesitated. “… are alive.”

  “I have no wish to know them! They gave me up. They never cared for me, schooled me, showed me how to live. They have never loved me!”

  Father looked away then, unable to look in my eyes. He said gently, “They do not know you are alive.”

  A strange premonition of momentousness suddenly enveloped me — as tho my true destiny could be glimpsed again. Not clearly, but laying just beyond a thick wall of mist.

  Then in a voice quavering with feeling, my Father told me the names of my parents and the full circumstances of my birth. I was still as stone as he spoke and I remember wishing desperately that he would not leave me, could somehow go on living. And also hoping with all my might that what he was saying was untrue, merely the delusions of a dying mind. For suddenly all that I knew, my whole past, had become a lie, and my future a quagmire. I was not my self. I was something more. Something less.

  “Forgive me, Arthur,” I heard him saying. “Can you forgive me?”

  “There is naught to forgive, Father. But what shall I do?” I felt a young child again, helpless, a stranger in my own life. His eyes had closed and he was suddenly very still lying against the pillow. “Father!”

  I saw his mouth move, but no sounds emerged from them. Frantic, I placed my ear at his lips and heard a terrible rattle called Death rising from his throat. Then, amidst these sounds of dying I heard the words, so weak as to be barely discernible. “Go to them. Go to them.”

  “Alice, Meg, John, come quickly!” I cried. The door flew open and they were there crowding round the bed, each finding a place on our Fathers body to tenderly grasp as his soul rose out of him. Then he was gone.