Charles the King (44 page)

The firelight blazed and flickered on the small face turned up to him, its forehead shadowed by long curling locks of hair. It was the face of a puzzled little boy who had to be made to understand death and the rights of Succesion to a Crown. Charles bent down and kissed him on the forehead and then began to speak very quietly.

“Sweetheart, they are going to cut off your father's head.” The boy's eyes opened but he did not speak. “They are going to cut off my head,” Charles repeated slowly. “Mark, my child, what I am saying; they will cut off my head and afterwards they'll try to make you King. But remember this; you must not be a King so long as your brothers Charles and James live. Do you understand, sweet one? You must never let them make you King. Give me your promise.”

The little Prince's frightened eyes began to fill and then to overflow with tears. He put his knuckles to his mouth and bit them, gazing at the gentle, serious face above him.

“You must not be King, my son,” Charles prompted him, and the child choked through his tears and promised.

“I will be torn to pieces first, Papa.”

“You are my son and a brave and good boy,” Charles whispered to him. “Hold fast to me now, and do not cry. Elizabeth, my daughter, now I must speak to you.”

“Tell me what you want me to do,” the little girl begged him. She leant her head against his shoulder. “I will do anything you say, Papa.”

“First, I want you to promise not to grieve for me,” Charles said. “I shall die a glorious death, my child, remember that. I shall die for the liberty of my people and their ancient laws and for the truth of our Protestant religion. You must never forget these things or be tormented by what happens to me. I repeat it again, sweetheart, it will be a glorious death and I am ready for it. Your father is not afraid, nor must you be.”

“No, Papa, I'm not afraid, I promise you.”

“And you must forgive my enemies as I have forgiven them,” he said. “That is God's commandment and we must obey it. Never forswear your faith my child; guard it jealously and live by it always.”

“I will, Papa, and I will see that Henry does so too.”

“Take care of Henry,” Charles told her, and taking her hand he placed it in her brother's. “Hold fast to each other after I am gone, and never forget what I have told you. And give this message to your mother, Elizabeth, whenever God pleases to reunite you and you can tell her in your own words. Tell her,” he said slowly—and for a few seconds he was far away from them, back in Whitehall in the happy, vanished past—“tell her that my thoughts have never left her for a moment, and that my love for her will be the same to the last day of my life.”

Then there was silence; he sat with his son gathered into his arm, the child's face hidden against his coat. The little Prince was too tired and overwhelmed to cry any more. He held on to his father as if he would never let him go. The Princess Elizabeth moved and climbed on to his knee and they sat all three together without speaking for some moments.

At last, very gently, Charles set them down.

“On that table there's a box,” he said. “Come with me and we will open it. I have a few gifts for you.”

To the Bishop he had shown some signs of distress the previous evening because he had nothing to distribute to those who had served him. Money and jewels had all been taken from him. He possesed nothing but his suits of clothes and the few jewels he wore. The box contained some broken Garter Stars and two ornaments of St. George set with diamonds which were also broken. His rings, and the magnificent Garter ornament, were all he could bequeath to Henrietta.

“Juxon!”

As he opened the box and kissing each child divided the few ornaments between them, he signalled the Bishop to come in.

“We have said our farewells,” he said quietly, “and I have given to them all I have left to give in this world, except my blessing. Kneel down, my little ones.”

He stood with his hand upon their heads, the dark and the fair, and asked God to protect and succour them in their orphancy, and as their father, he blessed them and asked that they would pray for him.

The Princess Elizabeth who was to die in his old prison at Carisbrooke Castle within a year, and the Prince who would not survive into his manhood, answered him together.

“Amen, Papa.”

“And now good-bye, my little ones. By tomorrow it will all be over. Do not forget me.” He turned away from them and called out in a shaking voice to Juxon, “Bishop, take my children away now, I beg of you …”

Juxon caught both their hands and led them out. They had a last sight of their father who turned round, putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, and waved to them. He was smiling.

Chapter 16

No message from England had reached Henrietta in Paris for three weeks. Her letter begging for Charles' life and asking permission to come back to England and see him, had not been answered; nor had the offer made by the Prince of Wales received the courtesy of a reply. Alone with her few attendants in the Louvre, Henrietta passed the time in a miserable condition of suspense, until her natural optimism reasserted itself, and she insisted to her household that since they heard nothing, some miracle must have intervened to save the King from the trial which she had heard mentioned at the very beginning of January. Who could say, she demanded of her embarrassed ladies and gentlemen, that her next word from England might not be a summons from the liberated King to join him. Harry Jermyn, for so many years her faithful and devoted friend, and all those who had followed her into exile, suspected that no news was only the silence of calamity. But they did not contradict her. January passed, and by the first week in February it was cold and overcast, a month of driving snowstorms. Paris itself was troubled by civil disorders and the French Court had left it and taken up residence at St. Germain. Only the Queen of England waited in her quarters in the deserted Palace, waited day by day and week by week for the news from England which never came.

On February 8th Harry Jermyn suggested that she send a messenger to Queen Anne at St. Germain in the hope that the French Court might have received some word from their ambassador in London. She had agreed to send a special courier to her sister-in-law that morning without any premonition that he might return to her with the worst possible news in the world. Silence had come between Henrietta and the thing for which she lived; all her life, through the crisis and upheavals of the past, she and not Charles had been the realist, but now her mind would not admit disaster. Now she took shelter in her dream that somehow he was safe, and the hints her friends had tried to give her were ignored.

While she waited for the courier's return, she occupied herself writing a long letter to her daughter, Princess Mary of Orange. The little woman sitting at her table by the fire in her large, echoing reception room was only thirty-eight, but her dark hair was nearly white and her brilliant eyes were faded and red with years of weeping. The letter almost wrote itself. Her thoughts came flowing out through her pen, full of hope and pathetic obstinacy. Mary must pray for her father, she urged, and discount any rumours that evil had befallen him. They were merely the lies circulated by his enemies who hoped to dishearten his friends. She herself was not alarmed, though she had heard nothing from him for many weary weeks. This silence was only to be expected, she wrote proudly, as he was closely guarded for fear that his loyal subjects would break in and rescue him.

Henrietta no longer filled her letters with details of some new expedition, some new negotiation which would bring Charles his freedom; now her sole insistence was that in spite of everything, he was alive and well. And though, she said again, there had been no news for a long time, she was confidently waiting at that moment for the return of a messenger she had sent to the Queen of France. She was certain that he would bring her some good intelligence of her beloved.

Outside the door of Henrietta's room, a little group of stricken men and women talked in whispers; the Queen's favourite ladies Mademoiselle Orpe, and the Countess of Dalkeith were weeping. Her confessor, Father Cyprien de Gamache, put his hand upon Harry Jermyn's arm.

“I will go to the Queen and tell her, if you prefer it, my son. But we cannot delay any longer.”

“No, Father.” Jermyn's round face was grey and sunken. “I know my duty. I am Her Majesty's Chamberlain; I am the one who must tell her. The King would have wished it.”

“God help her,” Lady Dalkeith whispered. “Only this morning she was talking of sending yet another letter to De Grignan in London in the hope that he could smuggle it through to the King. When she hears this I think she will die …”

“That is her bell now,” the priest said. “The moment has come. Go to her, and we will retire to the Chapel and pray.”

Jermyn nodded and turned away from them. His hands were trembling as he opened the Queen's door. Henrietta looked up from her writing table, but he was still in shadow and she could not see his face.

“Ah, Harry—I've written a letter to my daughter Princess Mary. I wanted to reassure her about the King. Will you see that it is sent off by the morning? And what time is it—it must be very late! What has become of that courier of mine; St. Germain is only an hour or two's ride. He should have returned long ago!”

Jermyn closed the door very quietly and came into the room. Henrietta was not looking at him; she was collecting her papers, setting the letter addressed to Holland on one side. She passed one thin hand over her forehead, and the gold wedding ring shone for a moment in the candlelight.

“I am so tired,” she said. “I should begin a letter to the King, but now it is so late. What is the time, you didn't tell me?”

He looked down at her lined and drawn face, ravaged by pitiless anxiety, and suddenly remembered the first time he had ever seen her, dressed in a gown of scarlet satin, her neck alight with diamonds, sweeping down the spacious corridors at Whitehall on the arm of a young, adoring King. For a moment his throat constricted and he could not speak.

“It is past eight o'clock, Madam.”

She pushed back her chair quickly and came round the table towards him.

“Eight o'clock! Then where is the messenger? He must have come back hours ago.” She looked closer at him and said suddenly, “What's the matter with you—are you ill?”

Jermyn went down upon one knee before her, and took her hand in his. He kissed it reverently.

“Your Majesty,” he said gently, and it was the first time that Henrietta had ever seen him cry. She stared at him, unable to speak, unaware that her whole body had begun to tremble.

“Your messenger returned over an hour ago. God forgive me, but I must be the one who brings his news to you. But first, I beg of you—sit down …”

About the Author

Born in 1928, Evelyn Anthony had her first book published at the age of twenty-five and went on to write over thirty novels. She began her career with a succession of ten historical novels, all of which were hugely successful and widely translated. She is now a highly acclaimed author of spy thrillers, and has a tremendous following of devoted fans. Two of her books have won a US Literary Guild Award.

Evelyn Anthony has six children, and lives with her husband in a magnificent Tudor house in Essex.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1961 by Anthony Enterprises Ltd

Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3254-4

Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution

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