The Wondering Prince

THREE

The first time Lucy set eyes on Charles he was merely Prince of Wales—a boy of eighteen. Lucy was also eighteen; but she seemed older. She was full of wiles and she had been born with them. There had always been admirers for Lucy from the days when, as a little girl, she had played in the grounds of Roch Castle. She was brown-skinned, brown-eyed, and her rippling hair was brown also; she was plump and indolent. Her father, watching her even as a girl of twelve, decided to marry her off quickly. She was a girl who was obviously ripe for marriage.

There were local squires in the neighborhood of Haverfordwest and St. David’s who would have been ready enough to link their fortunes with those of the Waters, for Lucy’s mother was a niece of the Earl of Carbery, and her family was not without fortune. Moreover, Lucy was as luscious as a ripe peach and wherever she went men’s eyes followed her. Her voice had a soft lilting Welsh accent and it rose on a note of laughter at the end of her sentences; it was not that Lucy’s conversation was so very amusing and witty; it was merely that she appeared to be ready to enjoy life. She was aware of her ripe young body; she was aware of the ripe young bodies of others. Lucy was longing for amorous adventures; she would lie in the grass on the mound at the top of which stood Roch Castle, and dream of lovers.

The war altered life at Roch Castle as it did everywhere else. Her father went off to fight for the Royalist cause, and Lucy remained at home—a girl of fourteen, restive, forced to sit at her needlework during long sunny afternoons, stitching reluctantly, the despair of her governess.

There was continual talk of the war. Lucy rarely listened to it with any great attention. She was a fervent Royalist because the Cavaliers, in their dashing clothes, their curls falling about their shoulders and their jauntily feathered hats, pleased her; and the soberly clad soldiers of the Parliamentary forces, with their round cropped heads and their text-quoting, did not attract her at all.

Lucy was filled with vague longings. She was not sure that she wanted to settle down to a married life. She had watched her mother looking after the servants, working in her still-room, arranging meals, having children. Such a life did not seem very attractive to Lucy. She had noticed at an early age how men’s eyes followed her, and that pleased her. She would sit before a mirror tying ribbons in her brown hair, arranging her curls, aware that she was very pretty and remembering how the men looked at her; but she was only vaguely aware of what she wanted. It was more than admiration, more than warm glances; yet she did not want to be the chatelaine of a castle like that of her parents, to have children, a still-room, servants to command.

Lucy was lazy, it was agreed by all. She would not attend to her lessons; she could not even concentrate on her needlework. Her eyes would wander from her work, and her thoughts would wander too.

Then Lucy suddenly discovered what she wanted from life.

It was when a party of Royalists rode up to the Castle and asked for a night’s shelter. There was always food and shelter at Roch Castle for the Cavaliers. The Captain of the troop was young and handsome; he was the most elegant man Lucy had ever seen; his curled moustache was golden; so was his pointed beard; his fair hair fell to his shoulders; he was a dashing figure in his doublet with its wide sleeves and narrow sash; in his wide-brimmed hat was a curling feather. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and her eyes told him so.

From the time the Cavaliers entered the house the Captain was aware of Lucy. She must wait on him at table because, said her mother, it was a symbol of loyalty to the cause that the daughter of the house should do this in place of the servants; and as she waited on him he took opportunities of touching her hand. Lucy’s large brown eyes glistened. She was ripe and very ready for seduction on that day; and the handsome Cavalier was well aware of this. He was young—not yet twenty—and life was adventurous in wartime. Any day might be his last; he was no canting Puritan to think longingly of the next world; he was a Cavalier determined to make the most of this one.

They would stay the night at Roch Castle, these soldiers of the King, for Roch Castle was at the disposal of His Majesty’s friends; and during that evening the handsome Cavalier was not absent from Lucy’s mind one moment—nor was Lucy from his. Even in the presence of others he managed to suggest desire, and Lucy, inexperienced as she was, managed to convey her response.

It was a July evening—warm and sultry—and there was an air of unreality in the Castle. Everyone felt that the war had moved closer. If Royalist soldiers were in the neighborhood, it was probable that Roundheads were not far off. These handsome Cavaliers admitted that they were in retreat, that they had given their pursuers the slip near Brecknock, and that although their scouts had not seen a sign of them for several hours, it did not mean that the enemy had given up the chase.

At any moment there might be the sound of clattering horses’ hoofs in the courtyard; at any moment rough soldiers might be demanding to search the Castle in the name of Oliver Cromwell.

It was not yet dark, but it soon would be; yet no one made preparations for settling down for the night. In the great hall the soldiers kept a lookout; there were men posted in the turrets.

Lucy was aware that at any moment this man who so excited her might ride away and never again be seen by her. His burning eyes watched her as she moved about the great dining hall, for once eager to help as she was bid.

With a quick glance at the Cavalier she made her way to the door and slipped out into the grounds. Almost immediately she heard footsteps behind her; she ran down the slope towards the moat and into the copse where as a child she used to hide from her governesses.

There she waited, and she had not long to wait. She stood, tense and breathless. He called her name softly. Then she felt his arms seize her; she was lifted up, violently kissed and quickly laid down among the bracken. She was aware of the urgency of the moment. There was no time for delay; he sensed that, even as she did; and it was she, he reminded himself, who had led the way to the copse.

Her first erotic adventure was all she needed to tell her for what she had been longing. It was not marriage; it was love, physical love, this sort of love—desire which came suddenly and must be swiftly satisfied. Lucy was perfectly contented lying there among the bracken. She was not frightened, though she was but fourteen; she knew that she had been born for this. She had been scolded for carelessness, laziness and stupidity; but in love she could attain perfection. Ignorant in many ways she might be, but now she needed no instruction. Entirely sensual, she was the perfect lover.

The young Cavalier looked at her wonderingly as she lay back in the bracken, her eyes wide and starry, her lips parted. It was he who had to remind her that they might be missed. For Lucy there was only the moment; consequences could not touch her in this mood of ecstasy.

“Which is your room?” he asked.

She told him.

“Tonight, when all is quiet, I will come to you.”

She nodded. But the night was a long way off. She put her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her again.

The dusk had turned to darkness but they were unaware of it. They would have remained unaware had not the shouts and screams from the Castle become so insistent.

He started up and sniffed the air. He coughed, for the smoke had drifted into the copse.

“God’s Body!” cried Lucy’s lover. “They’re here! Cromwell’s men are at the Castle!”

Lucy looked at him, but even so she was only vaguely conscious of what he had said; she was dazed, lost in a maze of emotions. She had ceased to be a child; only that morning she had been ignorant and innocent, and in that state, dissatisfied; now she was fulfilled; now she knew herself.

He gripped her arm and drew her with him deeper into the copse.

“Don’t you understand?” he said. “Cromwell’s men are here. They are burning the Castle!”

That was the beginning of a new life for Lucy. Roch Castle was burned down that night, Lucy had lost her home and her family; and she had nothing but her personal attractions.

There was only one course open to her and her lover—they must try to escape from Pembrokeshire. All that night they walked, and before dawn Lucy had led her lover to the house of a neighbor and friend to her family who lent them horses. The next day they began their journey towards London where, said her lover, Lucy could set up house for him, and he would visit her when his duties permitted him to do so.

Sometimes they slept under hedges, sometimes in friendly cottages, occasionally in big houses, the owners of which were faithful to the Royalist cause.

Lucy was a constant surprise to her lover; when he had first seen her he had planned a quick seduction before he passed on; now he found that it was Lucy who was in control of their relationship, Lucy whose big brown eyes rested ardently on other men, Lucy who would have smiled and bidden him a friendly farewell if he had suggested a parting. In vain did he tell her that she was a natural harlot. Lucy did not care. Lucy knew what she wanted, and it was becoming increasingly clear to her that she would never be obliged to go short of lovers.

Lucy was the perfect mistress of a fleeting passion, for her own passions were fleeting. She did not ask for gold or jewels but the slaking of her desire. This quality, added to voluptuous beauty, made her doubly desirable.

They came to London, and London enchanted Lucy. Her lover set her up in lodgings not far from Tower Hill, and she prided herself on being faithful to him when he could come to her. There were times, of course, when he could not visit her, but Lucy was never lonely, never long without a gallant.

London was a merry town at that time, for Puritanism had not yet cast its ugly pall over the city. The people were noisy; brawls were frequent; and opportunity for indulging in pageantry was eagerly seized upon. No one was safe after dark; but by day the streets were crowded. Fiddlers seemed always at hand to play a merry jig for any who cared to dance; ballad-sellers sang samples of their wares in high trebles and deep basses; carriages jingled through the narrow cobbled streets; London was everything but dull. The brothels were flourishing, and girls, scantily clad, painted and patched, talked to each other from the gables of opposite houses which almost met over the narrow streets; nor were these disorderly houses confined to Bankside and Southwark; they were appearing all over London from Turnbull Street at Smithfield to Ratcliff Highway and Catherine Street near the Strand—and, of course, they abounded in Drury Lane.

The most important highway of the city was Paul’s Walk—the center aisle of the old cathedral. This was not so much a part of a church as a promenade and market. All kinds of people gathered there—merchants to sell their wares, prostitutes to offer theirs. The pillars were used to denote the centers for certain trades. If a man wanted a letter-writer he was to be found by the first pillar; horses would be sold at the second pillar; the money-lenders were farther along; and next to them was the marriage-broker, and after that the obliging gentleman who could arrange for a man to spend a night—or an hour—with one of the women he controlled; mercers showed their materials; and those who had something to sell announced the fact by sticking notices on the pillars.

Nor was Paul’s Walk the only place where it was possible to mingle with the London world. There was the Royal Exchange and the New Exchange; and in each of these were the galleries where shopkeepers set up their stalls, where pretty young women not only sold trifles but made appointments with the dandies who strolled through the galleries. There were young men in velvet coats carrying swords with jeweled hilts; they wore gold buttons on their coats, brilliant feathers in their wide-brimmed beaver hats; their breeches were trimmed with fine point lace and held in at the knees with ribbons, and their hair was beautifully dressed and hanging in ringlets over their shoulders—the delight of the girls and the envy of every apprentice. The theaters had closed at the beginning of the war, but the London to which Lucy came was a very merry place.

Each day she would wander out into the street, would stroll through the Royal Exchange, buy herself a fan or a ribbon, give her peculiarly inviting smile to the ogling men, and if her lover were away, she would agree that the one she fancied most should come to her lodging.

She found a little maid—Ann Hill—who thought her wonderful and declared she would die rather than leave her service—as she probably would of starvation, being ill favored. Lucy was glad to take her in and, in her lazy way, was kind to her.

Lucy would have been content to go on in her pleasant way, but the war brought changes. Each year there was a difference in the London scene. There were more soldiers in the town, and now they were not swaggering Cavaliers; they burned beautiful buildings and praised God as they did so. Beauty had no place in the good life, they believed; they used the churches as sleeping quarters; they took possession of St. Paul’s; they stabled their horses in the Cathedral and cut down the beams for firewood; they played ninepins in the aisles and shouted to each other throughout the night. Very few Cavaliers flaunted through the streets now. The King’s cause was a lost one, said the people. Noll Cromwell was in command.

Lucy’s lover had appeared at her lodgings in a great hurry; he had stayed there for several days and nights, for he dared not face the streets. London was less merry; people were subdued and no longer openly expressed an opinion unless it was favorable to Cromwell.

Lucy went out to buy food during those days, and she was watched, she knew, by a man who always seemed to be lounging in the gallery of the Royal Exchange. For several days she had seen that that man’s eyes were on her. She was not sure how, but she knew him to be a Cavalier. His hair was cropped and his clothes were somber; yet there was that in his face which told her he was no Roundhead.

She liked his appearance; she more than liked it. She thought about him a good deal; if she had not already been harboring one man at her lodgings she would have invited him there.

Then one day he followed her. Lucy was not frightened so to be followed; she was only exhilarated. She understood the meaning of his glances. He wanted only one thing from her; and she believed she would be very willing to grant that; so what had she to fear?

He caught up with her in a deserted alley whither she had led him. He plucked her sleeve and, as she turned, he released it and bowed as only a Cavalier would bow.

“You would have speech with me?”

“You are Mistress Lucy Water?”

“That’s true enough.”

“You are the most beautiful woman in London.”

Lucy smiled complacently. He kept his eyes on her face.

“I wish to know you,” he said, “very well.”

“You know my name,” she answered. “Should I know yours?”

“I will tell you … in time.”

“And now what would you have of me?”

“You have a lodging near here?”

She nodded.

“And you share it with … a friend?”

Her eyes flashed. “A very good friend.”

He caught her arm; his touch pleased her because it excited her. “I know him,” he said. “He served with me. Take me to him. I must have speech with him. Please believe me. There must be no delay.”

To Lucy this was a new method of approach and she enjoyed novelty. “Come this way,” she said.

When she brought the stranger to her lodgings her lover was overawed. There was no doubt that the man had spoken the truth.

“Let us talk,” said the newcomer. “There is little time.”

“Sit down, sir,” said Lucy’s lover. “Lucy, bring a stool.”

Lucy obeyed; she sat at the table watching them, her plump hands supporting her chin, her dreamy eyes on the newcomer. He would be an exciting lover, she was telling herself. He will be an exciting lover! She knew that whatever he was implying, that was what he wished to be ere long; and that was what had brought him to their lodging.

He flicked his fingers. “Your life won’t be worth that, if you’re caught here, my dear fellow.”

“No, sir, ’tis true.”

“I am leaving this day … for The Hague.”

“To join the Prince, sir?”

“Aye! To join the Prince. You would do well to make good your escape while there is yet time.”

“But to journey to The Hague … I have not the means.”

“Can you obtain two good horses?”

“I could … if I had the money, sir.”

“Then get them. Make for Harwich. The coast is quiet there … and I will tell you how you can find a boat to carry you across.”

“But, my lord …”

“You have but to tell the Prince that I have sent you, and you will be well received; you will be given a place in the Army there. Here is money.” He turned to look at Lucy. “We shall meet in The Hague. If you bring Mistress Lucy Water to me safely there, you will not regret it.”

“I will do as you say, sir. You will take a little wine?”

“I have no time. I have certain things that must be done before I leave for The Hague. Wait till dusk, then go. Mistress Water will crop your hair. Don’t venture out with your lovelocks flowing. Mistress Water …” He stood up and Lucy stood up with him; he gripped her arms and looked into her face. “You and I will meet ere long. I eagerly await our next encounter.”

He was gone and the two looked at each other in amazement.

“Why, my pretty Lucy,” said her lover, “you have got yourself one of the quality this time. Do you know who that was? It was Algernon Sydney, son of the great Earl of Leicester. Get ready, girl. Don’t waste time. We’ll be out of this place as soon as night falls. We’re going to Court … the Prince’s Court. We’re going to leave the sinking ship, my pretty. Come! Cut my hair. He’s right, you know. You’ve got to make me into one of those ugly Roundhead fellows, and I’m to deliver you to your new protector, Lucy; and when I do my reward will be great.”

But his smile was rueful while he jingled the gold in his silken purse.

Lucy lay in bed watching her lover dressing. He was preparing himself to go to the little Court which the Prince had set up in The Hague.

Lucy had seen little of the place as yet. She had arrived after a tedious journey which had taken far longer than her ex-lover had anticipated. The journey to Harwich had been beset by difficulties; one of the horses had gone lame, and they had to procure another; everywhere they went they were under suspicion, as many were in England at that time; and then, when they had been ready to sail, the wind and weather had been against them. Meanwhile, in The Hague, Algernon Sydney eagerly awaited the girl who was being brought to him.

Lucy had discovered that he had paid fifty gold crowns to her lover, and that amused Lucy. He had paid for that which he could have had for nothing, had he waited to court her as a gentleman should. Not that Lucy would have needed much courting. She could quickly decide whether or not a man could appeal to her, and how far that appeal would carry him; Algernon Sydney need not have feared that he would fail to win that which he coveted.

Yet she would always laugh at the way things had turned out. She heard now, from Colonel Robert Sydney, how impatient his brother Algernon had been—watching the tides, riding three miles a day to Scheveningen where the boat was expected to make port, finding no satisfaction in any other woman, so that he had been the laughing stock of the whole Court.

Colonel Robert laughed with her, for after all he had come very well out of the affair.

“God’s Body, Lucy!” he told her. “He almost wept, so vexed was he! He said there wasn’t another woman in the world who would do; and worse still he had paid some rogue fifty gold crowns for you.”

“Then he has none but himself to blame,” said Lucy. “No man should pay another money for me. I’m not that sort of harlot.”

Now, watching him dressing for his appointment at Court, she did not regret the way in which matters had turned out. Robert was a satisfactory lover and she doubted his brother could be better. When she thought of arriving from the boat, and being brought to this place, to the comfort of hot food, a warm bed and a lover, she was not sorry. Robert was handsome and bold; he had wasted no time in taking to himself his brother’s preserves. “It is, after all, a family matter!” he had joked.

She had not known that her arrival and the fifty gold pieces had provided the amusing story of the moment. It was the sort which would amuse a band of exiles. They craved other amusement than continual dicing, and all were eager to see the young woman for whom Algernon Sydney had paid his fifty pieces. That he should have been called to join his regiment for service elsewhere and so been deprived of his prize, was a matter for the greatest hilarity.

Robert knew how all at Court were laughing over the affair; he also knew that his brother—whom he had always believed to have been something of a connoisseur where women were concerned—had not been deceived about this one. Robert was anxious to keep her to himself and not eager that she should be seen by the young roués who circulated about the Prince.

Lucy was happy enough; never very energetic she was content to lie about the apartment, eating the sweetmeats which Robert provided, trying on the pretty ribbons which he had procured for her.

So Robert went off to Court and Lucy lay in bed. Soon Ann Hill would come in—for Lucy had insisted on bringing Ann with her to The Hague—and her toilet would be made by the time her lover returned. Later, Lucy would explore the town, but not yet; she needed a few more days to recover from her journey.

Ann came in and sat on the bed and talked in her bright cockney way, which was such a contrast to Lucy’s musical Welsh accent.

Ann had been out; she had seen something of the flat country and she dismally shook her head over it. There could not be anything more different from London, she assured her mistress. The land was so flat; the wind blew across the sand, forming it into dunes; and these people had built dykes to keep out the seawater. There were small lakes all along the coast, where the sea had defied all attempts to keep it out. The town itself was more interesting although quite different from London. She had seen the palace where the Prince’s sister Mary lived; and she had heard that the Prince was with her there; she had seen the arched gateway which led to the prison. But this town was a poor place compared with London, and the fresh wind howled all the time. Yet there were many gallant gentlemen in the streets, and to see them in their fine clothes, and with their fine manners, one might be in London; moreover, these gentlemen were even finer than those they had been wont to see in London recently; yes, there were some who were very fine indeed.

Lucy’s eyes shone as she listened. She said: “I think I shall dress myself and take a walk.”

But as she rose from her bed she and Ann heard a voice singing outside the window; it was a deep, masculine voice and very musical. Lucy put her head to one side, listening, for the singer had stopped beneath her window.

“I loved a lass, a fair one,

As fair as e’er was seen;

She was indeed a rare one,

Another Sheba’s Queen!

But fool as then I was,

I thought she loved me too:

But now, alas: she’s left me,

Falero, lero, loo.”

Lucy could not refrain from going to the window; she opened the casement wide and leaned out. Below was a very tall young man of about her own age with large brown eyes, the warmest and merriest she had ever seen; he had long dark curly hair, and as she looked down he stopped singing, swept off his beaver hat, and bowed low.

“Good day to you, mistress,” he said.

“Good day,” said Lucy, drawing about her the wrap she had slipped on—and which was all she was wearing—but making sure that it did not cover too much of her magnificently rounded shoulders.

“I trust you liked my poor song, mistress.”

“It was well rendered, sir.”

“At least it had the desired effect of bringing you to the window.”

“So that is why you are singing there!”

“Why else?”

“Then you know me?”

“Everyone in this town has heard of the beauty of Mistress Lucy Water.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“Nay, to flatter is to praise unduly. However great the praise accorded to you, it could not be undue. Therefore it would be impossible to flatter you.”

“You must be an Englishman.”

He bowed. “I am glad you recognize me as such. These Dutchmen are dull fellows. They are not our equals in eating, dicing or loving the ladies.”

“I have no knowledge of your talents at the table, sir, nor with the dice, nor …”

“Who knows, I may be able to prove my talents in all three one day, mistress.”

“You are bold.”

“There again we differ from these Dutchmen. Bold they may be on the seas, but it would need an Englishman to be as bold as this.”

Lucy gave a little scream, for he had swung himself up on to the parapet, and his long slender fingers, immaculately white and adorned with several flashing rings, were clinging to the sill.

“You will fall, foolish man!” She reached for him, and, laughing, he managed, with her help, to scramble through the window, which was no easy matter, the window being small and he being six feet in height.

Lucy’s wrap had slipped from her shoulders in the effort; this but added to their pleasure in the adventure—his to see so much which was beautiful, hers to show it.

“You might have killed yourself,” she reproved.

“It would take more than a fall from a window to kill one so strong as I.”

“And all for a silly prank!”

“It was worth the slight discomfort. I see rumor has not lied. Mistress Lucy Water is the most beautiful woman in The Hague.”

“I must send you away. You should not come here thus. What Colonel Sydney would say if he found you here, I dare not think.”

“I will risk Colonel Sydney’s displeasure.”

“You are too bold, young man.”

“I count boldness a virtue. It is a quality which such as I could not do without.”

“I must tell you that Colonel Sydney is a very important man.”

“I know of him, and you are right.”

“Then have you no fear …?”

He put his hands on her shoulders and, drawing her swiftly to him, kissed her lips, then her throat, then her breasts.

“This is too much,” she stammered.

“Indeed, it is not enough.”

“It is too much to be suffered!”

“That which cannot be helped must be endured.”

“Sir … how dare you come thus to my chamber?”

“How dare I? Because you are beautiful; because I am a man; because I saw you at the window; because you heard my song and helped me in; because I have seen that which makes me long to see more; because I have kissed your lips and tasted that which I would savor to the full.”

“I have a lover.”

“I offer you a better one.”

“You are insolent!”

“I am ardent, I confess.”

Lucy tried to be stern, but how could she be? Colonel Sydney was a lover to her taste, but this young man was different from any she had ever known before. He was tall and strong; he could have overpowered her, and perhaps she would not have been sorry if he had; but he did no such thing, although he was somewhat arrogant and very sure of himself. He was not going to take by force, she realized, that which he knew would not long be denied him. There was a tenderness mingling with the passion she saw in his eyes, and such tenderness she had never before encountered. There was something lazy in his manner which matched her own laziness; his sensuality, she felt, was equal to her own; he was of her age; and yet he was by no means handsome; but Lucy’s experience told her that he had more than good looks; he was the most charming person it had ever been her good fortune to meet.

Lucy said: “You must know that Colonel Sydney will consider it a great offense to force your way in here thus.”

“Are we not to tell him that you helped me in then?”

“I did not mean to help you in. It was but to save your life. I feared you would fall.”

“I thank you for my life, Lucy. How can I repay you?”

“By going quietly before Colonel Sydney returns and finds you here.”

“Is that all I am to get for my pains … after risking my life to be near you as I did?”

“Please go. I am afraid the Colonel will arrive.”

“You are beginning to make me fear the Colonel. Are you fond of him, Lucy? Is he good to you?”

“He is good to me and I am fond of him.”

“But not so fond that you cannot spare a smile or two for a passing fancy, eh? Lucy, do you think you could grow as fond and fearful of me as you are of the Colonel?”

“You forget I do not know you. I saw you for the first time only a few minutes ago.”

“We must put that right. From now on we will see a good deal of each other. I will risk Colonel Sydney’s displeasure. Will you?”

“I might,” murmured Lucy.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said; “and I have always been a close observer of women. Why, I remember an occasion—in the town of Oxford it was—when I was in church with my father, and he smote me on the head with his staff because, instead of listening to the sermon, I was smiling at the ladies. I am older now, but I have never ceased to smile at the ladies, and no amount of smiting on the head will stop me. So you see I know what I am talking about.”

“I am sure you would always give a good account of yourself to women. There is no need to tell me that. Now go, I beg of you. I will order my maid to take you down by the back staircase. You must go at once.”

“But I will have a kiss before I go.”

“Then … you will go?”

“I swear it. But do not imagine we shall not meet again.”

“I would do anything to be rid of you before Colonel Sydney returns.”

“Anything!” His warm brown eyes were alert and hopeful.

“I would kiss you,” she said firmly.

So he took her into his arms and kissed her, not once but many times, and not only on the lips as she pretended to intend. Lucy, flushed and struggling, was nevertheless laughing. It was an amusing adventure with the most fascinating man she had ever met. She hoped he would keep his word and visit her again.

She called Ann Hill.

“Ann,” she said, “show this man out of the house … quickly … by way of the back staircase.”

“Yes, mistress,” said Ann.

Lucy watched him go regretfully. At the door he turned and bowed. He bowed more elegantly than any man she had ever known. “We shall meet again … very soon,” he promised. “But not too soon for me.”

Then he turned and followed Ann.

At the door he looked at Ann. She had lifted her face to his, for Ann too felt the power of his fascination. The warm brown eyes softened. Poor Ann! She was not well-favored, but she had seen the kiss he had given her mistress. ’Od’s Fish! he pondered. She’s envious, poor girl!

And because, ever since the days when his father had smitten him for his too-open admiration of the girls in church—and perhaps before then— he had been unable to slight any woman, pretty or plain, lowly or highborn, he stooped quickly and lightly kissed Ann’s cheek.

Robert announced that Lucy was to be presented to the Prince.

“He has heard much of you,” said Robert. “The talk of Algy’s paying his fifty crowns and then being recalled before you arrived seems amusing to Charles. He says he must see the heroine of the story. So put on the dress I gave you and prepare yourself. You’ll have to go to Court some day. In a place like this … all huddled together … exiles must necessarily mingle.”

While Ann helped Lucy to dress they were both thinking of the tall dark man.

“Do you think he’ll come back, mistress?” asked Ann.

“How can I know? He was too quick, was he not? He had the manners of a practiced philanderer.”

“But of a gentleman too,” murmured Ann.

“They often go together, I believe. Come, girl, my kerchief and my fan.”

Even when she reached the palace in which the Prince had his apartments Lucy was still thinking of the tall dark man. She entered the palace with its wheel windows and gothic towers at either end; she walked up the staircase into the hall where the Prince was waiting to receive her.

She thought she was dreaming as he smiled at her, and kneeling before him she could not help lifting her eyes to look into that dark face with the glowing brown eyes which were now shining with mischief. She felt bewildered and, in that moment when she had knelt, she had not believed that he could really be the Prince. She thought it was some hoax, the sort of game he and his friends would like to play.

All about him were men—some young, some old—but he towered above them all, not only because of his height, but because of that overwhelming charm, that easy grace. It seemed incredible, but it must be true: the young man who had climbed through her window was Charles, Prince of Wales, and no other.

He was laughing merrily. “So, pretty Lucy,” he said. “I stand exposed in all my perfidy.”

“Sir …” she began.

He turned to those about him and said easily: “Lucy and I have already met, we find. We also find that we have a fondness for each other.”

“Your Grace, I do not understand,” said Robert.

“Then we must acquaint you with the facts, and as a good soldier, Colonel, I am sure you will know when the moment has come to retreat.”

All those about the Prince began to laugh. Only Robert looked dismayed.

He bowed with dignity. Then he said: “I understand Your Grace’s meaning and realize that I am in a position from which the only possible action is retreat.”

“Wise Robert!” cried Charles. “And speaking of retreat, that is an order I give to the rest of you gentlemen.”

Much laughter followed, and one by one the gentlemen left the apartment, pausing only to throw appreciative glances at Lucy.

So Lucy was alone with Charles.

And thus she became the willing mistress of the exiled Prince of Wales.

She loved him truly; he was more to her than any other lover had been, for he was more than mere lover. It was that tender quality in him which moved Lucy. He was easygoing, full of wit, and if he did not always keep his promises, it was due to sheer kindness of heart which would not allow him to refuse anything which was asked of him.

As Prince’s mistress her life changed yet again. It was true that he was a Prince in exile, but he was England’s heir for all that. Although his eyes would never fail to light up when they rested on a pretty woman, he became devoted to Lucy; she was his chief love, and was content that this should be so. These weeks, she decided, were the happiest of her life.

She made the acquaintance of men whose names she had heard mentioned with awe; she heard the plots and intrigues which were in motion to win this second civil war, begun this year, and which one of these men—George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham—had helped to bring about. Buckingham had recently joined the Prince and was his closest companion. Charles told her that he and Buckingham had been brought up together, and when the elder Villiers died, King Charles I took his children into the royal household and Lord Francis and Lord George—as this Buckingham was then—had played with the royal children.

Lord Francis had been killed recently, as many people were killed in England; and the young Duke had escaped to join the Prince.

Charles enjoyed unburdening his mind to Lucy. He felt it was unimportant what he said to her, for Lucy only half-listened. He would smile on seeing the vague look which would come into her eyes at times, when she would nod and express surprise even when she had little notion about what he was talking.

“Why, Lucy,” he said, “you’d never betray my secrets to others, would you, for the simple reason that you have never heard me betray them to you.”

That amused him. Some might have been angry at her obtuseness; Charles was rarely angry. If he was inclined to be, some spirit of mischief would seem to rise within him and make him see himself partly in the wrong.

“Lucy,” he would say, “I am like a man with an affliction of the eyes. They don’t focus together; consequently I have two pictures of every scene—two views, you see, and of the same affair. That’s very disturbing. Then I begin to wonder whether there are not many versions of the same picture, and whether the man with whom I have been so fiercely arguing has not as true a picture as mine. Lucy, you are not listening. You are wise, my love, for I am sure I talk much nonsense.”

She wanted to please him; she wanted to show her gratitude. She would not look at other men—or hardly ever. He noticed this; he had a quick appreciation of such things, and he thanked her gravely.

He introduced her to his brother James who was not quite fifteen years old.

James liked to talk to Lucy; he talked often of his recent escape. To Lucy he would talk of it again and again, for she did not mind, and would appear to be interested on every occasion. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him and he was so very proud of himself.

“To tell the truth, Lucy,” he told her on one occasion, “I escaped because I dared stay no longer. There were messages from our mother, and she was ashamed of me for not managing to get away. Elizabeth—that is my sister—was also ashamed. She used to say: ‘If I were a boy I should have found some means to escape.’ But it was not easy, Lucy. We were at St. James’ Palace where old Noll Cromwell had set guards to watch everything we did. They said they were going to make apprentices of Elizabeth and me, so that we could earn our living with our hands.”

“So you ran away,” said Lucy.

“Yes, I ran away. How I wish the others could have come with me! It was not possible, though, for the three of us to escape. Elizabeth was not strong enough. She was never strong after she fell and broke her leg. And Harry was not really old enough. He’s only nine now. We made plans, but only one of us could get away in safety. So we planned a game of hide-and-seek. I was to run and hide, and so was Henry. Elizabeth would look for us. I ran back to the guard and pretended to hide; then Harry came running out and asked a guard to lift him to the top of one of the porches where Elizabeth would not easily find him. While they were doing this I managed to slip away to where my valet was waiting for me with horses. I changed my clothes and dressed up as a woman, Lucy. I nearly betrayed myself by raising my leg and plucking at my stocking as no woman would. But we got to Gravesend and so I went to Middleburgh and Dort and finally here.”

“It was a wonderful escape,” murmured Lucy.

“I’m glad you think so, Lucy.”

His eyes were admiring; he was almost as fond of the ladies as his brother was; and perhaps, thought Lucy, when he was older he would be quite as fond. But, she decided, although she liked him very much, he would never have his brother’s charm.

Yes, she was happy during those warm days of summer, and before September she knew that she was going to have a child.

Lucy grew large and there was speculation throughout the Court of exiles. Men and women made bets with one another. Whose child is this, they asked—Charles’ or Robert’s? Who could be sure of Lucy?

Lucy heard the gossip; so did Charles.

“It is your child,” she told him. “It could not possibly be that of another man.”

He nodded gravely; whether or not he believed it she was not entirely sure. He would never say that he doubted her word. He would consider that most ungallant. Moreover she might weep, and there was nothing which distressed Charles more than the tears of women. They could upset him more, it was said, than bad news from England. And what did it matter whose child Lucy carried? The Prince would acknowledge it as his, for, considering his relationship with the mother, he would feel it to be most unchivalrous not to do so.

There were some who remembered his grandfather, Henri Quatre; and they declared that the resemblance between these two—in character, not in appearance, of course—was great. Both were great lovers of women and treasured conquests in love more than those of war; both were blessed, or tormented, by the ability to see many sides to all questions and disputes; both were easygoing and good-natured almost to a fault. Henri Quatre had been a great soldier and an even greater King. Those who wished the Royal House of Stuart well, hoped that Charles had inherited more from his maternal grandfather than these qualities.

There were times during those summer months when a deep melancholy would show itself in the Prince’s face. The news from England was disastrous. Charles shut himself up with the letters his father sent from England.

He thought of the kindly man who had not, to his cost, possessed that gift of tolerance towards the opinions of others, but who had nevertheless been a loving father. He read the words Charles I had written.

“An advantage of wisdom you have above most Princes, Charles, for you have begun and now spent some years of discretion in the experience of trouble and the exercise of patience. You have already tasted the cup whereof I have liberally drunk, which I look upon as God’s physic, having that in healthfulness which it lacks in pleasure …”

Charles had to face the truth. He knew that his father was the captive of his enemies. He feared greatly that he would never see his face again.

He thought of his family: little Henry and Elizabeth, prisoners of the Parliament in St. James Palace; James here with him after a miraculous escape; little Henriette—his dear Minette—after an equally miraculous escape, in Paris with his mother; and lastly, Mary, his eldest sister, whose hospitality he now enjoyed.

War was raging in England; war was raging in France; and both these wars were civil wars, the rising of the common people against their royal rulers.

What did the future hold for him—the penniless, exiled Prince? He could not say; and, because he was never one to trick himself with false beliefs, he dared not think.

He would go to Lucy; they would sport and play together. He thanked God for love, which could always enchant him, always make him forget his troubles. Lucy was a delight; he must be thankful for the gifts he had, for though he was a Prince without a kingdom and heir to a throne which would be denied him, he had certain gifts which would always bring him favor with women. So he would plunge into pleasure and try to forget his melancholy state.

News came from England, which set a gloom over the Prince’s Court.

Charles Stuart, King of England, stood convicted, attainted and condemned of high treason; and the penalty for high treason was death.

They would not dare! it was said.

But all knew that Cromwell and his followers had little respect for kings. To them, Charles Stuart was no ruler anointed by the Lord; he was a man guilty of treason to his country.

The Prince had lost his gaiety. He shut himself away from his friends. Even Lucy could not comfort him. His thoughts were all for the noble, kindly man. He thought of Nottingham, where his father’s followers had tried in vain to raise the royal standard, and how the wind blew it down and seemed determined, so fiercely did it rage, that the King’s colors should not be unfurled. An evil omen? it had been whispered. He thought of the skirmish at Copredy Bridge which had decided nothing and had led to the disaster of Marston Moor. He remembered the last time he had seen his father; it was in Oxford almost four years before.

And what could he do now to save his father? He was powerless; he depended on others for his very board. He was a beggar in a foreign country; his entire family was reduced to beggary. But at least he was a Prince, heir to a throne, and Cromwell would never feel at peace while he lived.

Impulsively he wrote to the Parliament of England; he sent them a blank sheet of paper which he sealed and signed Charles P. He asked them to fill in on that blank sheet any terms they cared to enforce; he would fulfil them; they might bring about his own disinheritance; they might execute him; but in exchange for his promise to deliver himself into their hands that they might do what they would with him, they must spare his father’s life.

He despatched three messengers each with a copy of this document to ensure the message’s reaching its destination; and he bade them depart with all speed to England.

Then there was nothing he could do but wait. He had done all that a son could do to save his father.

One February day as he left his bedchamber he was met by one of his men, and was struck by the way in which the man looked at him before he fell to his knees and said in a solemn manner: “May God preserve Your Majesty!”

Then he knew what had happened to that kindly man, his father. He could not speak, but turned abruptly and went back to his bedchamber. There he threw himself upon his bed and gave way to passionate weeping.

Not until several days later could he talk of his father. Then he wished to hear of the heroic way in which he had died. He pictured it so clearly; it was engraved on his mind so that he would never forget it. He visualized his father, handsome and stately, brought to the Palace through St. James’ Park; he pictured him walking with the guards before him and behind him, the colors flying ahead of him, and drums beating as he passed along. It was all so clear to him. He saw his father take the bread and wine which were brought to him; he saw him break the manchet and drink the claret just as Sir Thomas Herbert, his father’s groom of the chamber, described the scene. He saw the crowds assembled; and as the King passed them on his last journey, his son knew that many in the crowds had muttered prayers and called: “God bless Your Majesty!” Never would Charles I have looked more noble than he did on that last walk to the scaffold; he would be noble to the end, even when he laid his head upon the block.

And ever after that, although the young Prince might be gay—and there were few who could be gayer than he—it seemed to those who observed him closely that a touch of melancholy never completely left him.

Now Lucy was no longer the mistress of a Prince; she was a King’s mistress; for although the Parliament of England would have none of him, he had been proclaimed King Charles II in Jersey.

Moreover, there came tentative offers to receive him in Scotland and Ireland.

It was a different matter being the mistress of the King from being merely that of a Prince.

Charles kissed her warmly and told her he must leave her. Business called him now—affairs of state. “Our ranks have risen, Lucy,” he said; “and with new honors come new responsibilities. I must leave you for a time. I go to Paris to see my mother.”

Then he told her he had another love in Paris. “Oh, Lucy, now you look hurt. You must not be, and you will not be when you hear who this is. She is not quite five years old, and she is my little sister. I am torn between my melancholy in leaving you and my delight in the prospect of seeing her. Lucy, you will be true to your King?”

Lucy declared she would. He wondered. Then he believed that she might until the child was born.

“Take care of yourself, Lucy, and of our child,” he said.

She kissed him with passion, telling him that she loved him truly; she wept after he had gone.

Lucy knew she might not be faithful; it was not in her nature to be faithful, any more than it was in his; but she also knew that, though her body might demand other lovers, there would never be one to equal Charles Stuart—Prince or King.

In a house in the city of Rotterdam, not far from Broad Church Street where Erasmus was born, Lucy lay in childbed. She was vaguely aware of the women about her, for she was quite exhausted by the ordeal through which she had just passed.

It was Ann Hill who held up the child for her to see.

“A boy, mistress. A bonny boy!”

Lucy held out her arms for the child and Ann laid him in them. There was a dark down on his head and he bawled lustily.

“He’s one who will want his own way,” said one of the women.

“The son of a King!” said Ann with awe.

Some of those about the bed raised their eyebrows, and their eyes asked a question: “The son of a King or the son of a Colonel? Who shall say?”

But Lucy did not see them and Ann ignored them.

“I shall call him James,” said Lucy. “That is a royal Stuart name.”

She bent and kissed the soft downy head.

“Jemmy,” she murmured. “Little Jemmy—son of a King—what will you do in the world, eh?”