The Loves of Charles II (13 page)

News came from England, which set a gloom over the Prince’s Court.

Charles Stuart, King of England, stood convicted, attainted and condemned of high treason; and the penalty for high treason was death.

They would not dare! it was said.

But all knew that Cromwell and his followers had little respect for kings. To them, Charles Stuart was no ruler anointed by the Lord; he was a man guilty of treason to his country.

The Prince had lost his gaiety. He shut himself away from his friends. Even Lucy could not comfort him. His thoughts were all for the noble, kindly man. He thought of Nottingham, where his father’s followers had tried in vain to raise the royal standard, and how the wind blew it down and
seemed determined, so fiercely did it rage, that the King’s colors should not be unfurled. An evil omen? it had been whispered. He thought of the skirmish at Copredy Bridge which had decided nothing and had led to the disaster of Marston Moor. He remembered the last time he had seen his father; it was in Oxford almost four years before.

And what could he do now to save his father? He was powerless; he depended on others for his very board. He was a beggar in a foreign country; his entire family was reduced to beggary. But at least he was a Prince, heir to a throne, and Cromwell would never feel at peace while he lived.

Impulsively he wrote to the Parliament of England; he sent them a blank sheet of paper which he sealed and signed Charles P. He asked them to fill in on that blank sheet any terms they cared to enforce; he would fulfil them; they might bring about his own disinheritance; they might execute him; but in exchange for his promise to deliver himself into their hands that they might do what they would with him, they must spare his father’s life.

He despatched three messengers each with a copy of this document to ensure the message’s reaching its destination; and he bade them depart with all speed to England.

Then there was nothing he could do but wait. He had done all that a son could do to save his father.

One February day as he left his bedchamber he was met by one of his men, and was struck by the way in which the man looked at him before he fell to his knees and said in a solemn manner: “May God preserve Your Majesty!”

Then he knew what had happened to that kindly man, his father. He could not speak, but turned abruptly and went back to his bedchamber. There he threw himself upon his bed and gave way to passionate weeping.

Not until several days later could he talk of his father. Then he wished to hear of the heroic way in which he had died. He pictured it so clearly; it was engraved on his mind so that he would never forget it. He visualized his father, handsome and stately, brought to the Palace through St. James’ Park; he pictured him walking with the guards before him and behind him, the colors flying ahead of him, and drums beating as he passed along. It was all so clear to him. He saw his father take the bread and wine which were brought to him; he saw him break the manchet and drink the claret just as Sir Thomas Herbert, his father’s groom of the chamber, described the scene. He saw the crowds assembled; and as the King passed them on his last journey, his son knew that many in the crowds had muttered prayers and called: “God bless Your Majesty!” Never would Charles I have looked more noble
than he did on that last walk to the scaffold; he would be noble to the end, even when he laid his head upon the block.

And ever after that, although the young Prince might be gay—and there were few who could be gayer than he—it seemed to those who observed him closely that a touch of melancholy never completely left him.

Now Lucy was no longer the mistress of a Prince; she was a King’s mistress; for although the Parliament of England would have none of him, he had been proclaimed King Charles II in Jersey.

Moreover, there came tentative offers to receive him in Scotland and Ireland.

It was a different matter being the mistress of the King from being merely that of a Prince.

Charles kissed her warmly and told her he must leave her. Business called him now—affairs of state. “Our ranks have risen, Lucy,” he said; “and with new honors come new responsibilities. I must leave you for a time. I go to Paris to see my mother.”

Then he told her he had another love in Paris. “Oh, Lucy, now you look hurt. You must not be, and you will not be when you hear who this is. She is not quite five years old, and she is my little sister. I am torn between my melancholy in leaving you and my delight in the prospect of seeing her. Lucy, you will be true to your King?”

Lucy declared she would. He wondered. Then he believed that she might until the child was born.

“Take care of yourself, Lucy, and of our child,” he said.

She kissed him with passion, telling him that she loved him truly; she wept after he had gone.

Lucy knew she might not be faithful; it was not in her nature to be faithful, any more than it was in his; but she also knew that, though her body might demand other lovers, there would never be one to equal Charles Stuart—Prince or King.

In a house in the city of Rotterdam, not far from Broad Church Street where Erasmus was born, Lucy lay in childbed. She was vaguely aware of the women about her, for she was quite exhausted by the ordeal through which she had just passed.

It was Ann Hill who held up the child for her to see.

“A boy, mistress. A bonny boy!”

Lucy held out her arms for the child and Ann laid him in them. There was a dark down on his head and he bawled lustily.

“He’s one who will want his own way,” said one of the women.

“The son of a King!” said Ann with awe.

Some of those about the bed raised their eyebrows, and their eyes asked a question: “The son of a King or the son of a Colonel? Who shall say?”

But Lucy did not see them and Ann ignored them.

“I shall call him James,” said Lucy. “That is a royal Stuart name.”

She bent and kissed the soft downy head.

“Jemmy,” she murmured. “Little Jemmy—son of a King—what will you do in the world, eh?”

he little Princess Henriette was bewildered. She sensed tension between two beloved people—her mother and her brother. It had something to do with Father Cyprien’s instruction, which occurred daily. Charles was not pleased that it should take place, and her mother was determined that it should. It was Henriette’s great desire to please her brother in all things; if he had said to her: “Do not listen to the teachings of Père Cyprien; listen to the words of Lady Morton!” gladly would she have obeyed. But her brother was careless—he was never really angry—while her mother could be very angry indeed. It was the Queen who put her arms about her little daughter and whispered to her that she was her mother’s
“enfant de bénédiction,”
the Queen who told her that God had rescued her from heretics that she might become a good Catholic. Charles merely played with her, told her gay stories and made her laugh. She loved best of all to be with Charles, but it did not seem so imperative to follow his wishes as those of her mother, for if she obeyed her mother, he would merely be wistful and understand that she was by no means to blame; whereas if she obeyed Charles’ wishes, her mother would be passionately angry, would rail against her and perhaps punish her. She was only a little girl and she must do that which seemed easiest to her.

So, to please her mother, she tried to become a good Catholic; she believed Père Cyprien when he had said that God had caused a great civil war so that she, Henriette, should escape from her father’s country and come to France to learn how to be a good Catholic. She tried sincerely to thank God on her knees—through the saints—for having thousands of men killed, including her father, that her own soul might be saved.

Henrietta Maria had bought a house in Chaillot and thither she had taken several nuns from the Convent of Les Filles de Marie that she might found an order of her own. In this house Henrietta Maria had her own rooms which were always preserved for her, and it was her pleasure to spend a great deal of her time “in retreat” as she called it. It delighted her to take her little daughter there. Henriette would stand at the windows looking down on the gleaming Seine with the buildings of Paris clustered on either bank; but she knew that she was there for a more important reason than to admire the view; she was there to learn to be a good Catholic.

Lady Morton invariably accompanied her, and would often be present when she received her instruction. Lady Morton was very anxious about this instruction and Henriette was sorry for this. Why could they not all be pleased? What did it matter whether she was brought up in the religion of France or England? To tell the truth, Henriette herself could see little difference in those faiths about which others grew so fierce.

Henrietta Maria declared to Charles that she had been promised on her marriage that all her children should be brought up as Catholics. Again and again Charles reminded her that it would be against the wishes of his father. Then the Queen swore that her husband had promised her that, even if others of the family must follow the teachings of the Church of England, Henriette should become a Catholic.