The Chevalier

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘Were you at the battle, Conn?' Matt asked. He knew he was, of course, having heard the story before, but he never tired of hearing it again. 'Did you charge with Prince Rupert?'

  ‘'Course I were there. Me and Jack and Dick, we were the last three left, of those that went away with Master Kit. Jack had a terrible wound in his arm, and died of it, two weeks later. It wouldn't heal. That's the way it was on campaign. The longer it went on, the harder it, was to heal your wounds. I was never wounded, praise God. Jack and Dick and Master Kit and me - and Hamil Hamilton, that was brother to Master Kit's wife, he was our captain. By God, that were a battle. We were taken by surprise, but Prince Rupert rallied us, and we charged and charged again. Master Kit was killed, and Dick. I lost sight of Jack, and then I got knocked off my horse. In the end we had to flee, to the woods up there, where you been catching rabbits.’

  He stopped and let that thought sink in. Where I've been catching rabbits, Matt thought, men, weary, bleeding, thirsty from battle, hid from the pursuing enemy.

  ‘Some of us got away - not many. Lord Newcastle's men were killed, every one, over there where the sheepfolds are. Prince Rupert gathered us all together the next day to march us north to Richmond, but I'd had enough. Jack went on, with Captain Hamilton, and we never saw either of them again. I dropped out as we crossed the bridge by Watermill, and made my way back to the city.'

  ‘And where was your wife all that time, Conn?' Man asked.

  ‘Why, she'd been travelling in the baggage vans with the other wives, and - and the other sorts of women. She was so near her time when we got to York that I'd left her at an outlying cottage that belonged to Garth the shepherd. He was killed on Marston Moor too, and when I got back to his house, my bairn was born, and so I stayed and took his job and looked after his wife until she died, not a twelvemonth later. And there I still am, young master, a good many years later.’

  Matt sighed with content; every time Conn told the story, there were different little bits he put in.

  ‘There you still are, and your son, and your grandchildren,' Matt agreed. 'Where's Davey today?'

  ‘He's helping out at High Moor Farm,' Conn said. 'No place for idle hands at my house, not now there's a new mistress, like to breed like a summer yow, and a born wastrel, if I know owt about women.' Davey's mother had died the year before, and his father had married again. Evidently, Old Conn didn't approve.

  ‘Is Ursula with child, then?' he asked.

  ‘Seemingly,' Conn said with a grunt.

  ‘Conn must be pleased,' Matt said cautiously. Old Conn fixed him with a bright eye.

  ‘He's a fool, and he always was, and he always will be. He'd no cause to marry at all, not with a daughter .of twenty-three who could have left her job and come home to tend the house and garden and the spinning. But he must needs marry, and marry a flighty bit with no more sense in her head than a mayfly. A parlour-maid, she was, and spoiled as a house-fed kitten. She knows nowt about tending crops and beasts, and cares for nowt but her white hands. Catch her scrubbing and scouring and digging and hoeing! When she spins she breaks her thread every minute.' This, Matt knew, was a great crime. Almost every household improved its income by spinning Morland wool into yarn, which was then collected by the agent and taken to the weavers. 'Remember what I told thee, Master Matt, that when a man chooses his own wife, he always chooses amiss.'

  ‘But, Conn, didn't you choose your own wife when you married the fo -' He almost called her the foreigner, which was what local people had always dubbed Conn's wife. She had come from Bristol, and Conn had married her on campaign there with Prince Rupert. Bristol, to the Yorkshire folk who had never been farther afield than Leeds, was incalculably foreign, and Conn's wife had spoken with such an incomprehensible accent that for years she had been thought to be a Dutchwoman. 'When you married Conn's mother.’

  Old Conn stared hard at him, as if wondering how innocent the question was, and then he said with massive dignity, 'That were different, young master. That were providence, which is to say the working of the Lord, for she and I met in a providential way when I was soldiering in foreign parts. And she was a good wife to me, God rest her soul, though she never bore me but the one son. But that was God's working too, and you can't argue with it.’

  Now Matt asked in a small voice, 'Is it God's working too that the King should have been defeated by the Usurper's fleet?' Old Conn looked at him more kindly.

  ‘Is it the talk up at the House, then?'

  ‘It seems to be all they talk of,' little Matt said. 'Uncle Clovis - he doesn't exactly say so, but he thinks it is the end of everything. The defeat, he says, was so complete that the King of France will never lend our King any more ships or money.'

  ‘I'll tell thee, young master, the King was hoping our navy would go over to his side, on account of him knowing them all, when he was Lord of the Admiralty. But when our ships see a Frenchy ship coming towards them, why they can't help firing at it. It would be against their nature to let a Frenchy ship past, now wouldn't it?'

  ‘Even if it was for our King?'

  ‘Even then. You see, master, the King made a terrible mistake when he left England, for now he's out of it, he can't get back without some foreign king's help. That's where the weakness is. And the Usurper, why he's got more sense than Lord Cromwell. He leaves folk alone, and most folk, they don't much care who's king at Whitehall, so long as they're left alone to get on with their own lives.'

  ‘But our cousins at the Hare and Heather, they say that every night people lift their tankards to the King over the Water,' Matt said. Conn nodded, wagging his short beard like a sparrow wagging its tail.

  ‘Ah, talk costs nothing, does it? They'll drink a toast to our King, and if the King comes back they'll welcome him. But they won't lift a finger to get him back, not while the Usurper leaves them alone.’

  They were silent for a while, old man and young boy, pondering. Then Conn said, 'I'm sorry for your grandmother, the Countess - her most of all.'

  ‘You don't think she'll come back to England?' Matt asked. He remembered her, glittering with jewels and sweetly scented, like a queen.

  ‘Not while the Usurper is on the throne. When he dies who knows? There won't be no more expeditions for our King, take you my word, master. We must pin our hopes on the Prince of Wales. But it's sad for her to be in exile. I remember her from a little girl. Rode better than any boy, and could shoot flying, and rare pretty!' He was silent for a while, remembering the beautiful young girl, who was the image of that dashing young cavalry general who had led them to so many victories up and down the country. It was never spoken of, of course, but Prince Rupert rested the night after Marston Moor at Shawes, where the Countess's mother lived unwed, and nine months later a dark-haired dark-eyed baby had been born. Well, if Miss Ruth had not wanted to speak of it, then no one else could, in all courtesy, but Conn and some of the older men had guessed the truth of it rightly enough.

  ‘So you think the Usurper will never be defeated?' Matt asked at length.

  ‘Tha must make the best of it, young master, as must we all,' Conn said. 'There'll be no more expeditions for our King.'

  ‘But what when the Usurper dies? Who will be king then?’

  Conn's eye was bright and full of a strange sympathy. ‘That will be thy 'heritance, to worry over that. I shall be with the Holy Virgin by then, and past worrying. Men sow their fields with wrong, but it's their sons and grandsons who have to harvest the crop.’

  *

  King James was so shocked and grief-stricken at the failure of the expedition which had looked so promising that he would not at once return to St Germain, but remained in Brittany, grieving, and wondering what he had done so to offend God that He set His face against the royal family. He was still absent from St Germain when, on 28 June, the Queen went into labour, and was delivered of a healthy daughter. Annunciata, waiting at the foot of the bed with the rest of the ladies of the bedchamber, could not help remembering that other o
ccasion in Whitehall, when the Prince of Wales had been born. It seemed that poor Mary Beatrice was doomed to travail in misery, for then she had been surrounded by her enemies, and vile and wicked rumours had been seething in the corridors of the palace and the streets of the capital.

  This time, though her labour was comparatively short and easy, the Queen was in great distress because of the continued absence of her husband and the failure of their attempt to regain their throne. Word was sent to the King at once, however, and he hurried, conscience-stricken, to his wife's bedside, where he embraced her tenderly and received his infant daughter into his arms, and said with tears in his eyes, 'God has sent her to us for a consolation.’

  Annunciata looked at the infant princess, and thought how she came too late, like her brother. Had Queen Mary presented the country with an heir at the beginning of her marriage to the Duke of York, things might have gone very differently, for a fifteen-year-old Prince of Wales would have been a very strong inducement to the country to tolerate his father a little longer. Still, if there were any hope for them now, it lay with the prince. He was four years old, healthy, strong, beautiful, and sweet-tempered. If God gave him the chance, he would one day make a good king.

  The new baby was so healthy that it was decided to delay her christening until King Louis came back from Flanders, which was in the middle of July. The ceremony took place in the chapel royal at St Germain, and was a lavish occasion. Maurice composed and directed the performance of a new anthem and processional, and at the feast afterwards he played the cornetto, and was loudly acclaimed. King Louis was godfather to the princess, who was named Louis Marie in his honour. The other godparent was his sister-in-law the Duchess of Orleans, known affectionately as Liselotte.

  Liselotte was the daughter of Prince Rupert's brother Charles Louis, and therefore Annunciata's cousin; a cheerful, friendly, and unassuming woman, she took a great interest in Annunciata and her family. When Maurice had finished playing, Liselotte called Annunciata over and congratulated her on having such a talented son.

  ‘And he looks so like his grandfather, don't you think? A real Palatine!' she cried sentimentally. Annunciata consented to this piece of romance — Liselotte had never seen Prince Rupert, other than in portraits, but her lively imagination sometimes ran away with her. 'You know, our aunt Sofie would so love to see him. I have mentioned him quite often in my letters.'

  ‘That is very good of you, Madame,' Annunciata said. Aunt Sofie, the Duchess of Hanover, was Prince Rupert's younger sister, and had always been the great correspondent of the family.

  ‘Not at all, my dear Countess. But you know that Aunt Sofie is greatly interested in the arts, and especially music, and she would so like to hear something of your son's. Now, it occurs to me, Madame, that if you were to take him to see her, she might well give him a position. Don't you think that would be wonderful for him?’

  Annunciata assented again, but thought deeply about it afterwards. There would obviously be no more attempts at replacing King James upon his throne, and he was looking so old and ill that it did not seem likely he would live many years more. It was to the Prince of Wales they must look for their future. Nevertheless, for the present, her sons must have something to do. Karellie was happy enough soldiering for the King of France, and Aliena was still too small to worry about, but it was surely time she did something for Maurice. Hanover, to be sure, was a small and unimportant Court, but if he were to be given a position there, it would be a stepping-stone to greater things. And he had been happy enough when he lived in Liepzig, seeming to get on well with the German character. She decided to write to Aunt Sofie at once.

  *

  In the January of 1693, news came to Morland Place that John Ailesbury had died, leaving his entire estate to Mary Celia. Clover, who had seen little of her father in her life, was not at all upset, and was far more concerned with the miniature portrait Clovis was having done of her, for his own delight. At six Clover was strikingly pretty, with her mother's fair features, grey-gold eyes and golden hair, and Clovis adored her quite extravagantly.

  Being the only girl in the nursery, Clover was in a fair way to being spoiled, being as arbitrary and capricious as any small tyrant who had ever felt her power. She insisted on taking lessons from Father St Maur along with John and Arthur, and would have shone at them, for she had a very good brain, except that she would not apply herself. Also, she spoiled her cousins' concentration and Father St Maur's discipline by leaving the lessons when she had had enough, and by not coming in at all when she had something she preferred to do.

  She learnt early that Clovis was the source of power in the house, and that the way to impress Clovis was to evince a love of learning, and so she would come to him in the evenings and beg him to teach her things. She did have a quick grasp of figures, and it was one of the sights that the Morland Place servants never quite got used to, to see Father St Maur and Clovis going over the accounts in the steward's room, with the small fair head of Clover between them, bent over the books with a scowl of ferocious concentration.

  She also liked to accompany Clovis when he rode into the city or around the estates on business, sitting up in front of him on his horse, with his strong arm around her body and her little hands clasped over his. The cottagers and tenants thought it charming, and made a great fuss of her, bringing her out sweetmeats and flattering her more than was good for her. Birch and Caroline separately remonstrated with Clovis over the way she was being brought up, but to no avail.

  ‘If she was a boy,' Birch would say, 'it would be well enough to have her cast accounts and draw triangles and read the stars. But what use is it to a young lady?’

  And Clovis would say, 'Come, Birch, your own mistress, the Countess, is a very learned lady.'

  ‘That's as may be, sir. The Countess was properly educated, and though it would not be my choosing for a young lady, she was at least taught all the accomplishments too.'

  ‘You mean, embroidering and sewing and dancing?' Clovis said, smiling. 'Well, Birch, you cannot say that Miss Clover is not a young lady in that respect. Don't worry -I'll make sure she learns to dance daintily, and not show off her learning.'

  ‘You'll never get her wed, sir, if you bring her up so different,' was Birch's warning, and Clovis would say lightly, 'She doesn't want to marry - she wants to stay with me. And I want her to stay, so we are all happy.’

  When John Ailesbury died, the disagreement flared up more seriously, for Clovis refused to put Clover into mourning clothes.

  ‘It's not right that a child should not mourn for her father,' Birch said in outrage.

  Clovis retorted, 'I'm not going to have that pretty little thing dragging herself about in horrible black garments like a wounded crow. She's too pretty to be dressed in black. She's only a child.’

  Birch was shocked. 'It's not proper. It's not right. What will people think? You should not fill her head with such consequence of herself, sir - you are doing her no service in making her vain.'

  ‘She's pretty and she knows it. It would be a crime against nature to hide that prettiness in ugly clothes.’

  And Birch grew so passionate that she overstepped the bounds of her servitude. 'Folks here about all talk of the way you have that child with you all the time. It's unnatural and wrong to want a little girl's company like that. You should leave her in the nursery where she belongs.’

  Clovis, in fury and outrage, gave Birch her notice on the spot and sent her from his sight. Birch swept out in equal fury, and only when she reached the nursery did she give way to her tears. The house was in turmoil for hours, news of the quarrel spreading like ripples from a dropped stone. The under-servants crept about like dogs afraid of being kicked, but the older servants argued the matter furiously in undertones at every corner, freezing into unnatural silence when a member of the family came by. Caroline, hearing of the matter, took Birch's side and quarrelled with Clovis herself, then retreated in high dudgeon to the long saloon where she sat se
wing so savagely that she broke her needle.

  The children heard of the quarrel, too, and Clover at once rushed to comfort Uncle Clovis, sitting on his lap and winding her hands in his fingers winningly, and chattering to him in the way he liked, though he hardly seemed to be hearing her. John, on the other hand, ran straight to his mother and stood by her chair, giving her his silent support while she complained bitterly at the way she was treated in this house.

  And Arthur and Matt quarrelled, and the quarrel ended, as usual, in Arthur using his superior weight and strength to subdue Matt, getting him on the ground where he could kneel astride him and pummel his body at his ease. The noise brought the servants running, Arthur was hauled off, and Matt was sent, dishevelled and bleeding at the nose, to speak to Clovis.

  ‘What were you fighting about?' he asked, looking coldly at Matt. 'It is unseemly behaviour in the heir to Morland Place.’

  Matt licked his lip and grimaced at the taste of blood. ‘Sir, I don't really remember how it started. It was about Mrs Birch, sir.'

  ‘What about Mrs Birch?' Clovis scowled.

  Matt stared at him anxiously. 'About her going away. Oh please don't send her away, uncle. Arthur said she could go, and good riddance. He said she could go to France -'

  ‘Well, so she could, I suppose,' Clovis said. He had not thought of where Jane Birch would go if she left Morland Place, and had long since repented of his loss of temper. But perhaps she would be happier rejoining her old mistress.

  ‘But, sir,' Matt went on, 'she's so old, and she might easily die on a long sea-journey like that, and when I said that to Arthur he only said that would be even better riddance, and that no doubt that was what you intended. But I know you wouldn't mean that, you couldn't. Oh please don't send her away to die, uncle.'

  ‘It's all right, Matt, she need not go if she doesn't want to,' Clovis said. 'I don't mean her any harm. I was angry and hasty. I should be used to her sharp tongue by now. Go and tell her that I want her to stay, and send her here to me.’