The Loves of Charles II (19 page)

He was silent for a while, his face hardened because he was thinking it was a bitter thing that England’s King should depend on the bounty of humble Englishmen for a night’s lodging.

“Did you stay in the ruined convent, brother?” asked Henriette.

“It is not a convent now. It had been turned into a farmhouse. It was the property of the gentleman, Giffard, who had brought us there. We were not sure whom we could trust, sister. That was why every movement we made was perilous. I remember standing beneath a casement window which was opened suddenly and a man’s head appeared. I knew this to be one of
the Penderels, a family who had been servants to the Giffards, and who were now tenants of Whiteladies. There were three Penderel brothers living at Whiteladies, and this I guessed to be one of them.

“‘Bring you news of Worcester?’ cried a voice as the head appeared. It was that of a young man.

“Giffard answered: ‘Oh, ’tis you, George Penderel. The worst news from Worcester I could bring. The King is defeated!’

“‘What happened to His Majesty?’ asked George Penderel.

“‘He escaped and waits your pleasure below!’ I answered.

“Then, my Minette, we were brought into Whiteladies and, to appease my hunger and thirst I was given wine and biscuits; and never, Minette, had food tasted so good as that did. So I sat on the floor with Derby, Shrewsbury, Cleveland, Buckingham and Wilmot about me, and we discussed with Giffard and these Penderels what might next be done.”

She clasped her hands together. “What wine was it, Charles?”

“Sack … the best in the world.”

“It shall always be my favorite.”

“Sister, you say such quaint and charming things that touch my heart and make me love you.”

Then he told her how the Penderel brothers sent a message to Boscobel, and more Penderels came to the aid of the King.

“I changed my clothes, Minette. I wore a green jerkin and breeches, a doublet of doeskin and a hat with a steeple crown—oh, such a dirty hat! I was loath to put it on my head. And when I put on these clothes and my own were buried in the garden, the man under that greasy hat still looked like Charles Stuart and none other—so what do you think? It was Wilmot, merry Wilmot—who could never be serious, even at such a time—who said: ‘We must shear the sheep, for by his curls shall they know him.’ And by God’s Body, without a by-your-leave, the rogue set about hacking my hair with a knife—and a pretty bad job he made of it—and there were those Penderels and those Yateses and their servants catching my curls as they fell, declaring they would put them away and keep them forever.”

“I wish you had kept one of your curls for me, Charles.”

“One of my curls! They are all yours, Minette—entirely and forever yours. And what would you want of one small curl when you have the whole of the man at your command?”

“For when you go away again.”

“You must remind me to give you one when next I depart.”

“I pray you do not talk so soon of parting.”

“Nay, Minette, I shall stay here for as long as I can … having nowhere
else to go and no money even to buy me a shirt. Here’s a pretty pass! Would you believe I was the King of England—a King without a shirt or the wherewithal to buy one?”

“One day you will have as many shirts as you desire.”

“Alas, dear Minette, so many of my desires go beyond shirts. Now I will tell you how Mistress Yates brought me a dish of eggs, milk, sugar and apples, such as I had never tasted before and which seemed good to me; and when I had eaten again, I stood up in my leather doublet and my greasy hat and learned to walk in a loping manner as a rustic would, and Yates taught me how not to betray myself by my speech. I was a sorry failure. I could not rid myself of Charles Stuart. There he was … always ready to leap out and betray me … in my speech … in my walk … my very gestures. We heard that a party of Roundheads was not far off, so I went and hid in the woods while they called at the house to ask if Cavaliers had ridden that way; one of the party, they stressed, was a tall, dark, lean man. George Penderel said that such a party had passed that way but had headed away to the north some hour or more since … and off they rode; and as soon as dusk fell I went back to the house and nursed little Nan Penderel while her mother cooked eggs and bacon for my supper.”

“What was she like, Nan Penderel? Did you love her?”

“I loved her, Minette, because she reminded me of my own little sister.”

He told her of his arrival at Boscobel, a hunting lodge, and the home of other members of the Penderel family.

“I had walked so far that my feet were sore and bleeding, and Joan Penderel—who was the wife of William and lived with him at Boscobel—washed my feet and put pads of paper between my toes where the skin was rubbed. I rested there and I ate again; but the neighborhood was full of Roundhead soldiers, and it was certain that soon they would arrive at the house. Staying at Boscobel was a friend and good Royalist, Colonel Carlis, who had escaped from the Battle of Worcester, and was so delighted to see me that he wept—partly with joy to see me alive, partly with sorrow to see me in these straits—and he and I went out and climbed a great oak tree. The leaves were thick and they hid us, but we could peep through and see all that went on below. And while we were up there, we saw the soldiers searching the woods for us; and that was another miracle, Minette. Had we hidden anywhere but in an oak tree we should have been discovered; but who would look for a King in an oak tree? So Colonel Carlis and I waited hidden yet watching, while below us the Roundheads wandered about searching for me.”

“I shall love oak trees forever,” said Henriette.

Charles kissed her and they fell silent. Henriette was seeing pictures of
Charles on a horse, riding for his life, a piece of bread and meat in his hand; Charles in a greasy hat, and pads of paper between his toes; Charles hidden in an oak, the leaves of which hid him from his enemies.

He was thinking of these things too; but he did not see them as Henriette did. He saw himself an exile, a King without a crown; he had left more than his curls behind him in England; he had left his youth, his lighthearted optimism; he felt jaded, cynical, and at times even careless of his crown.

Now he spent his time dicing and with women, as they had said of him in his little sister’s hearing.

He burst into sudden laughter.

It was perhaps a more satisfying way of passing one’s time than fighting for lost causes.

At her lodgings in The Hague, Lucy heard of the King’s return. She stared at her reflection in her mirror as Ann Hill tired her hair. Ann knew what she was thinking, and shook her head sadly. How differently she would have behaved had she been the King’s mistress!

Lucy said suddenly: “Do not look at me thus, girl!”

“I am sorry, madam,” said Ann, lowering her eyes.

“He has been away so long,” said Lucy sullenly. “It was too long. I was faithful to him for many weeks.”

“A long time for you, madam.”

If it had not required so much effort, Lucy would have boxed the creature’s ears.

“You are judging me, Ann Hill,” she contented herself with saying. “Take care I do not send you back to the gutter.”

“You would not do that. You and I could not do without each other now.”

“Do not deceive yourself. I could find a woman as clever with her fingers as you are, and less impudent with her tongue.”

“But not one that would love you as I do, and it is because I love you that I say what is in my mind.”

“Because you love him, you mean.”

“Madam, he is the King!”

“Oh, do not think of his rank. I have heard that he does not hesitate to take a serving wench, should the fancy move him.”

Ann blushed and turned away.

“There!” cried Lucy. “You see how you are! It is small wonder that you lack a lover. Men love those who are prepared to adventure anywhere with them. They look at such as myself and say: ‘Lucy is ready for anything! Lucy
is the one for me!’ And they are right, for, Ann, I cannot live without a lover. I soon discovered that. I took my first lover when my home was being plundered by Roundhead soldiers, and I had only met him an hour or so before. When you can make love in such circumstances you will be one of whom the men will say: ‘Ah! She is the one for me!’”

“His Majesty, knowing that while he risked his life at Worcester, you were sporting with another man, will not be likely to say: ‘She is the one for me!’ I promise you that.”

“You promise me? What right have you to promise me anything? But, Ann, you are right. He would not have minded a little falling into temptation—who could understand that more readily than he?—but there is Mary.”

“Ah! There is Mary.”

“Some would have seen to it that the child was never born. I could not do that. I was too tenderhearted.”

“You are too lazy,” said Ann.

“Come nearer, girl, that I may box your ears.”

“Dearest mistress, how will you explain little Mary when His Majesty comes?”

“How can one explain a child? A child explains itself. There is only one way of begetting children. But I could say the child was yours.”

Angry color rose to Ann’s cheeks. “There is not one person in this town who does not know she is yours and the Colonel’s. Did you not start to call yourself Mistress Barlow when you grew large, so that people would think you had gone through the married state at some time?”

“It’s true, Ann. You cannot take credit for our little bastard. I believe I can hear her crying now … Go and see.”

Ann went away and soon came back with the baby. A boy of two years old, with lively black eyes, followed her into the room.

“Ah!” she said. “And here is young Jemmy too.”

Jemmy ran to his mother and climbed onto her lap. She laughed at his boisterous ways. He was the spoiled darling of the household, and his flashing dark eyes held a look of confidence that everything he wanted would be his.

Lucy kissed him fondly.

“Mamma,” he said, “Jemmy wants sweetmeats.”

His greedy little hands were already pilfering sweets from the dish beside her. She watched him, as he crammed them into his mouth.

The son of a King! she mused. And the sight of him brought back memories of Charles, which made her a little sad. She was wishing, not that she had been faithful to this boy’s father—Lucy was not one to wish for the impossible—but that he had not gone away. She wished that the little girl,
whom Ann was soothing, had had the same father as the boy. A sparkle of animation came momentarily to Lucy’s face. Would it be possible to pass the girl off as Charles’ daughter? Suppose she had arrived a little earlier…. But it was impossible. Too many people had noted her arrival, had laughed up their sleeves because Charles’ mistress had taken a new lover. No! There was no way of explaining Mary; Charles would have to know.

“More sweeties! More sweeties!” cried the greedy Jemmy.

Lucy caressed the thick curly hair. At least Charles must be grateful for a boy like this one.

Henry came in and sent the children away with Ann, for naturally Henry had not come to see the children. His glowing eyes were appreciative of his plump mistress.

Later she said to him: “His Majesty is in Paris, Henry.”

“It’s true. Soon he will be seeking his Lucy. What then?”

“What then?” echoed Lucy.

“Sydney had to stand aside. I should not care to do that. I rejoice that we have the child to show him.”

“What will the King say to that, think you?”

“He’ll understand. Who better? That’s Charles’ way. He’ll not blame us. How can he? He’ll see how matters stood. How could he expect you to be faithful for so long? He knows how easy it is to fall into temptation. He loves us both, so he’ll forgive us. You look sad, Lucy. Do you feel regretful for His Royal Highness? I’ll warrant he has nothing I lack … apart from his royalty.”

“He is a very kind and tender man.”

“And I am not! Nay! You mean he is the King, and that counts for much. Come, cheer up! Be lighthearted as he will be, I am sure. I’ll tell you of a sight I saw outside the town yesterday. ’Tis a statue to a woman who is said to have borne as many children as there are days in the year—and all at one time. What an achievement, eh? What if, instead of one proof of our love, we had 365 to show His Majesty? What do you think he would say to that, eh?”

Lucy began to laugh. She said: “This is what he would do. He would laugh. He always laughs.”

“There is no need to fear the wrath of a man who is so ready to laugh as is our gracious King. Come, Lucy. Stop fretting. Three hundred and sixty-five all at one birth, eh? What manner of man was he to father such; what manner of woman she to bear them! I’ll warrant they were no more skilled than we are, Lucy. How would you like to see a statue raised to you in this town, eh?”

So they laughed, and very soon they were kissing and caressing.

They had nothing to fear from a King who, being so skilled in the arts of loving, understood so much.