The Puritan Princess

by Miranda Malins

  ‘Aye, wife. I am a husband now with a princess to keep in the style to which she is accustomed. No more free and easy bachelor life for me.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I laugh, tossing a towel into his outstretched hand.

  He grabs my hand then and pulls me in for a wet kiss, my sleeves dragging in the water until I yelp in protest.

  ‘Besides, my grandfather has work for me to do there – building works to supervise, tenants to manage, gentlemen of the county to interview for new civic appointments. My father is hopeless in his management and Grandfather would have me take on my share. What’s more, it would please me for you to spend time with my father and my little half-sisters and to see my home where we will live in years to come. The mistletoe on the great oak will be in flower soon; it’s quite a sight.’

  ‘I should like to have known your mother,’ I say, reminded of her absence by his mentioning his half-sisters.

  ‘I hardly remember her. She died in ’38, when I was four.’

  ‘The year I was born,’ I say.

  ‘Hmm.’ Robert gives a wry smile. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ But in another moment he has regained his excitement. ‘Well?’

  I grin widely at the prospect of the adventure and plant a kiss on his lips. ‘When?’

  ‘After this threat of invasion has passed. I would not take you out of the palace before then.’

  Indeed, we are all but confined to the palace in the face of this new danger – incarcerated under the strict orders of Secretary Thurloe. Restless, I take my new merlin out and into the edge of St James’s Park, which is the furthest my guards will allow me. ‘Venus’, Robert had suggested I call her as his hands were undressing me for what felt like the hundredth time, and I warm myself with the memory as I watch her soar divinely through the chilled December air.

  It is the oddest of seasons, with my wedded bliss in sharp contrast to the cold climate of fear at court and with the hopeful strengthening of our position I had felt since Father’s investiture – with our reconciling weddings, the new House of Lords and the Protectorate’s slowly broadening base of support – contradicted by my creeping sense of our enemies circling once more. While within the court, the new compromise constitution is still but a sticking plaster over the divisions between the army and the politicians. And Father is not the young man he was.

  A crash in the bushes nearby brings the guards’ hands to their muskets and I whistle Venus back to my glove before hurrying back to the palace.

  PART THREE

  December 1657–September 1658

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As winter steals over the city I wait and pray for Secretary Thurloe to tell us the royalist plot has been foiled so that we can make our journey to Essex. I am excited at this first opportunity in my life to travel as a married woman, to move about as I choose, emerged from the vast and eclipsing shadow of my family. December passes into January, though there are no celebrations of Christmas at court of course. I only have the dimmest memories of the holy day of Christ’s mass, as it is more than a decade since the wartime Parliament outlawed the festival. Yet still there are many who cling to the old customs and I find signs of them everywhere: a sprig of holly in a flower arrangement, a carolling tune on the lips of a sentry, the smell of warm cinnamon and nutmeg through the open door of the palace kitchens. And though Parliament orders the Lord Mayor of London to ensure the city remains open for business on 25 December, when I look out of the palace windows onto Whitehall that day, the street is empty and eerily silent.

  The chaplains preach against the popish festival, asking us to search our Bibles for instruction to celebrate Christ’s nativity in this way which, of course, we will not find as Christmas is a creation of the Catholic Church. Yet Father, who doesn’t observe Christmas himself, takes little interest in whether other men choose to or not, hoping rather to get through the season without offending one side of the argument or the other; I can almost feel his relief once the old year gives way to the new.

  I receive my first proper letter from Mary as the year turns. It is odd to see my name addressed in her spidery hand, so familiar from the schoolroom, as we have never before been separated and forced to exchange our most intimate thoughts on paper. I sense Mary’s echoing frustration even in the inked words on the page: how can she tell me about her married life with Thomas in the black and white testimony of pen and paper? How can she tell me about their wedding night? Still, she does her best and I find some comfort in what I can read between the lines: that they are getting along well; that Thomas’s estates are very fine and his family kind; that she likes the country house Newburgh Priory, which will be their primary residence. But the single sheet leaves me restless and dissatisfied and I long to see Mary so much that my chest aches.

  January is blisteringly cold and everyone catches a chill. My cousin Lavinia sickens, to universal alarm, and the cold carries off the conspirator Edward Sexby – a pleasanter end than a traitor’s death at Tyburn, as I hear many at court remark. Parts of the Thames freeze over, delaying the busy river traffic as boats stick in the ice and crash into each other and the frequent angry shouts of the watermen carry over the palace walls. The politicians summoned to the new session of Parliament scurry around Whitehall and Westminster bundled up in heavy cloaks and scarves and I watch them through frosted windows. It is too cold to fly Venus or even venture into the gardens for the briefest walk and so I curl up by the fire instead, nursing my cold. I spend time at cousin Lavinia’s sickbed, disturbed to see my friend, who had been so beautiful on her wedding day, now so pale and thin.

  With the MPs assembled, all talk is of the first meeting of the new Other House. The House of Commons itself is suspicious of its new partner and many hours and days are wasted on debating the arrangement and legitimacy of the new upper chamber, until Father presses the Members to concentrate on more substantive issues. My brother Richard, now sitting in the Other House and appointed too to the Council of State itself, becomes my primary source of intelligence. Now he is spending more time at court, Doll and their children usually left behind in Hampshire, Dick often finds his way to our rooms after supper, where he takes a glass of wine with us and shares the news and gossip. How we laugh at his account of his first attendance at Council when Father had his granddaughter, Bridget and Henry Ireton’s oldest little girl, sitting on his lap for the whole meeting. Apparently one of the other Councillors had objected to her presence and Father had replied stoutly that there was not a thing he would choose to say to his Council that he would not say before his granddaughter.

  Through these evenings, Dick and Robert become even closer friends and it delights me to listen to them chew over affairs of state, their shoes kicked off at the end of a long day, while I bob up and down to wait on them, summoning sweetmeats and wine, pretending I am mistress of my own home. I love to play house in this way and, wrapped up in my husband, our sets of rooms at Whitehall and at Hampton Court become my world. I still find it thrilling to retreat to them hand in hand each evening, to fall asleep together to the calls of the nightwatchmen, to hear Robert breathing, feel him turn over in his sleep and to wake beside him to the bustling noises of a palace morning. And, when we do venture out to mingle with the other courtiers and dine with my family, I am surprised anew every time someone speaks to me of my ‘husband’ or my ‘lord’ and I thank God that the man they allude to is my darling sweetheart and not some crusty courtier or foreign prince. I pray daily that Mary will find such happiness.

  I am growing eager for our visit to Essex and fret that Secretary Thurloe can give me no comfort that the threat of the Spanish invasion has passed. Indeed our enemies mass on all fronts: not only are cavaliers and papists stirring against us, but those other equal and opposite opponents of the Protectorate – the republican MPs led by Sir Arthur Haselrig, religious radicals and disillusioned officers – choose this time to unite their efforts behind a petition to abolish the Protectorate and restore the Commonwealt
h. The ranting Fifth Monarchists rail against us too and the streets of London simmer with a witch’s potion of poison. When it seems the pot will boil over into the fire, Father surprises us all by dissolving Parliament and summoning the army officers to put their grievances with the government before him instead. Many of the men speak fairly but six of those from Father’s own regiment of horse are so violent in their opposition to the Protectorate that he has no choice but to dismiss them from their posts; an act which plunges him into a foul, despondent mood for days afterwards, where I can almost hear all the demons of the kingship debates chattering once more in his head.

  Everywhere it seems the news is of war. Ambassador Meadowes writes from Denmark to say that the Danes have suffered a mighty defeat at the hands of the Swedes and to suggest that England and France try to mediate a treaty between the two nations once more. Talk begins again of assembling a Protestant League against the Catholic powers of Spain and Austria, and the idea restores the spring to Father’s step as he and Councillor Thurloe sit up late into the night planning the future of Europe. Richard is all for it – Charles and the rest of the Council too, he reports to us over his customary late-night cup of wine. But though the King of Sweden accepts our negotiations, he refuses to end hostilities until these are concluded. Instead he leads his army on a daring march across the frozen Belts towards Copenhagen. And so men continue to die in the ice.

  Surrounded by all this tension, I begin to wonder if we should go into Essex regardless of the continued threat; if we may indeed be safer, and certainly happier, outside the capital. But though I am now fully recovered from my sore throat, Robert has caught it now, making a winter journey, even a short one, unwise. Still I long to go, and find myself impatiently counting the days that he is laid low: three, four, a week. But then two weeks have gone by with no improvement and his head and palms begin to warm despite the frost at our windows. Robert protests that he is feeling stronger and makes a great show of riding out in St James’s Park with Richard and John, but he returns exhausted and as I help him into bed I notice a slur in his speech and dullness in his eyes. Alarmed, I summon the court physicians at once.

  ‘We thought it only a cold,’ I say again and again to the clustered backs of the black-frocked doctors who move around our bed, examining every inch of Robert’s body, his blood and the contents of the chamber pot. I tell myself that it will be nothing, that there is no cause for alarm. But they are at their examination for such a long time – hatted heads bowed, low whispers under solemn glances – that I send Katherine to fetch Mother; if there is bad news, I will need someone to keep calm, to concentrate on the doctors’ diagnosis and suggested treatment while all capacity to listen or think drains from me.

  She comes quickly, Elizabeth sweeping in behind her, and without speaking they move either side of me to wait for the physicians’ verdict.

  Finally they come towards us, Dr Bate, the most senior doctor, gently taking my arm to guide us out of Robert’s earshot. I drag my feet after him like a condemned prisoner. Stumbling, I try to place one foot securely in front of the other.

  ‘Tell us.’ It is Mother who speaks.

  ‘Your Highness.’ Dr Bate nods. ‘I am grieved to tell you that it looks like a fever of the brain.’

  My head begins to swim and I hear the doctor’s next words dimly as if through a thick evening fog low on the river:

  ‘The young lord is very weak, his temperature high, his pulse low, his senses slipping. Of course he may make a full recovery, with adequate bleeding and purging to draw the fever from him. But on the other hand …’ He leaves this sentence hanging like a loose thread dangling from a piece of needlework.

  ‘He may die.’ They all turn to look at me as I finish the doctor’s sentence without thinking, my words sounding in my ears like they have been spoken by someone else. In the silence that follows, an icicle suspended from the overhang above the window breaks loose and falls, splintering onto the ledge.

  I spend the next few days in utter denial of the words I had spoken. I simply cannot accept that I could lose my love, who has always been so strong and vital, and after all we have surmounted to be together. Yet the bright, sinewed body that I watched bathing in the firelight only a few weeks before seems to waste before my eyes. Nevertheless, I will not allow myself to countenance the worst even for a second, as if by one careless negative thought I might break the magic that keeps Robert here tied to this world. And so I busy myself with his care, buzzing around our bed like a bee, wiping away sweat and blood, feeding him and changing his clothes and sheets as any ordinary housewife would. But I also call on all the help that only a princess can: summoning physicians from the city to offer second and third opinions, dispatching Katherine to every apothecary in London asking for remedies and sending every healing recipe I can find in the conduct books and medical textbooks of the palace library down to the kitchens at all hours of the day and night. I send, too, for the Earl of Warwick and write to Robert’s father and scarce half an hour goes by without either Robert’s grandfather or one of my sisters or parents joining me at his bedside.

  Robert himself remains cheerful when he is lucid, chiding me for fussing and wanting nothing but for me to sit by his side and chatter to him of trivial nonsense. He calls me his Venus, tells me he loves me and talks of our trip into Essex and his plans for the future as if nothing is amiss. Thus, for the most part, he joins me in my campaign of denial and we sit in shared stubbornness that all will be well; the only reality that either of us can imagine. I tell myself God is testing us, that we will emerge stronger than before but humbler too, conscious of the fragility of a happiness that rests so wholly on another person, grateful for our second chance.

  And then, as if by Providence, Robert begins to strengthen again on the fourth day after he took to our bed. He eats chicken soup laced with herbs, tells a couple of jokes and summons Dick for a hand of piquet, the playing cards sliding over the blankets as he shifts his weight beneath them. I watch them from the shadows by the fireplace and feel myself breathe deeply, as if I have been holding my breath for days. My lungs crave fresh air and so I take the opportunity to walk in the garden with Betty, the cold air healing on my sallow, indoor skin.

  When I return, Robert is asleep, the fresh bandage on his arm where he has been bled and scent of lavender on his lips evidence of the doctors’ visit. He sleeps for hours and when I put my hand to his forehead late in the evening I find a film of sweat. I place a cooling flannel on his brow and he wakes at my touch. But it is not the same Robert who fell asleep who wakes; the humour of earlier replaced now with anger and tears. Seeing me he closes his eyes and turns his face away, the flannel sliding wetly onto the pillow.

  ‘I wish we had never met,’ he says, tears rolling down his flushed cheeks.

  I cannot help bridling in shock but recover myself quickly. ‘Darling.’ I reach for his shoulder but he flinches away.

  ‘Don’t, I can’t bear it. I was quite happy before; no thought for the future, no one to think of but myself. No hopes or plans. No desire to become something better than myself. Nothing to live for but pleasure, nothing to lose. But now I have you, could lose you …’

  I don’t know what to say in comfort so I climb into bed beside him and gently, slowly wrap myself around his back, which radiates heat through his damp nightshirt. I bury my face in his neck, loving nothing so much before in my life as to feel his skin under my lips, hot and alive, his pulse beating time against my cheek.

  ‘You will never lose me, sweetheart, there is nothing to regret,’ I say softly. ‘Besides, you will be well again, I know it, you have been growing stronger today.’

  He does not reply but grips my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. I feel some of the tension drain from his shoulders as he relaxes under my touch until a minute or so later I can tell he has returned to sleep. I close my eyes, hoping that I reassured him, praying that he wakes next to his usual good humour. Exhaustion hits me then with all the
force of a twenty-oared barge and I too sink into a dreamless sleep.

  When I wake, stiff and aching with cold in my clothes, I cannot tell the hour nor how long I have slept. Someone has been in to stoke the fire and replace the candle on the nightstand, else I would not be able to see as dawn has not yet reached around the edge of the curtains. I lie quite still, listening as I slip in and out of wakefulness until I hear the clock in the court chime four. It will be another three hours at least before day breaks. I contemplate getting out of bed to undress properly but I could not unlace my stays without Katherine and the chill outside the bed covers is enough to banish the thought. Sighing, I turn over towards Robert and, closing my eyes for sleep, slide under the sheet towards him, seeking the warmth of his body.

  He has moved in his sleep and now lies on his back so I find his arm and shoulder first. They are cold and so I snake my arm across his body to find the heat of his chest. But it is as still and cool as a marble figure upon a tomb. Still I do not dare to open my eyes but clench them shut over welling tears as I move my hand under his shirt and through the coiled hair at his chest to lie over his heart.

  It is only then that I know.

  Pain stabs and slices through me, tearing at my flesh as if I am on the executioner’s slab at Tyburn. A scream builds inside me, sending my knuckles rammed into my mouth to stifle it.

  If I scream, someone will come. If they come, they will take him away. As long as the night lasts, we are together and nothing has happened.

  I nestle my head against Robert’s shoulder and breathe in the musty smell of his neck – the heady mix of spiced orange, tobacco and the scent of his sweat that still weakens my knees. How can he still smell of himself when he has gone? Can I keep his scent somehow? If I pressed my handkerchief there for the next few hours and never washed it could the smell of him linger there? My mind reels further, spiralling away like a child’s spinning top. How can Robert have left me when his body lies here under my hands? Has he divided himself into two, or three, or into an infinity? I move my hands over his body, mapping it in my mind, stroking his skin at first then pinching and pulling at him, bewildered that he cannot feel what I do, urging him to spring to life under my assault. But he does not move. A sob escapes me and I kiss him in apology, taking deep exaggerated breaths in horrible mockery of his own stillness, desperately trying to take his scent deep within me where I can keep it safe.