Loyal in Love: Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I

DESPAIR

I do not know how long I sat there. I was unaware of time, of all those kind people around me who shared my suffering.

It was Madame de Motteville who in due course put her arms about me and helped me to my bed. I lay there and she knelt beside it. I could see the tears glistening on her cheeks. I shed none. My grief went too deep for tears. They were for ordinary tragedies, disappointments and frustrations; this was the greatest disaster that could befall me, and I longed above everything else to be lying beside him in his cold grave.

I dare not think of him…that beautiful head which I had so often caressed…. No, anything was better than thinking of that.

“Merciful death,” I prayed, “take me. Let me be with him in death as I was in life.”

Madame de Motteville was speaking gently. “Madame, dearest lady, you must live for your son. There is a new King of England now. God bless Charles the Second.”

She was right, of course. I saw that. I could not selfishly indulge my grief. What would he have said? He believed in the crown, the Divine Right of kings to rule. The King was dead. Now it was Long Live King Charles the Second. My son was nineteen years old. He was strong; he was royal.

Perhaps there was something yet to be saved.

“Madame,” said Madame de Motteville, “you will wish to send a message to the Queen of France.”

“Yes, yes,” I answered her. “Send someone to her, tell her of my state. Tell her that the death of the King, my husband, has made me the most unhappy woman in the world. Oh, warn her, my dear friend, warn the Queen of France. Tell her never to exasperate her people unless she is certain she has the power to subdue them. The people can become as a savage beast. My dear lost lord the King has proved that. I pray that she will be happier in France. Now I am desolate. I have lost that which meant more to me in life than anything else…a King, a husband and a friend.”

Madame de Motteville bowed her head and turned away because, I knew, she could no longer endure looking on my terrible grief.

I called on God to help me. I reproached Him for allowing this thing to happen. And then I repented and said that I knew it was His will and I wanted strength to bear it.

Madame de Motteville told me that she would go to Queen Anne and tell her what I had said; and as she was about to depart I called her back.

“There is one thing I wish you to say to her. Ask her this for my sake. If she does it, there will be a little lightness in the dark gloom of my life. I beg her to acknowledge my son the Prince of Wales as King of England, King Charles the Second, and my son James, the Duke of York, as his heir presumptive.”

Madame de Motteville left me and I realized that when I thought of my son I was beginning to live again.

I wanted to know all that had led up to that terrible climax in Whitehall but it was a long time before I was able to piece together the entire terrible events. Charles’s later life had been strewn with misfortune. Even after the escape to Carisbroke, where he had expected to find loyalty, he had been betrayed by Colonel Hammond, the Governor of the island. It was understandable that Charles should have expected Hammond to be his friend for he was a nephew of his chaplain. What Charles did not know was that he had married a daughter of John Hampden and become an ardent partisan of Oliver Cromwell. At first Hammond had treated Charles like an honored guest but even while he was doing this he was informing the Roundheads where Charles was, and my poor husband soon realized that he was a prisoner. How he must have despaired! But he would be calm and more serene than most men would be in his position, and while at the castle he had walked on the ramparts for exercise and played on the bowling green and spent a great deal of time reading.

I heard how he had made an attempt to escape when he discovered the perfidy of Hammond. There was a faithful attendant called Firebrace who acted as his page and planned escape with him. Firebrace’s scheme was that he should cut through the bars of the prison window, but Charles had thought this would attract attention and he believed he could squeeze his body through. He tried it with his head. They were ready. A ladder was placed against the window for it was planned that when Charles was on the ground below Firebrace would get him across the main courtyard to the main wall which he could descend by means of a rope. Men were waiting with a spare horse and close by was a boat which was ready to carry him to France. Everything was in order and would have succeeded but for the fact that Charles had miscalculated and although he got his head through the bars he was stuck between his breast and shoulders and could move neither in nor out.

Alas, poor Charles! Sometimes I think that Heaven itself was against him. If ever I had a chance I would find the good Firebrace and reward him for his attempt to help the King.

After that Charles was taken to Hurst Castle, a dreadful place which was situated on a kind of promontory off the Isle of Wight. There could not have been a more uncomfortable place, lashed as it was by the winds and at high tide cut off from the island. I could picture him in that grim fortress. He must have thought of some of his forebears who had offended their enemies and ended up in places such as Hurst Castle where they were done to hideous death.

Fortunately he was not long in Hurst Castle and from there was brought first to Windsor and then on January the fifteenth to London.

By this time Cromwell was in control and I wondered, not without some satisfaction, how the people liked being under the orders of the military. His soldiers took great pleasure in breaking up many of the beautiful churches and homes which in their narrow Puritan minds they thought were sinful. They even desecrated Westminster Abbey. The stupid people! Now they would learn what it was like to be ruled by men who had no joy in them, who made harsh rules and thought it was a sin to smile.

So they brought my Charles to trial and condemned him to death. I do not want to recall all the horrendous details. It is too painful even though it is so long ago. He was serene and went to his death like the brave man he was.

I cannot bear to think of the last time when he saw our two little ones, Elizabeth and Henry, who were brought from Zion House to take their last farewell of him.

I have heard it many times from different sources and each time I weep.

How could they be so cruel to two innocent children!

When my daughter Elizabeth saw her father she fell into passionate weeping. She knew what was in store for him and how different he must have looked from the handsome father she had known. He had suffered so much since they had last met. I pictured his graying hair, his resigned looks—but he would always be handsome, impeccable in dress and manner.

She could not speak to him through her weeping, and little Henry seeing his sister cry, joined in.

Charles drew them to him and embraced them. Elizabeth was only twelve but immediately afterward she wrote down exactly what had happened. I have read it many times and each time it fills me with an infinite tender sadness.

“I am glad you have come,” he told her, “for there is something I wish to say to you which I could not tell to another and the cruelty of it, I fear, was too great to permit me to write it…. But, sweetheart, you will forget what I tell thee.”

Elizabeth assured him that she would not. “For I will write it down,” she said, “and it will be with me for as long as I shall live.”

“Do not grieve,” he said. “Do not torment yourself for me. It will be a glorious death which I shall die, it being for the laws of the land and for religion. I have forgiven all my enemies and I hope God will forgive them too. You must forgive them, as must your brothers and sisters. When you see your mother…” And this is the part which I could never read without my tears blinding me…“tell her that my thoughts have never strayed from her and my love for her will be the same until the end. Love her and be obedient to her. Do not grieve for me. I shall die and I doubt not that God will restore the throne to your brother and then you will all be happier than you would have been if I had lived.”

Then he took little Henry onto his knee. “Sweetheart,” he said, “now they will cut off thy father’s head.”

Poor little Henry stared at his father’s neck and seemed utterly dismayed and bewildered.

“Heed what I say, my child,” went on the King. “They will cut off my head and perhaps make thee King. But mark what I say, you must not be King as long as your brothers Charles and James live. Therefore I charge you, do not be made a king by them.”

Poor little Henry tried hard to understand. Then he drew a deep breath and said: “I will be torn into pieces first.”

Then they prayed together and Charles commanded them always to fear God and this they promised to do.

One of the bishops came to take the children away; they were weeping bitterly. Charles watched them and when they reached the door he ran after them and snatched them up that he might embrace them once more and they clung to him as though they would never let him go.

The hour was fixed. They brought him dinner but he was in no mood to eat.

“You should eat, sire,” his Bishop Juxon warned him. “You will faint for lack of food.”

“Yes,” agreed Charles, “and it might be misconstrued if I did that.” Whereupon he took some wine and food.

When he had eaten he said: “Let them come. I am ready.”

But they did not come. There was a delay. Two of the military commanders who had been chosen to superintend the murder refused to do so at the last minute. Nothing could shift their decision; they were jeered at and threatened; still they would not take charge of the grisly task. Their names were Hunks and Phayer. I would remember them too.

There was a small grain of comfort in knowing that they had to offer one hundred pounds to one who would aid the executioner—and thirty-eight people refused.

In the end they had to threaten one of the sergeants from another regiment to do the deed, and the executioner himself had tried to hide himself and when he was found he had to be threatened too and offered thirty pounds to do his work. They insisted on wearing masks as they did not want to be seen as executioners of the King.

It must have been a great joy for Charles to receive from our son Charles a blank sheet of paper with his signature at the bottom. Our son had written in a separate note that he would pledge himself to carry out any terms which might be imposed on him in exchange for his father’s life.

Charles kissed the paper and burned it.

I heard that he slept quietly on the night before he went out to face his murderers. Thomas Herbert who, as Groom of the Bedchamber, was sleeping in the room with him awoke shouting in his sleep and he told the King that he had been disturbed by a nightmare. He had dreamed that Archbishop Laud had come into the room and knelt before the King while they talked together.

The King knew why he was shaken. It was because Archbishop Laud was dead, having been executed four years before.

They could not sleep after that although it was only five o’clock.

When Herbert was dressing him he said he wished to be as trim on this day as he had been on the day of his marriage. They said his voice broke a little when he said that and I knew it was because he was thinking of the sorrow this day would bring to me.

He bade Herbert bring him two shirts.

“It is cold outside,” he said. “The wind might cause me to shake on my way to the scaffold and I would have no imputation of fear, for death is not terrible to me. I am prepared, I thank God. Let the rogues come for me when they please.”

I do not want to think of that scene but I can picture it so clearly and I cannot get it out of my mind. I can see the mass of people who would not be allowed to come too close to the scaffold and were kept back by the many soldiers whom Cromwell had commanded should be there. How apprehensive he and his friends must have been!

Charles stepped out through the banqueting hall for one of the windows had been removed so that he could do this.

I often wonder what his thoughts were as he went up to the scaffold. Of me, I like to think; and yet again I did not want him to think of me then because I knew that to do so would increase his sorrow.

What does one think of when one faces death? He was a good man, a man who had tried to do his duty, and if he had failed to please his people it was through no lack of effort on his part. He had always done what he believed to be right; and I knew—and was proved right in this—that these would be seen to be unhappy days for England and those people who had fought—valiantly I must admit—for Cromwell would soon be longing for the days when people could sing and dance and be joyful; they would regret those harsh laws of the Puritans ere long. And I was glad. I hated them. I was not calm and thoughtful like Charles. They were my enemies…those men who had put to death a great good man and I fervently wished that they would all burn in hell.

So he came out looking beautiful as he always had and without showing a tremor of fear.

I could imagine his looks of contempt for the bewigged and masked murderers who had not the courage to do the deed in the open but must cower behind disguises.

The executioner knelt and asked forgiveness.

Charles’s reply was quiet and dignified. “I forgive no subject of mine who comes hither to shed my blood.”

When he stepped up to the scaffold there was a terrible hush in the crowd. The executioner in a quiet and respectful voice asked him to push his hair under his cap.

This he quietly did.

He said in a clear voice: “I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown.” Then he took off his coat and doublet.

He asked the executioner to make sure that the block was firm. “Now,” he said, “I will say a short prayer in silence and when I lift my hands I shall be ready for you to strike.”

That was the end.

My Charles, King, husband, lover, friend and martyr was dead.

They told me that a groan was heard through the crowd of people and that there was a terrible sense of foreboding in Whitehall that day.

I had to shut myself away for a while. I could not bear to see my attendants, let alone hear them speak to me. There was so much to remind me.

My poor little Henriette, who was not yet five years old, was quite bewildered. She would watch me and her eyes would fill with tears.

“I am doing no good to her and none to myself,” I told Lady Morton. “She would be better with you alone.”

Lady Morton had too much good sense to deny this and so I decided that for a while I would seek the peace and solace of my favorite Carmelite convent in the Faubourg St. Jacques. I gave my daughter into the care of Lady Morton with instructions that she should look after the child’s creature comforts while Father Cyprien should see to her spiritual welfare. I thought I could not do better than that and I gave myself up to meditation and prayer and lived a life of seclusion governed by bells. I needed it. I was angry with the Almighty for what seemed like indifference to my suffering and for permitting the cruel murder of my husband. I knew I should not complain; it was His will; but I railed against such treatment and I could not be reconciled until I had wrestled with myself.

I dressed in black, which I swore I would do to the end of my life. I would mourn for Charles as long as I lived. I looked very like one of the nuns of the convent in my long rustling skirts and I wore a cap with a widow’s peak which came over my forehead and with a black veil cascading from the back.

When I had been a few weeks in the convent and was beginning to accept the fact that I must learn to live without Charles, Father Cyprien came to see me and gave me such a lecture that I felt like boxing the man’s ears, priest though he was. Then I knew I was becoming myself once more.

“What are you doing shutting yourself away from the world?” demanded Father Cyprien. “Have you forgotten that you have a son and that he has to regain his throne? Have you forgotten that you are the daughter of the great Henri IV? Is it fitting that you should spend your days thus in idleness when there is work to be done?”

“Have I not done enough…and to what avail?” I cried.

“Your father did not give up in his struggles. When he suffered temporary defeat he fought again and so came to greater glory.”

“Murdered,” I reminded him, “as my husband was…but differently. I’d rather Charles had gone by the knife of a madman than the action of coldblooded murderers and pilferers of his throne.”

“That is more like you. Your household needs you. Have you forgotten your young daughter? She pines for you. And what of your son? You must bring Charles to Paris. There must be no more delay. He has a throne to fight for.”

Two days later I left the convent.

Father Cyprien was right. I should be planning. It did wonders for me. I was alive again. I was going to live through my children. I was blessed in them. Charles was a son a mother could be proud of; James had come to Paris from Holland; he was good looking and his manners were as charming as those of his brother Charles. I had always insisted on impeccable manners. It was strange but loving my husband as I had I was able to see where he had failed. That aloof manner of his had alienated people and it may have been one of the causes why so many turned against him. Rulers must not keep themselves too much apart from their subjects; it was not easy to keep the balance between royalty and the necessary bonhomie needed to win people. My father had had it to a great degree; my son Charles had it; James less so, but it was there and he was young yet.

Mary had been a wonderful friend to us and she and the Prince of Orange, who were so devoted to each other, had shown us comforting hospitality and had done everything to help us. I had my precious Henriette with me now but the two who worried me were little Elizabeth and Henry—both in the hands of the Roundheads. If I could only have them with me I should be greatly relieved.

What we must do was to get Charles fighting for his throne, and the first thing was for him to come to me here in Paris.

I wrote to him. I had been able to redeem some of my rubies when I first came to France and was hoarding them for the day when I would sell or pawn them to raise money for my son’s army as I used to for my husband’s.

Charles must marry and his bride must be someone who could help him regain his throne.

I was pleased when the Grande Mademoiselle called on me at the Louvre. She was very gracious to me and condoled with me on my loss. I tried not to give way to emotion before her for she was not exactly a comfortable person, very different from warmhearted Queen Anne who had been so good to me when I needed help.

I said: “My son will be coming to me in Paris soon.”

“I was under the impression that your son was with you now, Madame,” she said.

“You are referring to my son James, the Duke of York. I meant the King.”

“Oh yes…of course. He will be King now…if he can regain his throne.”

“There is no doubt that he will do that,” I said sharply.

“I am glad to hear it.”

Her eyes were speculative. She could not deceive me, this sly Grande Mademoiselle. She had suffered two disappointments. The King of Spain had married his niece, so poor Mademoiselle was not to be Queen of Spain. The Emperor of Austria had chosen one of his cousins. Mademoiselle’s nose was decidedly out of joint. It might well be that she would not be quite so supercilious now regarding her cousin Charles. It was true he had yet to regain his throne but having seen those of Spain and Austria slip out of her grasp, the ambitious creature might be feeling she could not be too selective. Moreover she must be about twenty-two years old—quite mature for a marriageable princess. She had been considering herself the most delectable marriage prospect for a very long time. Was she beginning to doubt?

“When will he be in Paris?” She was clearly trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice.

“Very soon, I promise you.”

“You mean you promise yourself, dear aunt, not me.”

Oh, she was an insolent creature! If it had not been for her money I would not have received her, let alone considered her as a daughter-in-law.

Charles did not immediately respond to my summons. First he made excuses and then he merely said he was not yet ready.

I was getting frantic and I suggested to Henry Jermyn that he approach Mademoiselle and make an offer on Charles’s behalf for her hand.

Henry was a little reluctant and wondered if it were wise but I insisted. I had to keep events moving for while something was going on, it was balm to my wounds. Only while I was absorbed in some project could I forget that Charles was dead.

Henry came back in some dismay, and reported what had happened.

“I told her that when he had seen her Charles had been so overcome by admiration that he had become speechless. Mademoiselle has a sharp tongue. She retorted: ‘Oh, I thought that was due to his ignorance of the French language. He did not converse at all. In my opinion the inability to converse detracts from a personality more than anything else.’”

“She can be a most unpleasant creature.”

“She has always had a high opinion of herself.”

“I thought that she might have been a little more humble after the snubs she received from Spain and Austria.”

“There had been no commitments for the King of Spain or the Emperor of Austria to enter an alliance with her,” Henry reminded me.

“No, but it was an understood possibility. Go on.”

“Then she said that she would prefer to discuss the matter with Charles himself and could not commit herself to a go-between. She added that since Charles was so much in love with her he would doubtless change his religion. If he did that she would be assured of his devotion and then would begin to consider the matter.”

“The minx! She knows that if he changed his religion he would have no chance of regaining his throne.”

“Dear Madam, I fear there is nothing we can do but await the arrival of the King.”

It was summer before Charles arrived in Paris. I thought he looked very impressive with his tall figure and ugly good-natured face, his musical voice and his kingly bearing. There was a certain aloofness in his manner toward me. I realized later that it was his way of telling me that he was going to decide his own affairs for himself. My little Henriette was beside herself with joy and it gave me great pleasure to see the affection between those two. She leaped into his arms and clasped hers about his neck. She was his little Minette and he was more than an adored brother; in her eyes he was a god.

It was pleasant to watch; but I was impatient to put Mademoiselle’s vast fortune to good use in restoring the crown.

I dismissed everyone so that we were alone and told him that Mademoiselle was more than ready to listen to reason.

“Of course she will try to test you and suggest that you change your religion for her sake, but you must not take that too seriously.”

“I take it very seriously,” retorted Charles. “And the answer is that I have no intention of making it impossible for me to return to England as King.”

“I know. But laugh it off, Charles. Carry her off her feet. She is, I sense, a somewhat anxious young lady. The King of Spain and the Emperor have just chosen elsewhere in spite of her fortune.”

I had noticed a young woman in the company who had come from Holland with him. She was very handsome in a bold and brazen way. I had asked questions about her and had been given evasive answers, but in view of what I knew of Charles and his exploits in Jersey I began to have suspicions.

I felt a twinge of uneasiness when I heard that she had a baby—a child of two or three months.

“By the way, Charles,” I said, “who is that handsome young woman who seems to have a place among your attendants?”

“You must mean Lucy,” he said.

“And who, may I ask, is Lucy?”

“You may certainly ask, Mam,” said Charles putting on a regal air, reminding me that although I was a Dowager Queen he was the King. “Her name is Lucy Walter and she is a special friend of mine.”

“A special friend?”

“You heard aright, Mam. That is what I said.”

“Oh…and the child?”

“Mine, Mam. Mine.”

“Charles, this is….”

He lifted his shoulders and smiled at me. “He is a very amiable child.”

“Your father never behaved like this.”

“No, Mam. And I must never behave as he did.”

I felt as though he had struck me across the face. He was repentant at once for he had loved his father; but he was right, of course. Charles’s behavior had been in a great measure responsible for what had happened to him.

He said gently: “Lucy is a pleasant girl. She is devoted to me and I to her. She is a great diversion.”

“There was the Jersey girl.”

“Also a charming creature.”

“Charles, you must be more serious.”

“I assure you, Mam, no one could be more serious than I. I have one ambition and that is to regain my throne.”

“Mademoiselle must not hear of this Lucy Walter.”

He lifted his shoulders.

“Charles, do you understand this match could be of the greatest use to you. Her fortune…”

“I know her fortune is great.”

“Then Charles, you must woo her. It should not be difficult. She is the most arrogant conceited creature on Earth.”

“And this creature is to be my wife!”

“The money…it could make all the difference. Please go to see her. Flatter her. That will be necessary. Queen Anne has arranged that you shall met at Compiègne…in the château there. It is really rather romantic.”

“There is nothing so romantic as a large fortune,” said Charles cynically.

However he did agree to go to Compiègne.

It was a disaster—as I believe Charles intended it to be. He looked more distinguished than anyone in the company because he was so tall that he towered above them all. Queen Anne was there, as eager to help as ever and with her the young King of France. I was amused to see that Mademoiselle had dressed with particular care with her hair specially curled; and her blue prominent eyes were taking in every detail of Charles’s appearance.

He was distantly polite with her and it was rather a difficult meal. Queen Anne and Mademoiselle were both eager to know how everything was going in England but in spite of this being of paramount importance to him, Charles appeared to know very little, having been so long in Holland, he explained, and having to rely on hearsay. I could see that Mademoiselle was finding him rather dull and that he was growing more and more indifferent to her opinion of him. His French was not nearly as good as his brother James’s and he had to excuse himself more than once because of his paucity of the language.

When the ortolans were brought in Charles declined and took instead a piece of mutton, which deeply shocked Mademoiselle, who assumed that his tastes were crude and that he was no husband for a lady of refinement.

When the meal was over Queen Anne, always eager to help, arranged that Charles and Mademoiselle should be alone together.

What happened during that brief interview—it lasted no more than fifteen minutes—I cannot be sure, except of one thing. Charles was determined to choose his own bride and had no intention of allowing me to do it for him.

It was all very unsatisfactory. Mademoiselle was certainly very piqued; as for Charles he maintained a solemn enigmatical air and I supposed that he who knew so well how to attract women was equally well versed in the art of driving them away.

He told me afterward that he did not pay her compliments because he could think of none that fitted; but as it appeared to be expected of him—by both the Queens of England and France—he had made a formal declaration to Mademoiselle by, as he took his leave of her, saying that Henry Jermyn spoke better French than he did and would therefore be better able to explain what he wished to say to her.

Henriette was with her brother whenever she could be. I said to her: “You must remember he is the King. You must be very respectful to him.”

She only laughed and said he was her dear brother Charles and she was his Minette and she did not have to be the least bit respectful. He loved her dearly and told her so.

Naturally I was delighted to see the affection between them. Henriette was a dear child. I kept her close to me and supervised her education myself and with the help of Father Cyprien I was bringing her up in the Catholic Faith.

Lady Morton did not altogether approve of this and because I was so fond of her and would never forget how she had brought Henriette out of England to me, I was very anxious for her to have the benefit of the true Faith too. I confided this to Henriette. I said: “My darling, you love Lady Morton, do you not?”

Henriette said she did indeed.

“Then,” I said, “is it not sad that she should be left in darkness? We should try to bring her into the light with us…. It would give me the greatest happiness if our dear Lady Morton would cease to be a Protestant and become a Catholic. We must try to help her. Will you?”

“Oh I will, Mam,” said my little daughter fervently.

Some days later I asked how she was getting on with the conversion and she told me very seriously that she was trying very hard.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Hug her and kiss her and I say to her, ‘Dear Madam, do be a Catholic. Please be a Catholic. You must be a Catholic to be saved.’”

I smiled and I learned that Lady Morton was touched but it did not change her. She implied that she was aware of our little plot and she told me with a smile that she believed Father Cyprien was in fact instructing her rather than Henriette.

Henriette soon betrayed her zeal to her brother and this was the beginning of trouble.

One could never be sure what Charles was thinking. He was not a man to lose his temper—he did not take after me in that—but gave the impression of a kind of insouciance, an indifference. At times he seemed content to dally on the Continent and I wondered whether he was making any real efforts to win back his crown. But when he was determined on something he could be very stubborn. He exasperated me sometimes because it was impossible to quarrel with him. I would rather he had flared up in anger so that I could know what he was thinking.

He said to me: “Mam, it is unwise for Minette to be brought up as a Catholic.”

“I think,” I retorted, “for the sake of the child’s soul it would be unwise to bring her up in any other way.”

“It was the cause of much of our troubles.”

“One often has to fight for one’s Faith. The Faith is strewn with martyrs.”

“My father one of them.”

He was sorry then because any mention of the late King filled me with melancholy which persisted for days.

“He had other troubles,” he went on softly, “God rest his soul. But, Mam, if it is known in England that Henriette is being brought up as a Catholic and I approve of this, it could jeopardize my chances of regaining the crown.”

“I cannot see that.”

“I can,” he said. “The people will be afraid that I or James might be the same.”

“I would to God you were! Listen to me, Charles. When I married your father there was a clause in the settlement that I was to have charge of my children’s religious instruction until they were thirteen years old. That was never carried out.”

“It would have meant that we should all have been Catholics, for what children learn in their early years usually settles them for life. No, Mam, Henriette should not be allowed to talk so constantly of her religion and efforts to convert Lady Morton.”

“She is but a child.”

“It would be better to take her out of the hands of Father Cyprien.”

“I will not do it,” I said firmly.

Charles sighed. He did not want to hurt me for there was a very kind side to his nature. He hated trouble and when it was there tried to avoid it by delegating someone else to take care of it. As a king he could do that. I thought it was a great fault in his nature but later I began to see that it was an asset. He did not waste his emotions on petty quarrels. He rarely lost that magnificent serenity which later was to give him the reputation of a cynic. So now he did not insist, but I knew the matter was not at an end, someone else would be set to persuade me. In fact he gave the task to Sir Edward Hyde, a man I loathed, but whom I had to admit had always been loyal to the royalist cause and he was now Charles’s constant companion and adviser.

I soon dispatched him with a few sharp words.

However it did make a coolness between Charles and me and it showed me clearly that my son had no intention of taking my advice.

A few weeks later the Emperor lost his young bride and I could not resist a dig at Mademoiselle.

“Perhaps I should congratulate you on the death of the Empress,” I said slyly. “For if the affair failed formerly it is sure to succeed next time.”

She flushed hotly and replied haughtily: “I had not given thought to the matter.”

“Some people prefer old men who must be nearly fifty with four children to a handsome King of nineteen years old. It is difficult to understand but must be accepted, I suppose. Do you see that very handsome young woman over there. My son likes her very well.”

Charles was standing by at that time and I think he was annoyed to be discussed in his presence; but I, his mother, would do as I pleased.

I went on: “My son is too poor for you, Mademoiselle. All the same he does not want you to know of his feelings for the young lady. He is very much afraid that I should mention her to you.”

Charles bowed to me and then to Mademoiselle and walked out of the room, his face inscrutable so that I could not tell how annoyed he was. But I guessed it was very deeply. He was very cool to me afterward though always polite.

I was angry with myself. I had been foolish to say what I had when all that mattered to me now was my children’s affection and well being. But I was angry about Mademoiselle and it did seem such a good opportunity missed. And he could have charmed her had he wished to. Heaven knows he was successful enough with other women.

The French Court was still at St. Germain because the Fronde troubles kept starting up and Anne felt it was unsafe to bring the young King back to the Louvre. I was still there but I had noticed a growing antagonism toward me. At first they had all been so sorry for me and remembered that I was the daughter of their beloved Henri IV; now they saw me as royal, closely connected with Queen Anne and therefore Mazarin; and I was beginning to get hostile looks, and so were members of my household.

Anne was afraid for us and sent messages asking us to come to her and the King at St. Germain. Charles agreed with me that we ought to accept the invitation, for the mood of the Parisians was growing more and more hostile.

So one day we set out; but of course we could not leave in secret and as we passed through the palace gates an angry crowd was waiting for us. They jeered at us. It was true that I owed money to many tradesmen and they must have feared that they would never get it and that I was leaving in order to escape paying them.

I wanted to explain, but how can one talk to a crowd of menacing people.

I was the one they hated. They crowded round my coach and I had a few horrifying moments when I feared they were going to drag me out and kill me.

Few mobs can be as terrifying as a Paris mob. They seem far more fierce than the English and I feared that they might become very violent indeed.

Then just as I was certain that some ruffian was going to wrench open the door of my coach and drag me out, my son Charles appeared. He looked so tall and dignified in his black mourning garments that for a few moments he startled the crowd. Those few moments were enough. He laid his hand on the door of the coach and told the coachman to proceed slowly. He walked beside the coach as we went through the crowds, and I was amazed at the manner in which they fell back; and it was all due to that magnificent presence of his. He was unarmed; he would have been unable to defend himself with his sword against the mob; but still they recognized and respected his royalty.

I watched him through a haze of tears and I knew that one day he would be a king in very truth.

That incident moved me deeply and perhaps it did him too, for after it our relationship began to change. I felt I could not dictate to such a man; and he seemed to come to a new understanding and realize that everything I did—however misguided it might seem to him—was meant to be for his benefit and was done out of an excess of love.