Wild Jasmine (82 page)

The queen, who had accepted her husband’s choice for Princess Elizabeth’s husband only at the behest of her eldest son, now greeted Frederick V, the Elector Palatine, with less than her usual enthusiasm. Although the marriage was scheduled to be celebrated on St. Valentine’s Day, Prince Frederick arrived in England in mid-autumn. Henry Stuart, his illness now visibly draining his strength, greeted his brother-in-law-to-be at Gravesend when he landed, and personally escorted him up to London.

On October 24, 1612, there was to be a magnificent dinner given by the lord mayor, but Henry was so ill now that he could not attend, and the affair was called off. The superstitious English now began to murmur nervously about the prince’s health. That same autumn, the remains of Mary, Queen of Scots, had been disinterred from Fotheringay Castle and brought with much pomp to London, where they were reburied in a beautiful sepulchre commissioned by King James for his mother in Westminster Abbey. There was an ancient English saying that when the grave of a family member was disturbed, another family member would die. Then a lunar rainbow occurred, lasting several hours. Another omen, the superstitious declared, and indeed by October twenty-ninth Henry Stuart’s condition had grown much worse.

The Londoners came in great numbers to stand outside of St. James’s Palace awaiting the latest news. They watched as the queen and Princess Elizabeth arrived to visit the sick man. Then the physicians declared that the prince’s fever was infectious, and the royal family were barred from further visits, much to the queen’s sorrow. She had always been fearful of contagious diseases, and now her fears were borne out. She had not, to her shame, the courage to defy the doctors and stay with her firstborn child. Instead Anne fled to Somerset House in great sorrow. The king stubbornly remained with the prince.

The crowds grew bigger, until they lined every street between St. James’s Palace and the queen’s residence. They wept as the news grew more dire, and a thousand rumors of various natures swept through the press of people. Finally, just before midnight on November fifth, Henry Frederick Stuart breathed his last, to the great shock of all. He had been so young, and so vital.

James, despite all advice, had stayed by his eldest son’s bedside until Henry had lapsed into an irreversible coma. Then, weeping bitterly, he had departed for Theobalds, only to return to London to the house of Sir Walter Cope. But he could not rest. Finally, word was brought to the king of his son’s death, and James Stuart, before he retired to mourn in private, gave orders that his son should he in state at his palace of St. James, his coffin to be set upon a bier in the chapel royal, with its beautiful painted ceiling.

When the pomp and circumstance of the funeral was finally over, James Stuart remembered Jasmine Lindley and her infant son. He called for his private secretary and dictated a message that was to be carried by royal messenger to her with all speed at Queen’s Malvern. He had no idea if she knew of the prince’s death, for her grandmother’s home was isolated.

She did not, and consequently Jasmine collapsed in shock upon reading the royal missive. As Skye knelt to see to her granddaughter, Adam de Marisco snatched up the parchment as it fluttered to the floor.

He scanned it quickly and then swore beneath his breath. “Jesu! What a damned tragedy for us all, and for England.”

“
What is it?
” Skye demanded, looking up at him as she attempted to revive Jasmine back to consciousness.

“Henry Stuart is dead,” Adam said bluntly, and then he read,

“Madame, it is with deep regret we report to you the untimely death of our beloved son, and heir, Henry Frederick. His last thoughts were of you, and of our grandson, Lord Charles Frederick Stuart. We will communicate with you again in the future regarding your welfare, and that of our grandson.

Signed, James R.”

Jasmine, half revived, was beginning to weep piteously.

“How did he die?” Adam demanded of the royal messenger.

“Well, my lord,” the messenger said, “he wasn’t well at all the whole autumn long. The prince took to his bed almost two weeks before the end. Some said he had smallpox, but ’twas not. I’ve heard that typhus or typhoid killed him, but many say the king should not have removed his mother’s bones from Fotheringay Castle and reburied them in the abbey. ’Tis a great loss.”

“Aye,” Adam agreed. “A great loss for everyone.”

The messenger stayed the night, and went his way back to London the following morning. Jasmine was so broken-hearted that her milk dried up, much to her great distress, but a healthy young wet nurse was found for Charles Frederick and quickly moved into the house.

“Why is it,” Jasmine bemoaned sorrowfully to Skye, “that every man I love dies? Ohh, Grandmama, I should have told Hal that I loved him, but I did not want to complicate matters any more than they were complicated!”

“You did exactly the right tiling,” Skye assured her grandchild. “As for losing men to death, that, my darling girl, is a part of a woman’s life. I lost five husbands to death before I married your grandfather, not to mention a son, my wee Johnnie. I know that you loved Henry Stuart, and I am so sorry, Jasmine, but all your weeping will not bring the prince back. You have lost your lover, but England has lost a great future king. A lover can be replaced. Perhaps not easily, but ’tis possible.

“Will poor little Prince Charles, however, be able to fill his brother’s boots, I wonder? Henry Stuart was strong and vital until the end, but Prince Charles has been a sickly child. What will happen if we lose him, too, and the queen past her prime for childbearing? ’Tis been five years since she lost that last little princess. I think we had best pray for the little prince that God will spare him and keep him safe for England.”

Christmas came, but Jasmine could not celebrate, although she tried to confine her mourning to the privacy of her own apartments for the sake of her children. India would be five in March, and was a wise little girl for her age.

“Are you sad,” she asked her mother one day, “because Prince Henry has died, Mama?”

“Aye,” Jasmine said, turning away so India would not see her tears.

“Has he gone to Heaven? Will he see my father?”

Jasmine nodded.

“We have no papa,” India said. “None of us.”

“Nay,” Jasmine told her eldest child. “None of you have a papa anymore.”

In the middle of January another royal messenger arrived at Queen’s Malvern with a missive for the dowager Marchioness of Westleigh. Jasmine was commanded to come to London for Princess Elizabeth’s wedding on February fourteenth. Under
normal circumstances the marriage would have been postponed because of Prince Henry’s death, but the young bridegroom had come so far, and he was unable to remain away from his domain much longer. It was deemed wiser to celebrate the royal match and send the newly weds on their way, than to send Prince Frederick V home to return another time.

Skye concurred, as did Jasmine, who said, “Hal would not want Bessie to wait. The princess has been so excited about her impending marriage.”

“What will you wear?” her grandmother asked. “It cannot be mourning, for this is a wedding, despite all the tragedy that has preceded it. What about that magnificent ruby-red velvet you possess?”

Jasmine shook her head. “I shall wear black,” she said.

“You have a midnight-blue gown that is just perfect,” Skye said, ignoring her granddaughter. “The Stars of Kashmir go just beautifully with it, as I remember, my darling girl.”

“I shall wear black,” Jasmine insisted.

“The black velvet with the silver lace?” Skye inquired hopefully.

“The black velvet with the high neck, and the white lace ruff,” Jasmine replied stubbornly. “I will not flaunt myself.”

“The black with the silver lace is more appropriate to a wedding, my darling girl,” Skye wheedled. “Even if the prince is dead, you are his chosen representative. Will you have people wonder what it was he ever saw in you in the first place, Jasmine? Where is your damned pride? He was proud of you.”

“The neckline on the gown you suggest is too low, Grandmama. I do not intend to exhibit myself for the amusement of the court. It will look as if I am peddling my wares seeking another protector, when the truth of the matter is I do not care if I ever make love to another man again, even if I live to be one hundred!” Jasmine declared vehemently.

When Jasmine reached London, however, she found that the gown whose packing she had so carefully supervised was no longer in her trunk. In its place was the magnificent black velvet and silver lace gown her grandmother had wanted her to wear, along with a wonderful necklace, and ear bobs of rubies.

“Damn her for a meddling old woman,” Jasmine muttered, and then she laughed. “God’s boots, we are so alike! I would have done the same thing had our positions been reversed,” she told Toramalli.

“I know,” giggled her faithful servant, “and ’twas exactly
what your lady grandmother said when she pulled that plain black gown from the luggage. She is right, though, my lady. The prince would want you to be the most beautiful woman at the wedding, next to his sister.”

Jasmine had sent word of her arrival to the king, but she had insisted upon staying at Greenwood. James, still deeply distraught over his eldest son’s death, bridled at this, but the queen soothed him, saying, “ ’Tis most proper and discreet of Lady Lindley, my dear. I fully approve of her behavior in this most delicate matter. She is not our son’s widow, after all. Only his mistress. When will ye speak with her about little Charles Frederick?”

“After the wedding,” the king replied absently.

Although the king had complained that he could scarce afford such a grand affair, the wedding of Princess Elizabeth to the young, handsome Elector Palatine was a magnificent one attended by every member of the court from the highest to the lowest. The crown jewels were put on display, including a large pearl pendant, the Bretherin, the Portugal Diamond, and an even larger diamond set in a gold setting, called the Mirror of France. Jasmine had never seen these jewels, and although she found them beautiful, she thought she had better in her possession.

It was a strange celebration. In Westminster Abbey, where Frederick V was created a Knight of the Garter, the effigy of Henry Stuart was yet on display. Jasmine bravely fought back her tears. Then the king forgot to dub the new knight, but no one dared to tell him.

The wedding itself was celebrated on February fourteenth in the royal chapel at Whitehall. It was the first royal marriage using the new form of common prayer in England. The little princess glowed with happiness, for she and her bridegroom had fallen madly in love in the four short months in which they had known each other. The marriage had become a love match, to the surprise of everyone.

Elizabeth Stuart wore a magnificent gown of silver tissue. Her long, blond hair was unbound, signifying her innocence. Atop her head was a crown of diamonds and pearls. Her young bridegroom was garbed in scarlet and silver, the garter about his neck. The bridal attendants all wore pure white satin. The queen was gowned in cloth-of-gold and diamonds. The king, however, had given little care to his garb. He was dressed all in black, and his stockings quite obviously did not match. A
rather bedraggled pheasant’s feather hung from his cap, and he had a short black Spanish cape with its half-erect collar and hanging cowl about him.

At the party that followed the religious ceremony, James Stuart fidgeted, and complained about the expense of it all and about the overwhelming boredom he felt at the masque presented. “My brave laddie’s dead, and yet they dance,” he said sadly at one point. Jasmine felt deeply sorry for James Stuart, and she knew exactly how he felt. She could see the queen struggling to keep up a good front for the sake of her daughter, whom she truly loved. It was like being in a bad dream.

Jasmine had attempted to keep herself very much in the background. A royal page had come to Greenwood the afternoon before the wedding, and brought her a message from the king. She was not to leave London. He would see her in a week’s time. She wondered what it was all about. Perhaps the king wanted to make some sort of provision for her infant son. She would, of course, tactfully refuse. She did not need a royal pension to support her children.

“Good evening, madame,” a voice said at her ear.

Jasmine looked up to see James Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, towering above her. “My lord,” she answered politely.

“Will you allow me to escort you through this crush, madame?” he asked her politely.

Jasmine opened her mouth to refuse him, and then thought better of it. It was unlikely that she would be pestered by the bold young men about the court if she was being escorted by the Earl of Glenkirk. She wanted no scenes or misunderstandings. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

“Your children are well?” he inquired solicitiously, having found them a quiet corner in which to sit.

She nodded politely.

“How old are they now?” Glenkirk persisted in the conversation.

“India will be five next month, Henry four in April, Fortune three in July, and my wee Charles will be five months old in four days,” Jasmine said. “And you, my lord. Have you satisfied your family’s pleas yet to remarry, and have more children?”

“I am yet a bachelor, madame. There has been but one woman to attract me over the years, but I did not speak up, and she married another gentleman. Now, however, she is a widow.” His green-gold eyes looked directly at her.

Jasmine looked at him with shock. “Surely I misunderstand you, my lord,” she said coldly.

“I do not think so, madame,” he responded calmly, taking her hand in his.

She grew pale. Then she arose, snatching her hand back. “How dare you, my lord? How do you dare to presume to solicit me under the circumstances!”

“I lost you once, Jasmine, because I was too proud to say I wanted you, and you were too proud to admit to wanting me,” James Leslie told her bluntly. “When Rowan Lindley died, I dared to hope I might begin anew with you, but Henry Stuart came between us.”