The Loves of Charles II (24 page)

She nodded her head. “How the costume becomes her,” she said. “This little girl of yours will be a beauty yet, sister. Louis tells me that he is pleased with her dancing and that she plays the lute with a skill beyond her years.”

Ah yes, that had been a happy day for Henrietta Maria who already saw the crown of France on her daughter’s head; but she was not so pleased as she surveyed her youngest son.

Stubbornly he had determined to shut his ears to the truth with which Père Cyprien was trying to save him from perdition.

“But he shall be saved!” Henrietta Maria told herself, tapping her foot. “He shall! Or I will make him wish he had never been born to defy his mother and God.”

Little Henriette had been delighted with her success. She loved to dance; she had learned her verses more easily than anybody, and Louis himself had been delighted with her. She found that Louis’ praise made her very happy. When those large brown eyes were turned on her in appreciation, she felt that she could be perfectly happy if she could go on pleasing him. How different was Philippe! Philippe’s dark, long-lashed eyes were quite scornful of her; being a clever little girl and sharper-witted than the two boys, she was aware that neither of them wished to play with a girl as young as she was; the difference was that Philippe was anxious for her to know that they despised her youth, while Louis was anxious to hide this fact from her. Louis was not only handsome; he was kind. Henriette was beginning to think that he was one of the kindest people she had ever known. She was moved because he was a king—a much cherished king—and yet had the kindness to care for the feelings of a little girl. She tried to think of new ideas for ballets, and if Louis liked them she was happy; if his interest was perfunctory—which meant that he liked them not at all—she was desolate and cried a little when she was alone at night because she had failed to please him. Sometimes, oddly enough, if she had pleased him she would cry—but with different feelings; perhaps this was because she wistfully longed to be older and more beautiful, so that he would like her better.

But her excitement in her companionship with the King was spoiled by her pity for her brother. Why could he not be allowed to continue in the faith of the Church of England? It was Charles’ faith; therefore it was right that it should be Henry’s; and as Henry had promised his father that he would never leave it, why could not Mam be satisfied with one little Catholic in the family?

Charles came to see her and she forgot even her new friendship with Louis. He kissed her affectionately and told her he was going away again. It was to Cologne this time.

“I am a wanderer on the face of the earth, Minette,” he said. “I am not only a king without a crown, I am a man without a country. I cannot stay long in one place for fear of wearing out my welcome. So I just flit from place to place, never staying long anywhere lest, when I next wish to visit it, my previous visit may be remembered as a very long one.”

“Here we love to have you.”

“You do, Minette, I know. But this is not your home either. However, be of good cheer. One day we shall be together. Then I shall be a king with a crown, and you shall be my companion forever. How will you like that?”

“Let it be soon, I pray. It is what I should love more than anything on earth,” said Henriette vehemently.

“Oh come, you are happy enough here. They tell me you have done well in the ballet and that Louis himself is pleased with you. There, Minette! You may bask in the rays of the Sun God, so what do you want with a poor wandering prince like me when you move in the radiance of the Olympians?”

“I would rather be in a hovel with you.”

“Nay, Minette, do not say such things. Make the most of your good fortune. Louis is a good fellow. It makes me happy that you have pleased him. And now I must see Mam before I depart, and make her swear not to plague poor Henry.”

Henrietta Maria listened to her son in cold silence before she brought out the old arguments. The King, her husband, she stressed then, had promised that her children should be brought up in her religion.

“Mam! Mam! Why cannot you leave this matter of Henry’s religion and concern yourself with the ballet as does our little Henriette?”

“You are frivolous, Charles. It is small wonder that God does not crown your efforts with success. This is a child’s soul for which we are battling.”

The King was stern for once. He said: “Henry has given his solemn word to our father that he will not change his religion. Mam, you astonish me. Would you force the boy to break his word? I speak to you now as your King, Madam. I forbid you to plague the boy. I command that you obey.”

Henrietta Maria pursed her lips together to keep back the angry words.

“My own son is against me,” she complained bitterly to her daughter when Charles had gone. “It is small wonder that he is an exile … small wonder indeed. It is small wonder that God is on the side of our enemies.”

“But
they
are not Catholics either, Mam,” said Henriette gently.

And for once the Queen pushed her daughter away from her; she was in no mood for further argument.

Her mind was made up. Charles was the King and he had commanded her; but Charles was an exile and would soon be far away.

Young Henry was bewildered. For so many years he had longed to escape from his father’s enemies, to be with his family; and now that he had achieved this end he found that he was tormented as he never had been when he was in the hands of the Roundheads.

His mother gave him no peace. He must read this; he must study that; he must listen to the teachings of older, wiser men than himself. Père Cyprien was at his elbow; so was the Abbé Montague.

To all their talk he remained mute and faithful to the promise he had given his father; his mother did not see his attitude as fidelity; she called it stubbornness.

The little boy was only fourteen. He did not know what he would have done without his brothers and sisters. Charles was not only his brother but his King; and Charles supported him. But Charles had gone to Cologne for a brief spell. His brother James was in Paris, and he supported him.

“Mam is a loving mother,” James had said; “she is fond of us all, but she has one real passion—her faith; and where that is concerned she is a regular tornado. Stay firm, brother. Those are Charles’ commands, and he is the King. You promised our father. You do well to remember your promise, and in this you are in the right.”

He knew that his sister Mary, the Princess of Orange, had placed herself on his side. He was certain that Elizabeth would have supported him had she been alive; Elizabeth would have died rather than break her word to her father.

“And so will I!” declared Henry on his knees. “And so will I. I swear it, Papa. I remember. I will remember.”

And when his mother railed against him, he shut his eyes tightly and thought of that man in the velvet jacket and lace collar with the hair falling about his shoulders. “Never forget what I ask, Henry….” He heard those words in his dreams. “Papa … Papa …” he sobbed. “I will remember.”

Sometimes his little sister Henriette came to his bed and sat beside it, holding his hand.

She wanted him to be happy. She did not know whether she ought to obey her mother and try to bring her brother into the Catholic faith; but when she heard that Charles had commanded his mother not to molest Henry, she knew what she must do.

She soothed Henry; she did not say much—it seemed so wrong to speak against her mother—but Henry knew that his brothers and sisters without exception were on his side; and he continued to hold out.

Henrietta Maria was growing impatient. She would sit glowering at her youngest son, tapping the floor with her foot, her eyes hard.

Obstinate fellow! she thought. What an unhappy woman I am! My children will not obey me. They flout me. They are fools. Had Charles become a Catholic he might have stayed here. He might have been helped to regain his kingdom; who knew, Mademoiselle might have married him. But this obstinate clinging to heresy … it is ruining my life! What an unhappy woman I am!

It was true that Anne of Austria was protesting against the celebration of the rites of the Church of England in the Louvre; it was true that she was ready to help Henrietta Maria in her battle for little Henry’s soul; but no one in France was ready to go to war with the Protector of England to help the King regain his throne. Still, Henrietta Maria liked to believe that this was so.

And now the boy had dared, without his mother’s knowledge, to dispatch a letter to his brother, the King; that was because she had dismissed his tutor Lovel—an evil influence if ever there was one.

Henrietta Maria now had Charles’ reply to Henry in her hands, and she fumed with rage as she read it.

“Do not let them persuade you,” Charles had written, “either by force or fair promises; the first, they neither dare nor will use; and for the second, as soon as they have perverted you, they will have their end, and then they will care no more for you … If you do not consider what I say unto you, remember the last words of your dead father which were ‘Be constant to your religion and never be shaken in it’; which, if you do not observe, this shall be the last time you shall hear from

Dear brother,

Your most affectionate

Charles II.”

Her own family banding against her! It was more than a mother could endure. She would not be treated thus. She would settle this matter of her youngest son’s religion once and for all time.

She waited until they had dined that day; then, as they rose to leave the dining chamber, she went to Henry and embraced him warmly.

“My son,” she said, “how grieved I am that I should be forced to deal so severely with you, but it is my love that makes me do it. You must know that well.”

“Oh, Mam,” said the little boy, his eyes filling with tears, “please understand. I gave my word to Papa.”

“Please … please, Henry, don’t talk to me of Papa. There are some days when the memory of him hurts me more than others. I knew him more than you did, child. We had years together before you were born. Any grief you have felt for Papa is a small thing compared with mine.”

“Mam … then … it is because of him, you understand …”

“You are weary, my son,” she interrupted, “of being talked to on this matter. God knows I am weary of it too. Let us shorten the trial. Go to your apartments now and I will send the Abbé Montague to you.”

“Please, Mam, there is nothing I can do. Do understand me when I say …”

“Go now, my son. Listen to the Abbé, and then give me your final answer.”

“It can make no difference.”

She pushed him gently from her, wiping her eyes as she did so.

He went to his apartment where the Abbé came to him; wearily he listened, and again and again he reiterated his determination not to swerve from the faith in which he had been baptized, not to break his word to his father.

“This is going to hurt your mother, the Queen, so deeply that I fear what the result will be,” warned the Abbé.

“I cannot heed the result,” answered the boy. “I have only one answer to give.”

So the Abbé left him and went to Henrietta Maria who was with her youngest daughter; together they were stitching an altar cloth for Chaillot.

“Your Majesty,” said Montague, “I fear I have only bad news for you. The boy remains obstinate. He clings fast to heresy.”

Henrietta Maria rose to her feet, letting the altar cloth fall to the floor.

Her daughter watched the purple blood disfigure her face as, clenching her hands together, she cried: “Very well! This is the end then. He shall see what it means to flout God … and me. Go to him. Tell him that he shall see my face no more. Go at once. Tell him that. Tell him I can bear no more sorrows. I am weary. I am going to Chaillot to pray … for there only can I find peace.”

“Oh, Mam!” cried Henriette. “Mam, what are you saying? You cannot mean this.”

“I do mean it. I never want to see his face again. I want to forget I bore him.”

“But, Mam, he swore to our father. He
swore.
You must understand.”