Loyal in Love: Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I

MURDER IN WHITEHALL

Once again the sea proved that it was always my enemy. No sooner had I returned to my cabin for a much needed rest than I heard cries of alarm and Henry Jermyn came dashing in looking distraught.

“Pray don’t be alarmed,” he said, “but we have sighted three ships which are obviously pursuing us.”

“Enemies?” I asked.

“I fear so,” replied Henry. “I should stay here. We are equipped to fight them.”

“If we stop to fight we shall never escape,” I cried. “We must be free of English waters as soon as possible.”

“If we do not fight they could take us.”

“They shall not take me,” I cried vehemently. “I will die first. To take me would be disaster to the King’s cause…far greater than my death would be.”

Henry was aghast. “My dear lady,” he stammered, “you must not talk thus. Your death would be the greatest sorrow that could befall me.”

“Personal sorrows cannot be weighed against major calamities, dear friend,” I said. “Help me up.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see the Captain.”

I would not listen to his protests and tired as I was made my painful journey to the deck. The Captain looked amazed when he saw me; and by this time the enemy were drawing very close.

“Do not stop to return the fire,” I commanded. “Let out all sails. Make all speed ahead.”

“My lady, these ships are determined to take us.”

“They must never do that. When you think it impossible to escape, set fire to the powder. Blow us up. I must not fall into their hands.”

When they heard me, all those who were in attendance on me and who had crowded onto the deck began to cry out in alarm. The Captain looked startled but he was a man who would obey orders. I thought Henry was going to remonstrate with me so I said: “I shall go to my cabin and there await the outcome of this, and whether it is to be freedom or death I shall be ready.”

Then I left them and when I reached my cabin I began to have serious misgivings. It was all very well for me to die if I wished to, but what right had I to condemn others to the same fate?

“For Charles,” I said. “If I became a prisoner that would be the end for him. They would use me to subdue him. No, I must either live to serve him or I must die in the same cause.”

Suddenly I heard shots which were almost immediately followed by cries of: “Land!” It could not be France which was sighted. It must be the Channel Islands. So there was hope yet. If we could reach land, if the people would help me…. Just at that moment I heard a loud explosion and the ship seemed to leap in the air and then begin to shiver.

We are hit, I thought. All is lost.

The ship appeared to have stopped.

At any moment I was expecting the Captain to obey my orders. This must be the end.

I waited…and then because I could endure the suspense no longer I came out of my cabin. I saw Henry. He was on his way to me. He told me that the rigging had been hit.

“Are we sinking?” I asked.

“We are very close to the coast of Jersey and the Roundheads are moving away fast because a number of French ships have appeared and are bearing down toward us.”

“Praise be to God,” I cried. “Once again I am saved and all with me. Oh Henry, how cruel I was. Believe me, I regretted it as soon as I gave that order.”

Henry understood me well. He knew I was near hysteria and he was always calm and somewhat jocular at such times, which was the best way to soothe me.

“Come up with me,” he said. “See the Captain. I think he has decided to make for Dieppe.”

It was like a miracle, but my old enemy the sea had not done with me yet. Even as we were in sight of Dieppe a violent gale arose. Henry advised me to return to my cabin and this I did and as I lay listening to the tempest all about us I wondered if Fate was playing another trick on me, making me believe that I had escaped the Roundhead ships by a miracle, only to become a victim of the storm.

But after an hour or so of terror and with the knowledge that my escort had been scattered and my frail ship was battling alone, we were at length thrown up on a rocky coast.

I stared at the land before me. France! The land of my birth.

“A fine way to come visiting it,” I said to Henry.

“You will be an honored visitor,” he assured me. “Don’t forget you are the daughter of France’s greatest King.”

I could have wept with emotion. I felt so sick and ill, so anxious about what might be happening to Charles; but there was a certain lifting of my spirits because I was at last in France.

A little boat took me ashore and I stood there staring up at those rocks. I wanted to feel the soil. I wanted to bend down and kiss it but we could not stay on the narrow strip of sand. We had to climb the rocks. On hands and knees I crawled. I was bruised and my hands were bleeding; my hair hung about my face and my gown was torn. I climbed to the top of the cliffs and there before me lay the tiny Breton fishing village.

Dogs were barking; fisher folk were running out of their houses, carrying hatchets and scythes, believing us to be marauding pirates.

“Hold!” I cried. “We are not pirates. We have not come to do you harm. I am the Queen of England, the daughter of your own great Henri IV. I need help….”

They approached cautiously. But I had come to the end of my endurance. Henry Jermyn was there to catch me in his arms as I fell.

When I recovered consciousness I was lying in a small room and Henry was at my bedside. I struggled up, feeling sick and dizzy.

Henry said: “It is all right. The people here know who you are and will do everything within their power to help you.”

“Oh, Henry,” I cried weakly, “what should I do without you.”

“No need to wonder,” he said, “because while there is life in my body I shall be here to serve you.”

I was weeping with emotion. I felt so helpless and it seemed that fate was determined to heap one sorrow upon me after another.

“What now, Henry?” I asked.

He was thoughtful. Then he said: “The Queen of France has shown herself to be a good friend. I think I should go to her with all speed and tell her that you are here in dire need of help. That should be the first move.”

“I shall feel very uneasy without you.”

“You will be surrounded by good friends. You don’t have to fear the Roundheads here. With your permission I will leave first thing in the morning. You need doctors first, I think. You have suffered a terrible ordeal and following so close on the birth of your daughter it has put a great strain on your endurance.”

I saw that he was right and I told him that much as I regretted to lose his company for the short time I hoped it would be, he must go.

He left the next day and I was deeply moved when visitors began to arrive at the tiny thatched cottage to see me. The gentry, from miles round, rode into that little fishing village with food and clothing, horses and carriages.

I thanked them and they knelt to me, eager to pay homage to the daughter of their great King.

Very soon I was able to move on but I could only travel in short stages and it took us twelve days to reach Nantes. From there we went to Ancenis and when we arrived in that town I was greeted by the Comte d’Harcourt, who told me that Henry had been received by the Queen, who was most grieved by my plight and had sent him to tell me so. With him were two physicians.

I felt so relieved to be among friends and was immediately better; but when the doctors examined me they were grave and said that I must take the Bourbon waters.

It was a great delight to see Henry again, particularly as he was overjoyed with the result of his mission. The Queen had given him ten thousand pistoles to defray the cost of the journey and a patent for a pension of thirty thousand livres.

Why had I ever thought that Anne was not my friend? What a happy day it had been when she had joined our family. Now of course she was virtually ruler of all France. This was the first good luck which had come my way for a long time.

One of the most delightful gestures of all was the Queen’s understanding of my need for a personal friend, someone in whom I could confide, someone whom I could trust, someone who could be something of what Mamie had been to me in the past. She sent me Madame de Motteville and I loved her from the moment I saw her.

Her mother, a Spaniard, was a good friend of Queen Anne and had come with her to France when Anne came to marry my brother. Her father was a Gentleman of the Bedchamber. And she herself was beautiful and charming, very quietly spoken and gentle, yet shrewd and understanding. I was as grateful for my new friend as I was for the pistoles and the livres which were helping to make my life comfortable.

In Bourbon l’Archambault I began to get better. It was such a beautiful place with an atmosphere of such peace that each day I awoke to a feeling of rejuvenation. So many hideous disasters had befallen me that I could not single out any particular one to brood on. My greatest sorrow was parting with my husband; but at least I was here and he was in England and while both lived there would always be the hope of being together again.

It was a hot August. From the window of the castle I could look out on waving corn and watch the oxen pulling the carts across the fields and through the little lanes. Within the ivy-covered walls of our castle we were sheltered from the inquisitive eyes of those who were in the town to take the waters, for invalids had been coming since the time of the Romans as the waters were said to be beneficial. I certainly began to improve and with such good friends at hand as dear Henry Jermyn and Madame de Motteville, of whom I was becoming fonder every day, my health was rapidly returning.

Dear Madame de Motteville had troubles of her own. She confided in me a good deal. She was a widow now, although only twenty-three years of age. She had been married when she was eighteen to a man of eighty but her bondage had not lasted long and now she was rejoicing in freedom as, she said, only those who had lost it would understand what a pleasant state it was to be free again.

“Without the chains of affection,” I amended. “Sometimes I think love is a gift bestowed to bring the greatest joy and the greatest sorrow. One cannot have one without the other, for an intensity of love brings constant anxiety, particularly when one must be parted from the loved one.”

How right I was! No sooner did I begin to experience a return to health and a raising of my spirits than I had news from England.

There had been a fierce battle at Marston Moor—a defeat for the royalists, and although there had been heavy losses on both sides and over four thousand soldiers had been killed, three thousand of those were Cavaliers. My dear Lord Newcastle’s own regiment of Whitecoats, who had put up such a fierce resistance, had been cut to pieces and the whole of the artillery and baggage of Charles’s army had been captured with ten thousand arms.

They were gone now—my hopes of early victory. This was disaster. Charles would be desolate and I would not be there to comfort him.

The Roundheads were jubilant. They owed a great deal, it was said, to that wretched man Oliver Cromwell who had trained his men and somehow inspired them with talk of God and vengeance, making it almost a religious war.

As for their attitude toward me, it had become abusive, and they were circulating pamphlets about me.

I saw one of them which gave an account of the battle of Marston Moor, and of me was written: “Will the waters of Bourbon cure her? There are other waters open for her to drink in the Protestant Church, the waters of repentance, the waters of the Gospel to wash her clean from Popery. Oh, that she would wash in those waters and be clean!”

I wept until I had no more tears. I felt a terrible lethargy come over me, a hopelessness. Fortune was against us.

But my moods never lasted long and my dear quiet but wise Madame de Motteville was there to talk to me calmly and give me the help I needed.

Although I was living quietly in my ivy-covered castle with its pepper-pot towers like so many I had known in my youth, storms gathered about me…small in comparison with the tempest which was raging in England, but they seemed violent while they lasted.

Although I had begun to feel better, the ordeals through which I had passed had affected my health. I could not see very well and seemed to have lost the sight of one eye; my body was unnaturally swollen and I developed an ulcer in my breast. When this was lanced I felt better and my body became more its normal size.

Then my favorite Geoffrey Hudson was in trouble. He was often teased because of his size and he certainly had a dignity which he did not like to be assailed. I could understand it perfectly and had always made a point of treating him as I would any normally sized man about me. I think that was one of the reasons why he adored me.

There was some joke about a turkey. I never quite knew what it was. Probably they likened Geoffrey to one and this incensed him more than anything and naturally the more angry be became the more they liked to tease.

One day in a rage Geoffrey said he would challenge to a duel the next man who mentioned turkeys in connection with him. I did not hear of this until it was too late. There was a young man in the household called Will Crofts who could not resist taking up the challenge. Geoffrey was serious and they chose pistols as the weapons. Crofts, treating the matter as a joke, had no intention of aiming seriously; but to Geoffrey it was no joke and he shot Crofts dead.

I was angry and distressed for I was fond of Crofts and particularly of Geoffrey, and alas, it was not for me to decide what should be done. We were on French soil and subject to French laws and the penalty for murder was death. The only one who could override this was Cardinal Mazarin. I was not sure of his true friendship for me and it occurred to me that I might have favors to ask of him in the future; therefore I was loath to begin asking for anything that was not for Charles.

But this was poor Geoffrey. He wept with me. I told him he had been a fool and he agreed with me. He was not afraid of death, he said, if that was the penalty. He cared very much though that I should be without him to care for me.

I was deeply touched and decided that I must do everything I could to save him, so I did after all beg Mazarin for leniency.

The Cardinal kept me in suspense for a long time and then finally sent word that the dwarf could go free if he left the country. Poor Geoffrey! Sometimes I think he would have preferred death to leaving me. I certainly had some good friends, even if others betrayed me.

He wept bitterly and his sadness was unbearable but finally he left me. I never knew what became of him for I never saw him again.

Events moved fast after that. My brother Gaston came with his daughter to escort me to Paris. It was an emotional meeting with Gaston, whom I remembered from my nursery days. We two being closer in age than the others had been together a great deal. I did not know this young man in his extremely scented garments, his quick black eyes and tufted beard and moustaches. He looked at me with some surprise. I was sure he did not recognize me either for I must have changed a good deal from that attractive girl who had left for England all those years ago. Illness had tampered with my looks and all that remained to me of them were my large eyes, which if they did not serve me well had retained something of their former beauty. Gaston’s daughter was a pert miss whom I did not like very much. She was utterly spoiled, having inherited a vast fortune through her mother which had made her the most desirable heiress in France. But they were my family and it was good to be with them—even though I returned to them a wreck of what I had been, a miserable exile and supplicant for aid. Not the happiest way to come home!

As we approached the outskirts of Paris the Queen herself with her two sons, little Louis XIV, who was six years old, and his brother Philippe, the Duc d’Anjou, who was four, came to meet us.

I was deeply moved to see my little nephews; they were such beautiful children, particularly the younger; their dark eyes sparkled with excitement to see me and they regarded me with undisguised curiosity.

But it was Anne whom I wanted to see. She had changed a good deal in the sixteen years since we had last met. She had grown fat, but was still proud of those beautiful white hands and she had forgotten none of the old gestures which she had employed to show them off.

But there was such kindliness and compassion in her plump face that I wept with joy to see her and there was such warmth in her embrace as to send my hopes soaring.

“You will ride with me in the coach and the boys will accompany us,” she said.

Thus I rode into Paris seated with the Queen Mother, the little King and his brother.

We drove through streets which I remembered and now they were hung with bunting in my honor. How kind Anne was! I felt remorseful to remember that when she first came to France I might not have been so kind to her as I should have been. My mother had disliked her and colored my attitude toward her. But that was all past. Anne did not remember—if there was anything to remember—and now she had only friendship to offer.

We went over the Pont Neuf to the Palace of the Louvre where I had been born.

“Apartments have been made ready for you here,” said Anne.

I turned to her and pressed her hand, too moved for speech.

The next day Cardinal Mazarin came to see me. The Cardinal was an extremely handsome man, and I could see at once why he had acquired such a sway over the Queen. There was something quite fascinating about him and, although I had not at first believed the rumors about the love between him and Anne, I now began to think that there might be some truth in them. Later I was to hear that some people were of the opinion that there had been a marriage between them. I could hardly accept that but it was clear that Queen Anne and Cardinal Mazarin enjoyed a very special relationship.

He was shrewd—he would have had to be that to have been selected by Richelieu as his successor—and it was strange that Richelieu, who had been Anne’s enemy, should have brought to her notice the one who was to become her very close friend.

My concern was not with the intricate relationship between those whom I hoped would be my benefactors. It was to enlist their help and save my poor beleaguered Charles.

Anne, I was sure, would have promised a great deal. Mazarin was cautious; and it occurred to me that he was not altogether displeased by the way events were going in England as they meant that country could not interfere effectively in the policies of France. Anne was a goodhearted woman ruled by her emotions, but Mazarin was an astute statesman and he was going to make sure that everything worked to the advantage of France.

He was extremely kind and gentle with me; he told me how much he disliked the English Parliament and those traitors who had risen against the King, but as military help from France would be considered an act of war, he reminded me he would have to go cautiously.

I could never bear caution and in spite of the warm welcome I had been given I began to feel depressed. It was true I was able to send Charles a part of the pension Anne had given me, but that was nothing compared with what I had hoped to send in men and arms.

Eventually Mazarin put forward the suggestion that I should approach the Duke of Lorraine. The Duke was friendly with Spain and had great resources with which he proposed to help that country. Now if those resources could be directed to England, they could be of inestimable help to Charles.

“The Duke could easily be weaned from Spain,” said Mazarin. “He likes a cause and I am sure yours would appeal to his chivalry and feeling for the nobility.”

I could not afford to lose any opportunity so I at once sent an agent to Lorraine. At the same time I put out feelers at the Court of Holland. My son Charles was growing up and would need a wife. Why should she not be the eldest daughter of the Prince of Orange? I made it clear that the Princess would need a very large dowry if she was to marry the Prince of Wales.

News from home filtered through to me. It was worrying. My old friend the Earl of Newcastle, on whose loyalty I would have staked my life, had decided that he could no longer live in a country which suited him so ill and had given up his command and gone to Holland where he proposed to settle down. I guessed that he had been heartbroken by the decimation of his Whitecoats at Marston Moor.

He was not the only royalist who left the country. It was significant. Those men must have made up their minds that Charles had little chance of keeping his crown.

But Charles had determined to fight on. I worried constantly about him. I dreamed of him in fearful situations. Men like Fairfax, Essex and Oliver Cromwell haunted my dreams.

“Take more care of yourself,” I wrote to Charles. “You risk yourself too much and it almost kills me when I hear of it. If not for your sake then for mine, look after yourself.”

There was a rumor that he was suing for peace. This terrified me and I wrote to him to take care of his honor and begging him to be true to the resolutions he had made. He was the King—anointed in the eyes of God. He must never forget that.

His reply put new heart into me. Nothing…no fear of death or misery would make him do anything unworthy of my love.

I think our love for each other was greater than it had ever been. Adversity had strengthened it. We lived only for the day when we should be together; and it was that hope which kept us both going when disaster stared us in the face.

There was a new ray of hope when the Duke of Lorraine sent word that he would let us have ten thousand men, and the Prince of Orange offered transport. I was delighted. I was getting somewhere; but just as I was about to write off to Charles and tell him the good news, the States General decided that to allow these men to pass through their territory would be considered an act of war by the Parliamentarians and they could not permit it.

How I raged and stormed! Why should it not be an act of war! Why were they afraid of those miserable Roundheads!

I knew the answer. Our enemies were gaining ground and many people believed that Charles was already defeated.

I turned to Mazarin but he, too, impressed by the Roundhead ascendancy, found that he also could not allow us to bring our men and arms through France.

Disaster on all sides! if it had not been for the hope of seeing Charles one day, I would have asked nothing more than to retire from the world, to enter a convent and there wait for death; but while he lived, I wanted to live. I must be ready if ever we should be free to be together again.

His letters comforted me. I read them again and again.

“I love thee above all earthly things,” he wrote, “and my happiness is inseparably conjoined with thine. If thou knew the life I lead…even in point of conversation which in my mind is the chief joy or vexation in life, I daresay thou would pity me, for some are too wise, others too foolish, some are too busy, others too reserved. I confess thy company hath perhaps made me hard to please but not the least to be pitied by thee who are the only cure for the disease….”

It was not until the end of that July that I received news of the crushing defeat at Naseby. The general view was that this was the beginning of the end but I would not allow myself to believe that. While Charles was alive and I was alive I should go on hoping and working.

Why had it happened? Why was Fate against us? I raged. I stormed. I shouted. I wept. But what was the use? It would have seemed at the start of the battle that we had a fair chance; but as usual everything went against us. Charles had chosen his position on the raised land called Dust Hill about two miles north of the village of Naseby and we had been stronger in cavalry than the enemy, but the skill of Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell decided the issue. Prince Rupert who had had some initial success and thought he had won the battle went off to attack the Parliamentary baggage and came back to the heart of the battle too late to save it. Fortunately both Charles and Rupert managed to escape. The Roundheads lost two hundred men and the Royalists one thousand, but that was not the whole sad story. Five thousand men were taken prisoner with all our guns and baggage, as well as Charles’s private correspondence.

It was disaster…the greatest we had had.

Queen Anne very kindly offered me the Château of St. Germain for the summer and I was grateful for that, and there in the beautiful castle I brooded on what was happening at home.

There was worse to come. Rupert had surrendered Bristol to the Roundheads. Bristol…that loyal city! Charles said he would never forgive Rupert for giving it up. Poor Rupert! Poor Charles! How wretched they must have been! Charles, after Naseby, had lost half his army. What hope had he against Cromwell’s trained men? Cromwell! That name was on every lip. How I hated him and yet there was a tinge of admiration in my venom. If only he had been for us instead of against us. He had trained men to an excellence which could compare with the regular army and at the same time he had imbued them with religious fervor. He was the greatest leader in the country and he was against us. None more fervently so. His aim was to destroy the Monarchy, and after Naseby and the loss of Bristol it looked as though he were going to do it.

My anxiety was intense. Charles was more or less a fugitive and my children, with the exception of the Prince of Wales, were in the enemy’s hands. They were treated as commoners, all royal rank denied them; and there was a rumor that my little Henry, the Duke of Gloucester, was to be apprenticed to a trade. Shoemaking was being considered.

I wept until I could not see. I thrust aside the comfort my friends had to offer. I would not listen—even to Henry Jermyn and Madame de Motteville.

But after a while I began to bestir myself. Everything was not lost. Charles had gone to Scotland; he was going to see if he could persuade the Scots to help him against the Roundheads. They would settle their religious differences; he would promise them almost anything in return for their help.

It was a desperate situation but just as my spirits had sunk to their very nadir, I was hoping again and beginning to make plans.

My hopes were on my eldest son. He had escaped to Jersey and I wanted him to come to France to me. He was fifteen years old and if I could get him advantageously married it might be possible to raise a fresh army which I could send to England. The suggestion of a Dutch marriage had not been received with any great enthusiasm by the Prince and Princess of Orange. This meant that they were beginning to suspect that the Roundheads had almost won the day and that the heir to a throne which might not be there was not a very good match. I wanted him with me. I did not want to be separated from all my family. I longed for my baby more than any of the other children; I worried about her constantly. She was just over a year old and I wondered what would become of her. I knew that when Exeter had fallen to the Roundheads she had been removed to Oatlands and was still in the care of Lady Dalkeith.

I wrote to that good and faithful woman and begged her to do all she could to bring my daughter to me, although before, when she had been in Exeter with her at the time of the siege, I had abused her for not leaving the city with my child.

Many royalists had come to me in France, which was another indication of how badly everything was going at home. Some of them did not like the idea of the Prince of Wales’s coming to France because they thought that I would endeavor to make a Catholic of him and if he became one that would put an end to his ever succeeding to the throne. I had other ideas. I wanted a good marriage for him.

Lord Digby was one of those who was against my sending for the Prince and I knew it was because of religion, but I managed to persuade him of the necessity to get arms so that the King might fight again, and finally I won their agreement, and they went off to Jersey to tell the Prince that I wished him to come to Paris.

They were a long time gone and in due course I had a communication from Digby to the effect that the Prince was very reluctant to leave Jersey because he had become enamored of the Governor’s daughter. This was the first of Charles’s countless love affairs which were to be talked of all over Europe. He was only fifteen but he was already showing the way he would go. That he could dally in such a way when so much was at stake angered me. I sent urgent messages to Digby, but still Charles would not leave the Governor’s daughter.

Meanwhile there was news from the King. He was going to Scotland. I was frantic. I wrote to him asking him to command our son to come to me at once.

While I was waiting for his arrival, which could not now be long delayed, I turned my attention to my niece, Mademoiselle de Montpensier or the Grande Mademoiselle as she was often called—the richest heiress in France. She was in fact Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans—a royal Princess, daughter of my brother Gaston and therefore worthy to mate with the Prince of Wales on account of her birth and doubly so on account of the money she had inherited through her mother. I did not greatly care for her. She was a haughty, arrogant creature and being fully aware of my unfortunate position she was not going to let me forget it. She flaunted her superiority. Her clothes were always so much richer than those of others; she scintillated with precious jewels as though to say, “Look at me. The richest heiress in France! The most desirable wife for some lucky man. He shall be of my choice though.” She had been spoiled all her life and now it was too late to correct that. She was very fair, which made her outstanding in our dark-haired almost black-eyed family. Her large blue eyes were slightly prominent and although she had not inherited our darkness she certainly had the big nose of the family. She glowed with health and I rather spitefully noticed that her teeth were discolored and spoilt her looks. She had visited me now and then, having been prevailed on to do so by kindhearted Queen Anne, and she would sit with me superciliously noting, I was sure, my clothes, which if they were a little worn were more elegant than hers. I thought her somewhat vulgar and if it had not been for her immense fortune I would not have considered her for one moment as a suitable bride for Charles.

Ah, but that fortune! I must set myself out to win it.

“You have never been to England,” I said to her. “Oh, what pleasures you have missed.”

“There is not much pleasure to be found there now, Madame.”

“The green fields are there…those little rivers all sparkling in the sun. There is no country quite so beautiful. I confess I long for a glimpse of those white cliffs once more.”

“Let us hope the King is able to keep a hold on the crown.”

“Can anyone doubt it? This is nothing…a rebellion of a few wicked men. Rest assured the King will recover all very shortly.”

“He has been rather long in doing so, dear aunt.”

“Victory is within his grasp.”

She was looking at me cynically. I knew she was thinking: Naseby. Bristol. The King in Scotland feebly trying to win the help of an ancient enemy. The family scattered.

“The Prince is growing up,” I said. “He will be there to stand with his father.”

“He if fifteen, I believe. I am seventeen.”

“I know it well,” I said. “But you are much of an age. I have a feeling that when he comes here you are going to be very good friends.”

“I do not greatly care for the society of young boys,” she answered slyly.

“Charles is a man. He is older than his years. Why, in Jersey…”

But no. I was being impulsive again. It would be unwise to tell her of his philandering with the Governor’s daughter.

She went on: “My aunt died recently, as you know.”

“I still mourn my dear sister,” I said.

“The King of Spain will be looking for a wife, I daresay. His period of mourning will soon be over.”

The minx! I thought. She is teasing me. The King of Spain! Her aunt’s widower who is now in the marriage market. And he has a crown to offer her…not the promise of one.

Those protuberant blue eyes were laughing at me. She was saying: I see right through you, dear Aunt Henriette. Do you imagine that I do not know how eager you are to find a rich wife for your son?

Perhaps I had meddled again. Perhaps it would have been better to let Charles do his own wooing. If the affair in Jersey was an example he would be able to do that very well indeed.

It was June when my son arrived in Paris. He could not defy his father’s orders even for the sake of the Jersey charmer. He arrived a little resentful but he was soon on the look-out for fresh conquests.

I was delighted to see him and for a few moments we just clung together. He had always been a strong boy. He had grown very tall and had an air of dignity which pleased me. He looked every inch a King. He still had the swarthy looks he had been born with; his features were too big for good looks and indeed if one studied his face he was really quite ugly; but he was possessed of such charm—his smile, his voice, his manner—that in any company he would be distinguished, and his royal bearing was apparent. I was proud of him.

When he arrived the Court was at Fontainebleau and kind Queen Anne immediately sent an invitation for us to join her there.

Charles and I rode together and when we were within a few miles of the palace we were met by the Queen in her coach with little King Louis. She expressed her pleasure to see Charles, and when we alighted at the palace she gave him her arm to conduct him in while I was left to the care of the little King.

It was not long before Charles was engaged in a flirtation with his cousin La Grande Mademoiselle, as she liked to be called, but it was soon clear to me that she was only amusing herself and there could be no official ceremony until England was once more in the hands of its King.

In the meantime the King was in Scotland and I trembled for what was going on.

Life could not be all sorrow—even mine. What a wonderful day it was when Lady Dalkeith—Lady Morton now that her father-in-law had died—arrived in France with my little Henriette. I could scarcely believe this good fortune, so accustomed was I to bad.

Madame de Motteville brought me the news and I ran down to find them there. I snatched up my baby. She did not know me, of course, for she had been only fifteen days old when I had left her and now she was two years. She could chatter a little and she looked at me gravely. I thought how beautiful she was—the most beautiful of all my children and the most beloved—and always would be.

It was a wonderful reunion. I could almost believe that my fortunes had changed. From despair I allowed myself to revel in absolute happiness…for a short while.

Dear Lady Morton—to whom I had not always been kind, for I am afraid I had the common fault of blaming others when misfortune struck me. Who could have been kinder, more loyal, more loving than this good woman! Henriette loved her and would not be separated from her and I welcomed her with all my heart and asked forgiveness for my unjust criticisms of the past, at which she fell on her knees and said she only wished to serve me and the Princess for the rest of her life.

Ah, I thought, if only we had more faithful servants like this dear lady!

I settled down to hear of their adventures, because the clever woman had actually escaped from Oatlands.

“The Commons had decided that the Princess Henriette should be placed with her brother and sister at St. James’s Palace where her retinue would be dismissed and that would have meant me,” Lady Morton told me. “I had promised both you, Madam, and the King that I would never leave the Princess except on your orders so I decided that the only way was to escape to you.”

“Oh, my clever, clever Anne!” I cried.

“We should never have been allowed to leave,” she went on, “so I decided on disguise. I had with me a Frenchman, Gaston, who had been in the household and he posed as a valet and it was arranged that I should travel as his wife and the Princess was to be our child—a little boy. I thought that best in case we should be suspected. I left letters behind with people whom I could trust, asking them to keep our departure secret for three days, which would give us time to get well on our way. And then we left.”

I listened intently. It was the sort of plan I would have worked out myself.

“I told the Princess that she was not a princess anymore. She was a little boy and her name was Pierre, which I thought in her childish chatter sounded a little like Princess if she should let it be known who she really was. She did not like it at all, nor the ragged clothes in which we had to dress her. We had some scares along the road…not the least those resulting from the Princess herself, who was eager to tell everyone she met that she was not really Peter or Pierre but the Princess. I cannot tell you, Madam, what a joy it was to be on that boat.”

“I cannot tell you what joy you have brought me!” I replied.

My little daughter’s coming lightened my days considerably. I had two of my children with me now: Charles and Henriette, my eldest and my youngest. It was a comfort to see how those two loved each other. Charles, whose main interest, I had to admit, was in young ladies, still had time to spare for that very small one, his own sister. He bestowed on her the pet name of Minette; as for her, her eyes would light up every time they fell on her big brother.

But naturally we could not be happy for long. How foolish Charles had been to put his hopes on the Scots. I could not believe my ears when I heard that they had sold him to the English. The price had been four hundred thousand pounds.

“Oh, the base treachery!” I cried and was mad with grief.

In my heart I knew that this was indeed the end, but I knew too that I would go on fighting as soon as I had recovered from the shock. I would always fight…even with death and despair staring me in the face.

Charles wrote to me: “I am almost glad of it. I would rather be with those who have bought me so dearly than with the faithless who have sold me so basely.”

Now the Cavaliers were coming to Paris in large numbers. They came to the Louvre and as the royal family was not there and I had almost the whole of the vast palace to myself I lodged them there. Some of the French criticized me for allowing them to have Protestant services in the Louvre and I reminded them that King Charles had never denied me the liberty of worshipping in my own faith and I could at least do the same for those who came to me with the object of furthering his cause. Rupert came. He was disheartened and somewhat resentful against the King who had reviled him after the loss of Bristol and seemed to have forgotten everything he had done in his service.

I placated him. I begged him to understand the state of mind in which the King must be…a prisoner of his enemies in the country which he had been chosen by God to rule.

My son went to Holland in the hope of getting help, and there his sister Mary, now Princess of Orange on the death of her husband’s father, welcomed him warmly. Poor Charles did not have a very happy time for almost immediately he contracted small pox and was laid low for some weeks. I suppose I must be grateful that he recovered but I did at the time find it difficult to be grateful for anything, so weighed down was I by my misfortunes. My thoughts were all with my husband—a prisoner in the hands of his enemies!

Looking back, I wonder whether there might have been a hope even then of saving his crown and his life, for some people seemed to think that he could have come to terms with Cromwell. Now it is clear that he did not understand the people with whom he had to deal. He had some idea that if he offered them peerages they would agree to set him back on the throne. He never could understand men like Cromwell. I can see the situation more clearly now. When it happened I was as blind as he was.

Charles did smuggle out a letter to me in which he stated that he was going to win them over and as soon as he gained power he would hang them all.

Cromwell was too wise a man not to realize this possibility. I had always found it hard to see the enemy’s point of view, but I realized that Cromwell’s intentions were not entirely to gain power for himself—although this is what he did. Some thought him a bad man, but few could deny that he was a brave one. He never spared others, nor did he himself. He was a deeply religious man. He had said he took up arms for civil and religious liberty, but most of us have come to know by now that when people talk of giving the people religious liberty they mean liberty to worship as the oppressors think fit. I am sure my dear Charles did not wish to restrict the religious liberty of his subjects. Cromwell referred to himself as “a mean instrument to do God’s people some good and God service,” but he brought great tragedy to many an English family and more to that of his King and Queen than any other.

I was delighted when my son James escaped to Holland. That was something to enliven the dreary days. He had been placed by the Parliament with his sister Elizabeth and brother Henry at St. James’s, though they were allowed to visit the King at Caversham and later at Hampton Court and Zion House, where he was kept in restraint. I would sit for hours imagining those meetings and longing to be with them.

James had been playing hide and seek with his sister and brothers and during the game had managed to elude the guards and get down to the river where friends were waiting with clothes—those of a girl—and when he was dressed in them he must have been a rather attractive sight for James had always been a pretty child. His brother Charles would never have been able to disguise himself as a girl! They got him across the sea to Middleburg where his sister was waiting to welcome him. Charles was already there and I was sorry to hear that they were soon constantly quarreling with each other.

I wrote to them reminding them that quarrels within the family were something we could not afford. We had enemies enough outside the family. There must be none within.

So that weary year was passing. The King a prisoner, the Parliament wondering what they would do with him. I longed to be with him. I wanted to share his fate whatever it was. If I could join him in his prison and we could spend our last days together, I would ask nothing more.

I wrote appealingly to the French ambassador, begging him to put my request before the Parliament. Let them give me permission to be with my husband. I would willingly join him in his prison. Let them do what they would with me if they would only let me be with him.

I settled down to await an answer. None came. I learned afterward that the French ambassador had presented my letter to the Parliament and that they would not open it.

Good news at last! Charles had escaped from his jailers. He was in the Isle of Wight and had found refuge in Carisbroke Castle.

It was about this time that war broke out in France. I was so immersed in my own affairs that I was taken by surprise when it burst upon us.

Poor Anne, she was distraught and terrified that her son would lose his crown. The war of the Fronde had started. It was really a revolt by certain factions against Mazarin to whom, in her infatuation, Anne had handed over the reins of government. Some people objected to this and it was the same old story: dissatisfaction with the rulers and then war…which is no good to anyone. The nobles were annoyed because there were too many foreigners in high places—Italians mostly, as Mazarin naturally favored his own race. Taxation was oppressive and the Parliament complained that their wishes were overruled by the arrogant Cardinal.

The people were taking up arms and the name Fronde was bestowed on the uprising. It was scarcely a war as the name implied for it was called after a fronde—a kind of catapult used by the street boys of Paris to fight their mock battles with each other.

When the people put up the barricades I went to see Anne. I felt I could be of some use to her, my experiences of discontented subjects being great.

Anne, who had left everything to Mazarin to conduct, was less worried than she had been.

“It is a slight disturbance,” she said.

“My dear sister,” I replied, “the rebellion in England began as a slight disturbance.”

I think she took notice then. She could not ignore that terrible example across the Channel. The Court fled from Paris and took up residence first of all in Ruel and afterward at St. Germain. When the Court left Paris I remained in the Louvre. The insurgents had no quarrel with me. But now I knew what it meant to live in abject poverty. My pension had stopped and because I had sent the bulk of it to help Charles I had nothing left with which to buy food and keep us warm.

My little Henriette could not understand what it was all about. Poor child, she must have thought she had been born into a hostile world. I wished I could have given her a happy childhood…a royal childhood…the sort to which she was entitled. But we were together…I must be thankful for that.

I don’t think I have ever been so miserably uncomfortable as I was that Christmas of 1648. I had suffered much before but now there was bodily discomfort to add to mental torture. I had endured illness but never before had I come near to starvation and, far worse than suffering myself, was to see my child cold and hungry. Her beautiful dark eyes seemed to grow larger every day.

Paris was in chaos. There was a war and to make life more uncomfortable the Seine had burst its banks and flooded the town. From the windows we could see the roads looking like canals whipped up by the bitter winds. That wind whistled through the windows and there was no way of keeping warm.

I could not see how we could continue in this way. My household was sadly in need of food. Even Henry Jermyn had lost his high spirits. What could we do? Where could we go? This was supposed to be our refuge.

It was a dark and gloomy morning; the rooms were full of the cold wintry daylight; outside the clouds scudded by, heavy with snow. My little Henriette was in my bed. I had gathered everything I could…rugs and drapery…to put over the bed and keep her warm. I sat in a chair beside the bed with a counterpane wrapped round me. Henriette watched me with wide eyes. I said: “Why don’t you try to sleep, my darling?”

Her answer wrung my heart with misery. “I’m so hungry, Mam.”

What could I say to that?

“Perhaps there’ll be some soup today,” she went on, her eyes brightening at the thought.

“Perhaps, my love,” I answered, knowing there was nothing in the palace with which to make soup.

At that moment Lady Morton came in carrying a piece of a wooden chest which she put on the fire.

“That’s a little better, dear Anne,” I said.

“It’s the end of the chest, Your Majesty. Tomorrow we shall have to find something else. This will last through the day, and it should give a good blaze.”

“Nothing seems to keep out these biting winds.”

Anne looked pale and thin, poor woman. She had come through that miraculous escape…to this. Was she wishing that she were back in England accepting Roundhead rule? At least she might not be cold and hungry there.

She went to the bed and felt Henriette’s hand.

“It’s warm,” she said.

“I keep it hidden away,” Henriette answered. “When I put it out it freezes. Will there be soup for dinner?”

Anne hesitated. “We shall have to see.”

It was like a miracle for there was soup for dinner after all. How strange life was! I was lifted up one moment and cast down the next. It must have been about an hour later when we had a visitor—none other than the Cardinal de Retz, one of the leaders of the Fronde movement. He had taken it into his head to see how I was faring at the Louvre and when he entered the room he stared in horror to see me huddled in my chair and my little daughter peeping out from under the mass of rugs which I had thrown over her.

“Your Majesty,” he cried, “what is the meaning of this?”

He knelt beside me and kissed my hand.

I said: “You may well ask, my lord Cardinal. We are wondering in this place whether we are going to die of cold or starvation.”

“But this is…monstrous!”

He was truly shocked. I had always rather liked him. He had a reputation for being somewhat dissolute in his youth and that seemed to have put a certain kindliness in him, a quick sympathy for other people’s troubles which those who have lived virtuously sometimes lack. In any case he was horrified.

He stammered: “That a daughter of our great King should find herself thus. My dear lady, I shall not waste time talking to you. I am going to have all you need for the time being sent in. I will see to that myself. Then I shall bring this matter up before Parliament. I am sure all noble Frenchmen will be horrified to know that you and your daughter are in this state.”

I could have him kissed in my gratitude. He was as good as his word. Within a few hours logs and food were being delivered from his own house. It was wonderful to smell food cooking. We were all very jubilant that day.

The next day he spoke of us in Parliament. A daughter and granddaughter of our great King Henri IV starving in the Louvre with her faithful attendants! It must be rectified at once. So eloquently did he speak that it was; and I was granted the sum of forty thousand livres.

It was useless now to send this to Charles, so it was spent on bringing comfort to my long-suffering household, and I was happy for a while to see my little daughter’s eyes sparkle as she had her soup and afterward when she held out her hands to the logs crackling in the fireplace.

My joy was short-lived. The New Year had come—the most bleak and bitter of my life. I had had no letters from Charles but news was filtering through. He had been taken from Carisbroke Castle to Hurst Castle and from there to Windsor. From there he was brought to St. James’s Palace to stand trial in Westminster Hall.

“Trial!” I cried. “These villains will try the King! One day I promise you…one day…we shall see the heads of Cromwell, Essex and Fairfax on London Bridge. The indignity! What is he thinking, my dear Charles, and I am not there at his side.”

I was hysterical with grief and fear. I should never have left him. I should have stayed by his side. No matter what happened it would be better for me to be there.

My two chief comforters were Henry Jermyn and Madame de Motteville. Henry assured me that they would not dare condemn the King. “The people will never allow it,” he said.

“Yes,” I cried, clutching at the smallest hope. “The people always loved him. I was the one they hated. Oh, Henry, do you really think the people will stand with him? Will they rally round him…flout those wicked Roundheads?”

“They will indeed,” said Henry. “You will see. Soon he will be acclaimed. He will send for you. The family will be united.”

Even if I did not entirely believe him it was good to listen to him. He was so tall, handsome and commanding that he always gave an impression of being about to set everything to rights. It was wonderful to have him with me at such a time. When I told him so, he kissed my hand and said: “Do you think I would ever leave you?”

“If you did,” I answered, “that would be the end of everything for me.”

Madame de Motteville, faithful as she was, could not comfort me in the same way. She was very anxious and it was all for my sake. She was so gentle and quiet, fearing the most terrible disaster and perhaps trying to prepare me to face it when it came.

February was with us. I could not understand why there was no news.

“What was the result of the trial?” I demanded. “There must have been a result. Why don’t we hear?”

Henry frowned and looked out of the window. “It is not always easy to get news through,” he murmured.

I noticed that some members of the household avoided looking at me.

“Something has happened,” I said to Madame de Motteville: “What is it, I wonder.”

She did not answer.

I was getting frantic. I called Henry and said: “Henry, you know something, don’t you. For God’s sake tell me.”

He was silent for a few moments and then he looked at me and said: “Be of good cheer. Yes, he was brought to trial and they condemned him.”

“Oh…God help me….”

Henry had his arm about me, supporting me.

“All will be well,” he said. “Listen…listen…” His face was so distorted he could not speak. It seemed like minutes but it must have been less than a second. Then the words came rushing out. “All is well…. He was saved…at the last moment…. They were going to behead him. He was taken from St. James’s to Whitehall…. He came out of the banqueting hall there to the scaffold….”

“Henry…Henry…you are killing me….”

He took a deep breath and said firmly: “As he laid his head on the block, the people rose together. They cried, ‘It shall not be. Charles is our King. Down with the Parliament.’”

“Henry….” I was almost fainting with relief.

He said, “All will be well….” and he kept on repeating that.

I thought his behavior and his manner of telling very strange but that was later. At that moment I could think of nothing but: He is safe. The people would not allow it. They were his faithful subjects after all.

“His subjects have a great affection for him,” I said. “There are many who will sacrifice life and fortune for his sake. I am sure the cruelty of those who persecute him will only make those who love him the more eager to serve him.”

I talked to Madame de Motteville, to Henry, to all my attendants, of the miraculous escape the King had had.

“There will be more news soon,” I said. “Good news. This is the turning point.”

There was no news next day. During the night I had lain in bed listening for the sounds of arrival. None came. Another day passed and another.

“It is strange,” I said, “that there is no news.”

Tension was rising. Something very strange was going on. Even Henry seemed different. He had lost his gaiety and I fancied that Madame de Motteville was avoiding me.

I had to do something because the suspense was becoming intolerable.

I said to Henry: “Why do we not hear? The Court will know what is happening surely? I am going to send one of the gentlemen to St. Germain to find out if they have heard anything.”

“I am sure,” said Henry, “that they would let you know immediately if they had.”

“They are concerned with their own troubles. I shall send a man at once with instructions to come back to me with all speed.”

Henry bowed and I sent a man whom I could trust to St. Germain.

We had had dinner. Conversation was stilted. Nobody seemed to want to talk about what was happening in England, which was the only subject which interested me.

My confessor, Father Cyprien, had said grace when the meal was over and as he was about to leave Henry went to him, laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something.

I cried: “What is wrong? What are you whispering about?”

Henry looked at me, his face stricken and I saw then that Father Cyprien’s hands were shaking.

“What is it? Please tell me,” I begged.

Henry came to me, his face a mask of misery. He said: “I lied to you. It was not the truth. The people did not come to his aid.”

He led me to a chair and kneeling at my feet lifted his agonized face to mine.

“I could not tell you. I had to lie…. It did not happen that way. They took him out to the scaffold in Whitehall…. He died…like the brave man he was.”

I was frozen with grief. I stared ahead of me. I did not see them all round me. I saw only his dear face.

I could not move. A stifled sob broke into my consciousness. It was one of the women. Henry was looking at me, his eyes pleading for forgiveness, for the lies he had told me…because he loved me.

There was nothing now. He was gone, my King, my husband, my love. The murderers had taken him from me.

I could feel nothing for them. That would come later. At this moment I could do nothing…think of nothing but this overwhelming tragedy.

Charles was dead and I should never see that dear face again.