The Wondering Prince

FOUR

The little Princess Henriette was bewildered. She sensed tension between two beloved people—her mother and her brother. It had something to do with Father Cyprien’s instruction, which occurred daily. Charles was not pleased that it should take place, and her mother was determined that it should. It was Henriette’s great desire to please her brother in all things; if he had said to her: “Do not listen to the teachings of Père Cyprien; listen to the words of Lady Morton!” gladly would she have obeyed. But her brother was careless—he was never really angry—while her mother could be very angry indeed. It was the Queen who put her arms about her little daughter and whispered to her that she was her mother’s “enfant de bénédiction,” the Queen who told her that God had rescued her from heretics that she might become a good Catholic. Charles merely played with her, told her gay stories and made her laugh. She loved best of all to be with Charles, but it did not seem so imperative to follow his wishes as those of her mother, for if she obeyed her mother, he would merely be wistful and understand that she was by no means to blame; whereas if she obeyed Charles’ wishes, her mother would be passionately angry, would rail against her and perhaps punish her. She was only a little girl and she must do that which seemed easiest to her.

So, to please her mother, she tried to become a good Catholic; she believed Père Cyprien when he had said that God had caused a great civil war so that she, Henriette, should escape from her father’s country and come to France to learn how to be a good Catholic. She tried sincerely to thank God on her knees—through the saints—for having thousands of men killed, including her father, that her own soul might be saved.

Henrietta Maria had bought a house in Chaillot and thither she had taken several nuns from the Convent of Les Filles de Marie that she might found an order of her own. In this house Henrietta Maria had her own rooms which were always preserved for her, and it was her pleasure to spend a great deal of her time “in retreat” as she called it. It delighted her to take her little daughter there. Henriette would stand at the windows looking down on the gleaming Seine with the buildings of Paris clustered on either bank; but she knew that she was there for a more important reason than to admire the view; she was there to learn to be a good Catholic.

Lady Morton invariably accompanied her, and would often be present when she received her instruction. Lady Morton was very anxious about this instruction and Henriette was sorry for this. Why could they not all be pleased? What did it matter whether she was brought up in the religion of France or England? To tell the truth, Henriette herself could see little difference in those faiths about which others grew so fierce.

Henrietta Maria declared to Charles that she had been promised on her marriage that all her children should be brought up as Catholics. Again and again Charles reminded her that it would be against the wishes of his father. Then the Queen swore that her husband had promised her that, even if others of the family must follow the teachings of the Church of England, Henriette should become a Catholic.

“I swear it, Charles! I swear it!” she cried, tapping her foot as she did in moments of agitation. “He could deny me nothing. It was the last time I saw him. I swear to you, Charles. You would not wish to go against your father’s wishes, would you?”

“No, Mam,” was Charles’ answer. “That is why I wish you to allow Lady Morton to supervise my sister’s religious education in the faith of the Church of England.”

“But it was your father’s wish …”

The young King smiled gently at his mother. He was always extremely courteous to her, but he was not fond of her and he was too honest to pretend that he was. He loved his little sister dearly; but he also loved peace. A young King with a kingdom yet to be won had too many difficulties to face without making others with a fanatical Catholic such as his mother was. So Charles consoled himself with the thought: Minette is only a child. She will absorb little as yet. Later, something must be done. Perhaps then he could commission someone else to take up the struggle with his mother, and so escape the unpleasantness.

Meanwhile there was much to occupy him. Lucy had come to Paris with their son, and he was delighted with them both. Young Jemmy was a lusty youngster; Charles swore he had the Stuart eyes; he was certain that Robert Sydney could not claim him as his son. He often said: “If I were not the King, I’d marry Lucy to make the boy my heir.”

He had been alarmed because young Jemmy had already started to cause some trouble at The Hague. It was realized that he was a very important little boy, and there had been a plot to kidnap him which had nearly succeeded. Charles had declared that Lucy must come to Paris and bring the boy with her. This she had been quick to do. Paris suited Lucy better than The Hague—even Paris suffering from the disasters of the Fronde. So Charles, with plans for expeditions to the loyal territories of Jersey, Scotland and Ireland to be considered, and his playmate, Lucy, and his little son to enchant him, found it easy to shelve the problem of his sister’s religion.

Henrietta Maria looked on with quiet satisfaction.

Let the boy amuse himself. Soon he would have little time for amusement. It was natural that he should wish to dally with a mistress. Was he not the grandson of Henri Quatre?

So Henrietta Maria kept her daughter with her, and often she would take the child against her knee and, embracing her fiercely, tell her that only by learning all that Père Cyprien had to teach her could her soul be saved.

“And what will happen to those whose souls are not saved?” asked Henriette.

“They burn in the fires of hell eternally.”

“How long is eternally?”

“For ever and ever.”

“And Lady Morton will burn forever and ever?”

“If she does not become a Catholic.”

Tears filled Henriette’s eyes. “Oh no! Not dear Nan! Please Mam, pray to God and the saints not to burn poor Nan.”

“If she becomes a Catholic she will be safe. You must try to convert her.”

“Oh, Mam, I will … I will!”

So Henriette went to her governess and put her arms about her neck crying: “Do be converted, dear Nan. Dear Lady Morton, you must be a Catholic to be saved. Do be a Catholic, and I will love you more dearly than ever.”

“My dearest, we cannot easily change our convictions,” said Anne Morton.

“But you must be a Catholic … you must! All those who are not cannot be saved. They are tormented forever and ever.”

“So they have told you that, have they?”

“I cannot bear that you should be burned, dear Nan.”

“Come, dry your tears. I promise you this: I shall not be burned.”

“Then you will …”

“Let us not talk of this, my dearest. Might it not be that there are many ways to salvation?”

“But there is only one. Père Cyprien says so.”

“It may be that he knows only one. Now I will tell you how we came out of England, shall I?”

“Oh yes, please … and how I kept telling people that I was the Princess and that the clothes I wore were not my own.”

So she was appeased for the moment, and later she said to her mother: “I will tell Charles he must be saved, for, Mam, he too may burn eternally.”

“Do not speak of these matters to your brother, chérie.”

“But, Mam, he will not be saved if he is not a Catholic.”

Henrietta Maria was more brusque than she usually was with her little daughter. “Now … now … you talk too much. It is not for you to save souls. That is for Père Cyprien. You must learn what is told you. You are not yet ready to teach.”

“But if I may try to save dear Lady Morton, why should I not try to save Charles?”

Henrietta Maria pinched the soft cheek affectionately. “I have said you must learn first. There is so much you do not understand.”

Henriette nodded. She was content not to understand, for understanding, it seemed, could make people disagree, and that had already caused trouble between those whom she loved.

It seemed to Henriette that any day might bring news which made her mother weep and declare that she was the most unhappy Queen in the world and that no woman suffered as she did.

The troubles of the Fronde endangered the lives of royal people. It was a long time since Henriette had seen her cousins, Louis the King and his brother Philippe, so that she had forgotten she had ever known them. Her own beloved Charles had left again; he had gone to Jersey where the people were loyal. Henriette quickly learned that it was a sad thing to be an exile in a strange land. And although her mother told her stories of the days when she herself was a little girl and Paris had been her home, still they were looked upon as strangers. When the French were angry with the English government much was made of Henriette and her mother; when they were indifferent to the English government they had nothing but sullen looks for the exiles.

“It is the saddest thing in the world to have no country,” said Henrietta Maria.

“Shall we never have a country?” asked her daughter.

Her mother’s eyes, with the dark shadows beneath them, gleamed as she enlarged on one of her favorite topics. “If you marry, the country of your husband will be your country.”

Henriette nodded slowly; she knew that her mother had a husband in mind for her. It was a boy who would one day be the most important man in France. He was already a King, even as Charles was. He was Louis XIV. She had forgotten what he looked like so she began to picture him looking exactly like her brother Charles, although she knew that he was not so old. But he was a King, and people would kneel and kiss his hands as they kissed Charles’. She was not displeased at the thought of marriage with Louis since when she thought of him she thought of a boy who looked like Charles, spoke like Charles and indeed was another Charles—but instead of being called by that name he was Louis, and King of France instead of King of England.

Now, of course, on account of the Fronde, the little King and his brother did not come to Paris. Henrietta Maria and her daughter stayed there because they were not important and Paul de Gondi allowed them to.

So sometimes they were in the apartments of the Louvre, and sometimes they were in the house on the hills of Chaillot. Henriette studied; she found it easy to study and there were few distractions. She wanted to learn; there was so much to know. She wanted to understand why the people of England had killed her father and would not allow Charles to have his throne; she wanted to know why the people of France were threatening their monarch with the same treatment.

Mademoiselle de Montpensier visited them now and then. “La Grande Mademoiselle” she was called in Paris, for she was on the side of the Frondeurs; and she hoped to be remembered in the years to come as another Jeanne d’Arc who had saved France. She was very handsome and very anxious that everyone should pay homage to her, the cousin of the King, the richest heiress in Europe, and now … the heroine of the Fronde.

Henriette knew that her mother wanted La Grande Mademoiselle to marry Charles, and Henriette thought she was almost worthy of him as she looked at the handsome girl so exquisitely dressed in the fashions inspired by the Fronde—her long hanging sleeves were frondées, slung, not looped; her fan, gloves and kerchief were all à la mode de la Fronde; on her elaborate hat she wore an ornament which was the shape of a sling. The people cheered as her carriage drove through the streets: “Vive la grande Mademoiselle!”

Mademoiselle should, so said Henrietta Maria, look to her actions. Did she think that her attitude endeared her to the Queen Mother? Was this siding with the Queen’s enemies a wise thing? It was true that the great Condé was on the side of the Fronde, and that many aristocrats had followed his example, but for a young woman who hoped to marry the little King to side with his mother’s enemies, was surely unwise!

But Mademoiselle was unwise and Mademoiselle was arrogant. She thought herself grand and clever enough to do exactly as she pleased.

She was coquettish; she liked to talk to Henrietta Maria about Charles, for Charles was one of her many suitors, and although Mademoiselle considered him beneath her, she was not averse to hearing of his passion for her.

The little Princess liked to be present at these conversations between her mother and Mademoiselle; she liked to hear their talk of Charles, for, of course, they talked of him differently from the way in which they talked of him to her. There was so much she wanted to know about that most fascinating person, her beloved brother Charles.

“When he regains his kingdom his wife will be the Queen of England,” Henrietta Maria constantly reminded her niece.

“Ah, when, dear Madame! When will that be?”

“Can you doubt that it will be ere long? The people of England will not endure forever that upstart Cromwell and his miserable rule.”

“They say he has a way of enforcing that which is not palatable.”

“Can you doubt that a young man so strong, so full of courage, so determined, will not soon win back his kingdom?”

“There are some who say he loves the company of women better than that of soldiers and statesmen.”

“So did my father, but that did not prevent his conquering his enemies and bringing an end to civil war in France.”

“But that happy state of affairs did not come about until he was well advanced in years. I should not care to spend the days of my youth an exiled Queen. Moreover, the King of England, even while courting me, brought his mistress to Paris.”

“Bah! A man must have a mistress. What of that?”

“And treats her bastard as though he were a prince.”

“He is at least the bastard of a King.”

“I have heard that there is some doubt of that. This Lucy Water! Who is she? A King’s mistress should have some quality, should she not?”

“He but amuses himself. And what ladies of quality were there, do you think, at The Hague where he found her?”

“Madame, she was his mistress in Paris.”

“He is the sweetest natured man in the world. He could not turn her off because he was in Paris. You will see what grand mistresses he will have when he is in his own country.”

“Madame, I would rather my husband were faithful to me than that he should have the grandest mistresses in the world. Your son cannot remain faithful to any woman. Why, even when he courts one, his eyes follow others. I hear now that he is causing some scandal in Jersey. There is a woman’s name which is mentioned in connection with him—Margaret Carteret.”

“Margaret Carteret!” interrupted the Queen. “She is merely the daughter of the Seigneur of Trinity. She is a young girl. My son stays at Elizabeth Castle, which is her father’s residence, and because my son is there and a young woman is there …” Henrietta Maria’s hands flew up in a gesture of inevitability.

“Wherever Charles Stuart is, Madame, there will be scandals concerning women.”

“That is because he is so gallant and charming.”

“And such a lover of women!”

“Mademoiselle,” said Henrietta Maria, “I shall tell my brother to marry you to a monk. I can see that you do not wish for a man.”

And with that Henrietta Maria rose and left her niece, taking short rapid steps which, to her daughter, conveyed her anger.

Little Henriette sat on, quietly thinking of her brother.

Lucy, who had been lonely, was lonely no longer.

She had left Paris for The Hague—with her was the King and his little Court—for Charles had returned from Jersey and there were new plans afoot with the Scots. The Marquis of Montrose was awaiting him at The Hague with new propositions to lay before him. England would have none of her King; but Jersey had accepted him, and Scotland was prepared to do so—on terms. All Charles need do was sign the Oath of the Covenant, and he could be crowned at Scone.

Lucy did not understand why the King should be so perplexed. If he could not be King of England he could at least be King of Scotland. To be King of any land was surely better than to be King of none; and even Lucy could see that Charles was King in name only.

“You don’t understand, Lucy,” her lover tried to explain. “The Covenanters of Scotland are Presbyterian, and the Church of Scotland is the enemy of the Church of England, of which my father was head. There was trouble when my father sought to force them to accept the English liturgy. To sign the Covenant is, in a measure, to betray England. But what is the use of explaining, Lucy? You do not care for these matters, and perhaps in that you are wise. Lucy, I often think that if all the world were as careless of so-called great matters, and so absorbed in the pleasure of love, this Earth would be a happier place.”

Lucy smiled; she knew how to turn him from his worries; and he was only too ready to be turned. He hated trouble; when it presented itself he always seemed to be looking for the easiest way out of it.

His friend George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, was at his elbow now. “Why not sign the Covenant?” he asked. “Better to have a country to rule over—even if it is that bleak and puritanical one—than remain an exile here!”

And so eventually he decided to sign. He knew that his mother would throw up her hands in despair, for the Covenanters’ aim was to destroy Popery; he knew that there would be many to say that had he been a nobler man he would have preferred exile to siding with the Covenanters. He explained to Buckingham: “I am not a man who is so devoted to religion that he cannot set it aside for the sake of peace. My grandfather changed his religion that the wars of France might cease. There are times when I feel that I am my grandfather reborn.”

“It is true you are as careless of religion,” agreed George. “You are devoted to women. There is certainly a resemblance. But, Sire, you will have to work harder with the latter if you are to compete with your noble grandsire.”

“Give me time,” murmured the King. “Give me time.”

The two young men could not be serious for long, and even the prospect of a sojourn in a land of Puritans could not curb their levity.

So Charles left for Scotland, whither obviously he could not take his mistress and little Jemmy. The Scots, said the King, so assiduously loved God that it gave them little time for loving others—even their wives; but he had little doubt that they took time off from their devotions to make love to their wives now and then, though it would be under cover of darkness and, as he had heard, for the sole purpose that more Puritans might be procreated.

Before he left he embraced Lucy and spent as long as he could playing with Jemmy.

“Take care of my boy, Lucy,” he admonished, “and remember me when I am gone.”

“I will never forget you, Charles,” she told him.

“Nor I you, Lucy.”

He did not promise that he would be faithful; although he broke so many promises, he did not make them callously. He doubted that he would be faithful, though he had heard that the Scottish women were as cold as their climate. There were always exceptions, as he well knew, and if there was one warmhearted woman in Scotland, he doubted not that he would find her.

So Lucy stood on the shore watching the ship sail away from Holland; then she returned to her apartments where she had so often entertained her royal lover, and declared to Ann Hill that no gentleman should enter her bedroom until her royal lover returned.

“You could not tolerate another after him,” said Ann.

“Indeed I could not!” declared Lucy.

She believed this for two whole days. Then she began to feel lonely. Her big brown eyes would rest wistfully on several handsome men who still remained at The Hague; but always little Ann Hill would be there to remind her of Jemmy’s father.

Lucy would sigh, and she and Ann would talk of Charles; and Lucy tried to be contented with that.

There was great excitement at The Hague because the Duke of York had arrived. The Duke lacked the gay charm of his brother; he was not unhandsome—and Charles was far from handsome—yet James seemed unattractive when compared with the King. He was solemn and rather obstinate; but in one respect he did resemble his brother—his love of the opposite sex. He did not enjoy his brother’s success with women, but he was determined to do so as soon as possible.

Lucy met Sir Henry Bennett soon after the arrival of the Duke. Sir Henry had come to Holland with James, and like James was looking for amusement at the quiet Court. As soon as he set eyes on Lucy he decided she could provide this, and when he learned something of her history, he could not believe—in spite of her association with the King—that she would be unwilling to become his mistress.

He called at her apartments, pretending to bring a message from his master. Ann Hill brought him to her mistress whose big brown eyes were wistful as they rested on his handsome figure, for if he had noticed Lucy, Lucy had also noticed him, and although they had not spoken at their first meeting, their glances told each other a good deal.

“Mistress Water!” said Sir Henry, bowing over her hand.

“Welcome to Holland, Sir Henry.”

“I was loath to leave France for Holland,” he said, his warm eyes full of suggestions, “but had I known I should find you here, Mistress Lucy, my reluctance would have immediately changed to delight.”

“Men’s tongues become sugar-coated at the French Court, I’ve heard.”

“Nay, Lucy. They learn to appreciate beauty and are not chary of expressing that appreciation.”

Lucy signed to Ann to leave them. Ann was hovering, and Lucy knew that she was trying to remind her of her royal lover. Lucy did not want to remember Charles just now; she had remembered him for four months—an age for Lucy—and none but Charles could have kept her faithful so long.

As soon as they were alone Sir Henry was beside her, taking her hands and covering them with kisses.

“You … you move too quickly, sir.”

“Madame, in this world of change, one must move quickly.” “I would have you know of my position here.”

“Do you think I do not know it? Do you think I did not make it my first business to know it, as soon as I set eyes on you?”

“There is a child in the next room who is the King’s child.”

“Poor Lucy! You have been long alone, for indeed it is long since His Majesty left for Scotland.”

“I have been faithful to Charles …”

“Dear Lucy! What hardship for you! Come, I will show you that a knight in your arms is a better man than a king across the water.”

“That sounds like treason, sir.”

“Who’d not commit treason for you, Lucy!”

Lucy ran from him and made for the door, hoping he would catch her before she reached it, which he did very neatly. He kissed her with passion.

“How dare you, sir!” cried Lucy.

“Because you are so fair and it is a sin that all these charms should be wasted.”

“You shall pay for this, sir.”

“I’ll pay with pleasure, Lucy.”

“You will go at once and not dare come here again.” Lucy’s voice faded away; she gasped; she sighed; and she pretended to struggle as she was carried into the bedchamber.

So Lucy was no longer alone. Lucy had a lover.

The little Court, amused, looked on. What was Charles doing in Scotland? They wondered; they had heard rumors. Was he thinking wistfully of his exiled Court? From all accounts the Covenanters were keeping a stern eye upon him. He must listen to prayers and sermons each day; he must not walk abroad on Sundays; he must spend long hours on his knees. It was a big price, all decided, to ask of a man such as Charles, even for a kingdom. And what of the women of Scotland? How could he elude his jailors—for it seemed they were no less—to enjoy that company in which he so delighted? It was said that he was not permitted even to play cards, and that he had been seen by a pious lady sitting at an open window doing so, and that she had immediately complained to the Commissioners of the Kirk. The King was sternly reprimanded. Cards on the Sabbath! The Scots would not allow that. One of the Commissioners had come in person to rebuke him and had read a long sermon on the evils of card-playing at all times, assuring him that it was a double sin to play on the Sabbath. But this Commissioner had seemed to be aware of the strain the Scots were imposing on the gay young King, for it was said that he whispered before he left: “And if Your Majesty must play cards, I beg of you to shut the window before commencing.” From which it might be deduced that Charles had found some in Scotland to understand him a little.

He had not been crowned, and the Duke of Hamilton and the Earl of Lauderdale had been warned that he was not to mingle with the people on the streets, for that easy charm would, it was understood, win them to his side; and because he was such a feckless young man no one could tell what effect this might have. The Scots wished to keep Charles Stuart under their control; he was to be the figurehead they would use when they marched against Cromwell’s England.

But, said the exiled Court, if there was an opportunity Charles Stuart would have found a mistress, and there were always women in any country; so it was certain that the warmth of Charles Stuart’s charm would have dispersed even the frigid mists of Scotland.

In any case Charles might be hurt when he came back to find Lucy unfaithful, but he would understand. He could always understand. Warm and passionate himself, he would be ready to make allowances for Lucy’s warm and passionate nature. It was true, Lucy assured herself, that no one of her temperament—or Charles’—could remain faithful to an absent lover for so long. So, after the first reluctant submission which Lucy liked to imagine had taken place by force, she would make assignations with her lover; she would deck herself with finery; she gave herself up to the arts of loving which she practiced so well, and in a month after the day when Sir Henry Bennett called at her apartments she found that she was to have his child.

A small and solemn party was riding slowly towards Carisbrooke Castle. There were guards before and behind; there were a few servants and a tutor, and in the center of the party rode two children, the elder a girl of fifteen, the younger a boy of eleven.

As they rode along the boy would take surreptitious glances at the girl down whose cheeks the tears were quietly falling. The pale face of his sister frightened him; her tears worried him, for he knew that she was now even more unhappy than she had been before.

He had always been afraid of his sister, afraid of her passionate courage as well as her frequent tears. She could not be reconciled to their way of living as he could have been. He could have forgotten that he was a prisoner if she would do so.

“But no!” she cried passionately. “You must not forget. You always remember who we are, and above all you must remember Papa.”

At the mention of his father’s name the little boy was always moved to tears. When he was in bed at night he would make a pact with himself: “I will not think of Papa!” And to his prayers he added “Please God guard me this night and do not let me dream of Papa.”

He was Prince Henry, but no one but his sister Elizabeth ever referred to his rank. To the servants and his tutor he was Master Harry, and his sister, instead of being Princess Elizabeth, was Mistress Elizabeth. It was said that they were to be made to forget that they were Royal Stuarts. Elizabeth was to be taught button-making and Henry shoe-making, that they might eventually become useful members of the Protector’s Commonwealth.

“I would rather die!” cried Elizabeth, and indeed it seemed that if grief and melancholy could kill, Elizabeth would soon be dead.

Mr. Lovel, the little boy’s tutor, whispered to him when they were alone that he was not to be afraid. The Protector’s bark was worse than his bite, and he uttered these threats in order to humiliate the little boy’s mother and brothers.

So, with Mr. Lovel to teach him and to give him comfort in secret, Henry could have borne his lot; but his sister was always there to remind him of what they had lost.

She, who was older than he was, remembered so much more of the glorious days. He scarcely remembered his mother; his father he remembered too well. Charles, James and Mary he had scarcely known, and his youngest sister, Henriette, he had never seen at all. Moreover he was physically stronger than Elizabeth, who had broken her leg when she was eight years old and had remained in delicate health thereafter; she grew paler and thinner, but her spirit of resentment against her family’s enemies burned more fiercely every day.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered to her now, “Elizabeth, do not weep so. Perhaps we shall be happy at Carisbrooke.”

“Happy in prison!”

“Perhaps we shall like it better than Penshurst.”

“Shall we enjoy living in that very place where he lived just before … just before …”

Henry’s lips trembled. It would be impossible to forget Papa in the castle where he too had been a prisoner.

Elizabeth said: “They took Papa there before they murdered him, and now they take us there.”

Henry was remembering it all so clearly as they rode along. He was sure that he would have more vivid dreams in Carisbrooke Castle. Perhaps he would ask Mr. Lovel to sleep in his room. Elizabeth would be angry with him if he did so. “You are afraid to dream of Papa!” she had cried scornfully, when he had told her of his fears. “I wish I could dream of him all through the days and nights! That would be almost like having him with us again.”

Now the little boy was crying. He remembered it all so vividly, for it had happened only a year ago when he had been ten years old. One day—a bitterly cold January day—men had come to Syon House, which was the prison of his sister and himself at that time, and they said that the children were to pay a visit to their father.

When Elizabeth had heard this she had burst into bitter weeping, and Henry had asked: “But why do you cry? Do you not want to see Papa?”

“You are too young to understand,” Elizabeth had sobbed. “Oh, lucky Henry, to be too young!”

But he was no longer young; he had ceased to be young that very day.

He could remember the sharp frosty air, the ice on the water; he remembered riding beside the frozen river and wondering why Elizabeth was crying since they were going to see their father.

And when they had arrived at the Palace of Whitehall, Henry had felt his father to be a different man from the one he had known before, and in his dreams it was the father he saw on that day who always appeared. Henry remembered vividly every detail of that last meeting. He could see his father’s face, lined, sad, yet trying to smile as he took Henry on his knee while the weeping Elizabeth clung to his arm. He could see the velvet doublet, the pointed lace collar, the long hair which hung about his father’s shoulders.

“So you have come to see me, my children.” He had kissed them in turn. “Do not weep, beloved daughter. Come, dry your eyes … to please me.”

So Elizabeth had dried her eyes and tried to smile; their father had held her tightly to him and kissed the top of her head. Then he had said: “I must have a little talk with your brother, Elizabeth. See, he is wondering what all this is about. He says, ‘Why do you weep, when we are together thus? Is it not a time for rejoicing when we are together?’ That’s what Henry thinks; is it not, my little son?” Henry nodded gravely. “We wish to be with you more than anything,” he had said. “Papa, let us be together now … and always.”

His father had not answered that, but Henry remembered how his arms had tightened about him.

“My little son,” he had said, “grave events are afoot. In these times we cannot say where we shall be from one day to another. I am going to ask you to remember this meeting of ours in the years ahead. I want you to remember what I say to you. Will you try to do that?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Then listen carefully. These are two things I have to say to you, and although you are but ten years old, you are the son of a King, which means that you have to remember much more than other boys. These are the two things I wish you to remember, and if you are ever tempted to forget them, think of this moment when you sit on my knee and your sister stands there trying not to weep, because she is older than you are. The first: You have two brothers. Never allow any to put you on the throne of England while either of them lives. The second is this: Never renounce the Faith of the Church of England in which Mr. Lovel has instructed you. There! That is what your father asks of you. Will you do these things for me, and if any should try to turn you from the wish to obey me, remember this day?”

Henry put his arms about his father’s neck. “Yes, Papa. I will remember.”

And shortly after that time he had grown up. He had begun to understand. He knew that the day after he had sat on his father’s knee and made his solemn promise, men had taken the King outside the banqueting hall at Whitehall and there, before the eyes of many people, had cut off his head.

That was the specter which haunted his dreams—his beloved father, a father no more, but a headless corpse, those kind eyes glassy, staring and smiling no more.

If he could only forget his father’s death, if he and Elizabeth could only escape from his father’s enemies and join their mother, how happy he might be! He did not mean that he would forget his promise to his father; that he would never do. But he would be happy in his love for his mother and his brothers and sisters, and he would then be able to forget that last interview, those brooding eyes, so kind and tender and so heartbreakingly sad.

Perhaps one day Elizabeth would help him to escape as she had helped James. She had reproached James for not escaping before. She had mocked him for his cowardice. “Were I a boy and strong, I’d not long remain the captive of that beast Cromwell!” she had declared. And at last James had escaped and gone across the sea to their mother and brother Charles, who was the King of England now.

After they had been taken back to Syon House following that last interview, Elizabeth had changed. Then young Henry had seen his sister devoid of all hope.

Then to Penshurst where they had lived with the Earl and Countess of Leicester, who had been kind to them but forced to obey the instructions of the Parliament and treat the two children, not as the son and daughter of a King, but as other children of the household. Henry had not cared; it was Elizabeth who had suffered so cruelly.

And then, when she had heard she was to go to Carisbrooke, she had been stricken with horror. Henry had tried to comfort her. “It is near the sea, Elizabeth. It is very beautiful, they tell me.”

“Near the sea!” she had cried. “Very beautiful! He was there. There he lived and suffered before they took him away to murder him. Every room is a room in which he has lived … and waited for them to come for him. He will have watched from the ramparts … walked in the courtyards. Are you blind, Henry? Are you quite callous? Are you completely without sensibility? We are going to our father’s prison. One of the last places he was in before he was murdered. I would rather die … than go to Carisbrooke.”

And so she grew paler every day. She begged that she might not be sent to Carisbrooke, but all her entreaties were in vain. “Send them to Carisbrooke!” said the Protector, and the Protector ruled England.

“Perhaps we shall escape as James did … as Henriette did,” Henry whispered to her as they rode along.

“You may, Henry. You must!”

She knew she herself never would. She looked to Carisbrooke Castle as the place whither she would go to die.

If she died, pondered Henry, what of one poor little boy, fatherless and alone, cut off from his family?

Mr. Lovel rode up to him and tried to banish his melancholy. Did he not think this island was beautiful? He doubted not that the little boy would enjoy more freedom than he had in Kent. “For, Master Harry, this is an island and the water separates us from England.” Henry was ready to be beguiled; but Elizabeth just stared straight ahead, seeming unaware of the tears which ran down her face.

Then Mr. Lovel began to talk of Carisbrooke, which he said was a British camp at the time when the Romans came to Britain. The land surrounding the castle was then covered with thick yew trees, for the Celtic word “Caerbroc” meant “the town of yew trees.”

Mr. Lovel discoursed pleasantly of the Castle of Carisbrooke, which had faced the winds and storms of the Channel for so many hundreds of years; he told of Fitz-Osborne, the Norman who held the castle on condition that he defended it and the surrounding lands against all enemies, so that it was called The Honor of Carisbrooke. He told of Montacute, Earl of Salisbury, who had left his mark upon it in the reign of the second Richard, and of Lord Woodville who, years later, had enlarged the place. But Mr. Lovel could not continue with the Castle’s history for the simple reason that it had played a part in the tragedy of Henry’s father. So he came to an abrupt stop and spoke of other things.

Thus it had often been, Henry remembered. There were frequently those sudden terminations of conversation. It was as though people said: “Ah, now we are coming near to dangerous ground; we are approaching that terrible thing of which this little boy knows nothing.”

At last they reached the Castle, and Henry lifted his eyes to the Keep, high on its artificial mound; the ramparts, the barbican and the battlements seemed impregnable as they looked down in arrogance at the cosier Priory. The walls of the fortress were in the shape of a pentagon with five bastions of defense. The little party crossed the fosse and in a short time were in the Castle Yard, where Henry saw the well with a great wheel turned by a donkey in the same way that a dog labored in a turnspit.

The servants came out to see them; they did not bow or kiss their hands. They merely nudged each other and made such remarks as: “Oh, ’tis Mistress Elizabeth and Master Harry come to Carisbrooke.”

Elizabeth looked past them as though they did not exist, but Henry gave them a forlorn smile, for he understood, since Mr. Lovel had told him, that these people did not wish to be disrespectful to the son and daughter of the King; they had to remember that there was now no King and therefore no Prince and Princess; they were all citizens of the Commonwealth, and the Isle of Wight was a part of Cromwell’s England.

He dismounted and walked beside Elizabeth who looked small and frail in the big hall of the Castle; the mourning clothes, which she had refused to lay aside since the death of her father, hung loosely on her form. She would not eat the food which had been prepared for them. Henry tried not to eat, but he was so hungry, and Mr. Lovel pointed out that he could not help Elizabeth by joining in her fast. And very soon Elizabeth retired to her bed and, when she was there, she asked that she might speak to her brother before she slept.

Henry was frightened more than ever when he looked at the pale face of his sister.

“Henry,” she said, “I feel I shall not live long. I should not want to … in this prison. The happiest thing that could happen to me—since our enemies will not let me join our sister Mary in Holland—would be to join our father in Heaven.”

“You must not talk thus,” said Henry.

“Death is preferable to the lives we lead now, Henry. They are a dishonor to a line of Kings.”

“One day my brother will come to England and drive the Beast Cromwell away.”

Elizabeth turned her face to the wall. “I fear our brother lacks the strength of our father, Henry.”

“Charles … !” stammered the boy. “But Charles is now the King. All loyal subjects proclaim him such.”

“Our brother is not as our father was, Henry. I fear he will never live as our father lived.”

“Would it not be better so, dear Elizabeth, since our father’s way of life led him to the scaffold?”

“Our father’s way of life! How can you say such things! It was not our father’s way of life which led him there; it was the wickedness of his enemies. Father was a saint and martyr.”

“Then,” said the little boy gravely, “since our brother is not a saint he will not die as a martyr.”

“It is better to die or live in exile than to do that which is unkingly.”

“But our brother would not do that which is unkingly.”

“He is in Scotland now. He has joined the Covenanters. He has made himself a pawn for the Scots for the sake of a kingdom. But you are too young to understand. I would have lived in poverty and exile … yes, I would have been a button-maker, rather than have betrayed our father.”

Henry could not help being glad that his brother was not like his father. He personally knew little of Charles, but he had heard much of him. He had seen the smiles which came on to people’s faces when they spoke of him. He had his own picture of Charles—a brother as tall as his father had been, with always a song on his lips and a shrug of the shoulders for trouble. Henry had always thought it would be rather wonderful to be with such a brother. He did not believe he would take him on his knee and talk of solemn promises. Charles was jaunty, a sinner of some sort, yet people loved him; he might not be good, as his father and Elizabeth were good, but he would be a happy person to be with.

Elizabeth put a thin hand on his wrist. “Henry, your thoughts stray. You do not give your mind to what I am saying. Here we are in this terrible place; here, in this room, our father may have paced up and down thinking of us all … our mother and brothers and sisters—all scattered, all exiles from the land we were born to rule! Henry, I cannot live in this Castle, I cannot endure these great rooms, these stone walls and … the spirit of our father. I cannot endure it.”

“Elizabeth, perhaps we could escape.”

“I shall soon … escape, Henry. I know it. I shall not be here long. This prisoner of Cromwell will soon elude him.”

“Perhaps we could slip away from here. Perhaps there might be a boat to take us to Holland. I should have to dress as a girl, as James did….”

Elizabeth smiled. “You will do that, Henry. You will do it.”

“I should not go without you. This time you will come too.”

“I have a feeling you will go alone, Henry, for there will be no need for me to go with you.”

Then she turned her face to the wall and he knew that she was crying.

He thought: What good can come of crying? What good can come of grieving? They say Charles is always merry, that he does not let his sorrows interfere with his pleasures.

Henry longed to be with his gay brother.

Then, realizing how callous he was, he took his sister’s hand and kissed it. “I’ll never leave you, Elizabeth,” he said. “I’ll stay with you all my life.”

She smiled then. “May God bless you, Henry,” she said. “You will always remember what our father said to you, won’t you?”

“I will always remember.”

“Even when I am not here to remind you?”

“You will always be with me, for I shall never leave you.”

She shook her head as though she had some special knowledge of the future, and it seemed that she had, for a week after her arrival at Carisbrooke Castle, Elizabeth developed a fever which, mingling with her melancholy and her desire for death, robbed her of her life, and from then on there was only one young prisoner at Carisbrooke Castle. He found a way out of his loneliness in dreams, and those dreams were always of his family. He fancied that his mother came to sit by his bed each night; he could almost feel her good night kiss upon his brow.

One day, he told himself, I shall be with them all.

In reunion he would come to perfect happiness, and looking forward to that happy day he forgot he was a prisoner.

In her mother’s apartments at the Louvre, Henriette sat with her governess, Lady Morton, who was teaching her to make fine stitches on a piece of tapestry, when Queen Henrietta Maria came into the room. Anne Morton was glad it was a needlework lesson; Henrietta Maria was suspicious of all that was taught the Princess and was apt to fly into a passion if she heard the governess say anything which she might construe as “heresy.”

Lady Morton often thought of her own children in England who surely needed her; it was four years since, disguised as a servant, she had fled from England with the Princess on her back, and in those four years she had thought constantly of her own family. She knew she was fighting a losing battle against Henrietta Maria and Père Cyprien; they were determined to have this child for their Church, and they were succeeding.

But now Henrietta Maria had not come to talk of religion to her daughter and the governess. She burst in dramatically, for Henrietta Maria was dramatic by nature. Her black eyes were almost closed up with weeping; she was carelessly dressed and her tiny gesticulating hands betrayed her despair even more than the signs of grief on her face.

This was indeed La Reine Malheureuse.

She came straight to the Princess and, as little Henriette would have knelt—for the Queen was stricter in her observances of etiquette here in exile than she had ever been in her own Court of Whitehall—she lifted her in her arms and, bursting into bitter weeping, held the child’s face against her own.

Henriette remained passively unhappy, patiently waiting for her mother to release her. There was new trouble, she concluded. It seemed to her that there was always trouble. At such times she longed more passionately than ever for her brother Charles, for whatever the trouble he never mourned about it; he would more often laugh at it with a lift of the shoulders; and that was how Henriette wanted to meet trouble when it came to her.

At first she was terrified that this bad news might concern Charles. He was in Scotland, she knew; her mother railed about it at great length; she had sworn that Charles had gone to Scotland without her consent; she was angry because Charles was now a man who could make his own decisions, no longer a boy to be guided by her. “His father listened to my advice!” she had cried when he had gone to Scotland. “He never will. Your father was a man with experience of ruling a kingdom. This is a boy who has never been acknowledged King by the English; yet he flouts his mother’s advice.”

Henriette began to pray silently that the trouble did not concern Charles.

“My child,” cried Henrietta Maria, “you have lost your sister Elizabeth. News has come to me that she has died of a fever in Carisbrooke Castle.”

Henriette tried to look concerned, but as she had never seen Elizabeth she could scarcely grieve for her; moreover she was delighted that it was not Charles who was in trouble.

“My daughter … my little girl!” cried the Queen. “What will become of us all? There is my son … my little Henry, left now in that Castle where his father suffered imprisonment before his murder. When shall I see my son Henry? What evil is befalling him in that place with his enemies about him? Oh, I am the unhappiest of women! Where are my children now? Am I to lose them as I lost my husband? My son Charles pays no heed to his mother. He goes to Scotland and makes terms with the Covenanters. He fritters away his time, I hear, in dicing and women …”

“Mam,” said Henriette quickly, “what does it mean to fritter away his time with dicing and women?”

The Queen, as though suddenly aware of her daughter, gripped her so firmly that the little girl thought she would be suffocated. “My little one … my precious little one! You at least shall be saved for God.”

“But Charles and his dice … and women?”

“Ah! You hear too much. You must never repeat what you hear. Lady Morton, you stand there weeping. That is for my little Elizabeth … my little daughter…. What will become of us all, I wonder? What will become of us …?”

“Madam, I doubt not that one day King Charles will recover his kingdom. There are many in England who long to see him on the throne.”

“But he has made this pact with the Covenanters.”

“Mayhap they will help him to regain his kingdom.”

“At what cost, at what cost! And my little Elizabeth … so young to die. We made plans for her at the time of her birth … my dearest Charles and I. Oh, I am the most unhappy of women. What would I not give to hear his voice again … to have him here to share this burden with me!”

“He had too many burdens in life, madam. This would but have added to them.”

Henrietta Maria stamped her foot. “It would not have happened had he been alive. They have not only killed their King but their King’s daughter.”

“Madam, you distress yourself.”

“You speak the truth, Anne. Prepare the Princess for Chaillot. I must go there at once. Only there can I find the comfort I need, the fortitude to bear the blows which God would seem to delight in dealing me.”

The Princess turned to her mother. “Mam, may I not stay with Nan?”

“My dearest, I want you with me. You too will wish to mourn for your sister.”

“I can mourn here, Mam. Nan and I can mourn together.”

Henrietta Maria forgot her grief for a moment. She looked sharply at Lady Morton. What did she teach the little Henriette when they were alone? Père Cyprien had said that the child asked too many questions. It was perhaps time Lady Morton went home; she had her own children. A mother should not be separated from her own in the service of her Princess.

“Nay, child, you shall come with me to Chaillot. You too, shall have the comfort of those quiet walls.”

“Madam,” said Lady Morton, “if you would care to leave the Princess in my charge …”

Henrietta Maria narrowed her eyes. “I have declared she shall come with me to Chaillot,” she said firmly. “Lady Morton, you have been a good and faithful servant. I shall never forget how you brought the Princess to me here in France. The saints will bless you forever for what you did. But I fear we trespass too much on your generosity and your loyalty. I often remind my daughter that you have children of your own.”

Henriette was looking into her governess’s face. Lady Morton had flushed slightly. The Queen had touched on a problem which had long given her cause for anxiety. It was four years since she had seen her family and she longed to be with them; yet she had never asked that she should be allowed to go home. She had felt it her duty to stay in France and do battle with Père Cyprien over the religion of the Princess Henriette.

The Queen and Père Cyprien were determined to make a Catholic of her; yet Lady Morton knew that it had been her father’s wish that she should be brought up in accordance with the tenets of the Church of England. She could not have understood how Henrietta Maria, who wept so bitterly for her husband, could work against his wishes in this way, had she not understood the nature of the widowed Queen. Henrietta Maria was a Catholic first; and anything else took second place to that. Lady Morton knew that she would have beaten the little girl whom she now fondled so tenderly, if the child had shown any signs of refusing to accept the Catholic faith. Moreover Henrietta Maria had always been able to believe what she wanted to believe, and now she was able to assure herself—in direct contradiction of the facts—that the child’s religious teaching had been left in her hands. And as Anne Morton looked at this fervent little woman with the snapping black eyes, she wondered once more whether Charles I might not still be alive had he married, instead of the French woman, the bride from Spain who had at first been intended for him.

Now there was a subtler meaning behind the Queen’s words concerning Lady Morton. Was she thinking of dismissing her? It would seem so. She wanted Père Cyprien to take over the education of her daughter completely; she wanted no heretic to have a hand in it. Henrietta Maria would wave aside the valiant part Anne Morton had played in bringing her daughter to France; she would forget that which she had vowed never to forget, for it would be in the name of the Holy Catholic Church. She would forget her gratitude to Anne as she had forgotten the wishes of her husband whom she continued to mourn. Henrietta Maria was a tornado of emotions; and Lady Morton had to make up her mind whether her duty lay with her own children or with the Princess.

Henrietta Maria was watching her slyly, guessing her thoughts. Even in that moment of grief for her daughter Elizabeth, she would not swerve in what she called the battle for the soul of Henriette.

“And now,” the Queen was saying, “we shall prepare for Chaillot. There we shall mourn together, dearest. Lady Morton, prepare the Princess. You will not accompany us, of course.”

The Princess was led away, thinking sadly of the rigorous life at Chaillot, of the solemn nuns in their black garments, of the hard wood on which she had to kneel for so long, of the cold rooms and the continual ringing of bells. And what if Charles should come while she was there and go away again without seeing her?

She mentioned this to Anne, who said: “But he is in Scotland. He cannot come so soon. You will doubtless be back in the Louvre before he is again in Paris. Moreover …” She paused and Henriette had to urge her to go on. “It is nothing,” she added. “I know nothing.”

Henriette stamped her foot—a habit learned of her mother. “I will not have you start to tell me something and then stop. You do it often. I wish to know. I wish to know.”

Then Anne Morton knelt down so that her face was on a level with that of the Princess. Anne was near crying, Henriette saw; she put her arms about her neck and kissed the governess. “Anne, are you crying for Elizabeth?” she asked.

“Not only for her, my darling. For us all.”

“Why for us all?”

“Because life has become so hard for us.”

“Are you thinking of your children in England?”

“Of them … and of you … I pray we shall soon all be in England.”

“Do you think we shall?”

“Well, suppose the Scots helped your brother to regain his throne, and suppose he was crowned in London, and suppose you all went home …”

Henriette clasped her hands. “I will think of that, Anne. All the time I am at Chaillot I will think of that. Then the time will pass quickly perhaps.”

But the time at Chaillot did not pass quickly. There was more bad news.

The Prince of Orange, who was the husband of Henriette’s sister Mary, died, and there was more shedding of bitter tears. In vain did little Henriette try to comfort her mother. “But this is not so bad, dear Mam, is it? Not as bad as Elizabeth’s death. Elizabeth was my own sister and your daughter, but the Prince is only the husband of Mary …”

“My child, you are but six years old, yet you have already known more sorrow than many know in a lifetime. This is a sad thing … in a way it is sadder than the death of Elizabeth for, my love, Elizabeth was but a little girl … a prisoner. We loved her dearly and her death hurt us in one way; but the death of your other sister’s husband touches us more closely. Now that he is dead, your sister has not the same power, and there are men in her country who wish to be friends with Cromwell.”

“The beast Cromwell?”

“The beast Cromwell!” Henrietta Maria spat out the words, and the Cromwell in the Princess’s mind was an ape-like figure with terrible teeth and a crown on his head—her father’s crown. “They are friends of the beast, so they will not offer the hospitality to your brothers that they have received in the Prince’s day.”

“Won’t there be another Prince, Mam?”

“Yes. We hope that when your sister’s child is born he will be the Prince.”

“Then they won’t dare be friends with the beast?”

“He will be but a baby. He can do little while he is so young. Oh, was there ever such an unhappy woman as your mother, child? Was there?”

“There was our Lady of Sorrows,” said Henriette.

Then Henrietta Maria swept up her daughter in one of her suffocating embraces. “You comfort me, my daughter,” she said. “You must always comfort me. You can, you know. A little girl like you can make up for all I have suffered.

“I will, Mam. I will make you La Reine Heureuse instead of La Reine Malheureuse.”

There were more close embraces; and Henriette could not understand why that which she had offered as comfort should open the gates to more floods of tears.

There was one happy event which pleased the Queen: her daughter Mary gave birth to a son. He was christened William and there was great rejoicing, not only throughout Holland but in the convent of Chaillot. Henriette was delighted. Now there would be no more tears; now they could be gay.

The Queen talked frequently of her grandchild. “My first grandchild … my very first!” She thought fleetingly of that bonny boy whom Charles called Jemmy. If that boy had been the child of Charles’ wife instead of that low woman Lucy Water, what a happy woman she would have been! Henriette too was thinking of Jemmy. She reminded her mother of him. “He is your grandchild too, Mam. And, Mam, it is said that Charles already has more than one son.”

“Then they should have their tongues cut out for saying it!”

“Why, Mam? Is it not a matter for rejoicing when a king has many sons?”

“When a king decides to have sons he should first take the precaution of marrying.”

“Why, Mam?”

“Because when a man is a king he should have sons who could follow him as kings.”

Henriette as usual sought excuses for her brother. “Mayhap as he has no crown, he thought he need not have a marriage.”

“He is a gay rogue, your brother.”

Henriette laughed; she did not mind Charles being called that, when it was done in such a manner that “rogue” was almost a compliment.

“He is the most wonderful person in the world, Mam,” she said. “How I wish he could be here!”

She looked eagerly at her mother, hoping that her attitude had softened towards her eldest son; but there were so many emotions to be seen in the Queen’s face that it was impossible to know which train of thought she was following.

“Would the Prince of Orange had lived to see his son!” said Henrietta Maria fervently.

“Still, Mam, it is a good thing that he has left a son, even though he is not here to see him.”

Shortly afterwards they returned to their apartments in the Louvre, and there a shock awaited the Princess, for Anne Morton came to her and told her she was going home to England.

“I have my own children who need me,” she explained.

“But I need you,” said Henriette, her eyes filling with tears.

“My dearest, I must go. I have outlived my usefulness to you.”

“I’ll not let you go, Nan. You are my Nan. Did you not bring me here? Nan, do not talk of going. Instead let us talk of the days when we left England and I insisted on telling everyone that I was a Princess.”

“That was long ago, sweetheart. Now you have your mother and Père Cyprien to look after you, and you no longer need your Nan.”

So, thought Henriette, Anne was leaving because of the conflict between her and Père Cyprien. Henriette threw herself into her governess’s arms and begged her not to go. But Anne’s mind was made up, and so was the Queen’s, and beside those overwhelming factors, the tears and entreaties of a little Princess carried no weight.

There came a wonderful day in the life of Henriette. It was during the October following her seventh birthday, and her mother and those about her had been more than usually somber for a long time.

Henriette had tried to discover what it was that saddened them, but no one answered her questions. She was just set to do her lessons under the guidance of Père Cyprien, to read the holy books he brought for her, and so to study how to be a good Catholic.

Then one day her mother said to her: “My daughter, we are going to meet someone. I want you to ride with me out of Paris to greet this person. Wear your prettiest clothes. You will be glad you have done this when you see who this person is.”

One name trembled on Henriette’s lips, but she did not say it; she was afraid that if she said that name her mother might shake her head and say impatiently: “How can that be! You know he is in Scotland.”

So she waited, wondering who it could be; and on the road between Paris and Fècamp, she was suddenly gloriously happy; for it was Charles himself whom they had ridden out to meet.

She stared at him for some seconds before she recognized him. He had changed so much. His beautiful curls had all been cut off, and his hair was like a thick black cap that did not reach below his ears. He was bearded and seemed even darker than before. He was taller than she remembered, and gaunt; he was no longer a young man. His face was tanned with sun and wind; there were fresh lines about his mouth; his expression was less gentle, more cynical, and the strain of melancholy was more pronounced. But it was Charles. There were the same large eyes ready to twinkle, the mouth so ready to curve into a smile.

And when he saw her his expression became doubly sweet. He cried: “Why, if it is not my Minette! And growing fast! Almost a young woman.”

She forgot her manners and cried: “Charles! Dear Charles! This is the happiest day since you went away!”

Then she was aware of her mother’s eyes upon her, and hastily she knelt and kissed the hand of her King.

They were together often in the apartment of the Louvre. She contrived to be with him whenever possible and he, characteristically, aided her in this. She would curl up at his feet or sit close to him on a window seat; and she would take his hand and hold it firmly between her own small ones as though to imply that if he tried to leave her she would hold him against his will.

“You have been a long time away, Charles,” she scolded. “I was afraid you would never return.”

“’Twas no wish of mine, Minette, and constantly I thought of you,” he told her. “How gladly would I have fled from those dreary Presbyterians to be in Paris!”

“Were they very gloomy, Charles?”

“Deadly. They preached all the time; I was called upon to say my prayers it seemed a hundred times a day.”

“Like Chaillot,” murmured Henriette.

“I’ll tell you this, Minette. Presbyterianism is no religion for a gentleman of my tastes.”

“Your tastes are for dicing and women,” she told him.

That made him laugh aloud and she held his hand more tightly than ever. What could be said to Charles of Charles could produce nothing but hilarious laughter, whereas said to others it would bring shocked reproaches. She loved that quality in him.

“So you begin to understand your brother, eh?”

She nodded. “Tell me about Scotland, Charles.”

“Oh that! It was dull … dull! You would go to sleep if I told you. No! I will tell you what befell me in England, shall I? That makes a more stirring tale.”

“Yes, please, dear Charles, tell me what befell you in England.”

“It is only due to miraculous providence that you see me here, Minette. There was not only one miracle, but many were required to bring your brother back to you. And the wonder is that those miracles happened.”

“What would have happened if you had not come back?”

“At this hour my head would be on a pike on London Bridge and people passing would point up to it and say: ‘There is Charles Stuart—the second Charles Stuart—who came to seek his crown and left us his head!’”

“No, no no!” she cried.

“There, Minette, it was but a joke. There is no need for tears. My head is firm on my shoulders. Feel it. See how firm it is. Charles Stuart will never lose his head … except when dealing with your sex.”

“You must never lose it … never!”

“But to lose it in that way is not to have it cut off, sweetheart. It is just to love … so that all else seems of no importance. But I am talking foolishly as, alas, I so often do. No more of heads. I’ll tell you what befell me in England, and you must have no fear of what is past. What’s done is done, and here I am beside you. So while you listen to me remember this: I passed under the noses of my enemies and I came back here unharmed. Minette, I have been defeated by my enemies; but perhaps in some sense I have triumphed over them. I sought to win my crown, and in that I failed; they sought to make me their captive, and in that they failed. A stalemate, you see, therefore a victory for neither, and one day I will try again. Minette, there is something within me which tells me that I shall one day win my throne, that one day I shall be crowned England’s King. ’Tis a fate well worth waiting for, eh? God’s Body! ’Tis so indeed.”

She listened to him, watching his lips as he talked, looking now and then into those gentle humorous eyes which were momentarily sad, but never for long.

He told her of marching down from Scotland to England, of the fierce battle he and his supporters had fought against the Parliamentary forces. She did not understand all he said; but it seemed to her that he brought a thousand pictures of himself and held them up for her to see, and she believed she would remember them forever; she would preserve them, and when he was not with her that would, in some measure, serve instead of his exuberant presence.

She saw him, tall and dark, sitting on his horse with his men about him; they would be sad and dejected, for they had suffered terrible defeat at Worcester, and many of his friends were in the hands of the enemy. He had escaped by the first of the miracles, and as the few survivors from the battle clustered about him, they would be wondering how they could escape from a hostile country where at any moment, from behind any bush, their enemies might spring upon them.

She pictured him, rising with the Catholic gentleman, Charles Giffard and his servant Yates, whom Charles’ devoted supporter, the Earl of Derby, had produced to guide him through the dangerous country to Whiteladies and Boscobel, where there were many places in which a King might hide. She saw him stopping at an inn for a hasty tankard of ale and then riding on through the night, bread and meat in one hand, eating as he rode, because he dared not stay but must journey south since the enemy and their scouts were waiting for him at every turn. She felt she was with him in the saddle as, in the early morning light, he saw in the distance the ruined Cistercian convent of Whiteladies.

He was silent for a while, his face hardened because he was thinking it was a bitter thing that England’s King should depend on the bounty of humble Englishmen for a night’s lodging.

“Did you stay in the ruined convent, brother?” asked Henriette.

“It is not a convent now. It had been turned into a farmhouse. It was the property of the gentleman, Giffard, who had brought us there. We were not sure whom we could trust, sister. That was why every movement we made was perilous. I remember standing beneath a casement window which was opened suddenly and a man’s head appeared. I knew this to be one of the Penderels, a family who had been servants to the Giffards, and who were now tenants of Whiteladies. There were three Penderel brothers living at Whiteladies, and this I guessed to be one of them.

“‘Bring you news of Worcester?’ cried a voice as the head appeared. It was that of a young man.

“Giffard answered: ‘Oh, ’tis you, George Penderel. The worst news from Worcester I could bring. The King is defeated!’

“‘What happened to His Majesty?’ asked George Penderel.

“‘He escaped and waits your pleasure below!’ I answered.

“Then, my Minette, we were brought into Whiteladies and, to appease my hunger and thirst I was given wine and biscuits; and never, Minette, had food tasted so good as that did. So I sat on the floor with Derby, Shrewsbury, Cleveland, Buckingham and Wilmot about me, and we discussed with Giffard and these Penderels what might next be done.”

She clasped her hands together. “What wine was it, Charles?”

“Sack … the best in the world.”

“It shall always be my favorite.”

“Sister, you say such quaint and charming things that touch my heart and make me love you.”

Then he told her how the Penderel brothers sent a message to Boscobel, and more Penderels came to the aid of the King.

“I changed my clothes, Minette. I wore a green jerkin and breeches, a doublet of doeskin and a hat with a steeple crown—oh, such a dirty hat! I was loath to put it on my head. And when I put on these clothes and my own were buried in the garden, the man under that greasy hat still looked like Charles Stuart and none other—so what do you think? It was Wilmot, merry Wilmot—who could never be serious, even at such a time—who said: ‘We must shear the sheep, for by his curls shall they know him.’ And by God’s Body, without a by-your-leave, the rogue set about hacking my hair with a knife—and a pretty bad job he made of it—and there were those Penderels and those Yateses and their servants catching my curls as they fell, declaring they would put them away and keep them forever.”

“I wish you had kept one of your curls for me, Charles.”

“One of my curls! They are all yours, Minette—entirely and forever yours. And what would you want of one small curl when you have the whole of the man at your command?”

“For when you go away again.”

“You must remind me to give you one when next I depart.”

“I pray you do not talk so soon of parting.”

“Nay, Minette, I shall stay here for as long as I can … having nowhere else to go and no money even to buy me a shirt. Here’s a pretty pass! Would you believe I was the King of England—a King without a shirt or the wherewithal to buy one?”

“One day you will have as many shirts as you desire.”

“Alas, dear Minette, so many of my desires go beyond shirts. Now I will tell you how Mistress Yates brought me a dish of eggs, milk, sugar and apples, such as I had never tasted before and which seemed good to me; and when I had eaten again, I stood up in my leather doublet and my greasy hat and learned to walk in a loping manner as a rustic would, and Yates taught me how not to betray myself by my speech. I was a sorry failure. I could not rid myself of Charles Stuart. There he was … always ready to leap out and betray me … in my speech … in my walk … my very gestures. We heard that a party of Roundheads was not far off, so I went and hid in the woods while they called at the house to ask if Cavaliers had ridden that way; one of the party, they stressed, was a tall, dark, lean man. George Penderel said that such a party had passed that way but had headed away to the north some hour or more since … and off they rode; and as soon as dusk fell I went back to the house and nursed little Nan Penderel while her mother cooked eggs and bacon for my supper.”

“What was she like, Nan Penderel? Did you love her?”

“I loved her, Minette, because she reminded me of my own little sister.”

He told her of his arrival at Boscobel, a hunting lodge, and the home of other members of the Penderel family.

“I had walked so far that my feet were sore and bleeding, and Joan Penderel—who was the wife of William and lived with him at Boscobel—washed my feet and put pads of paper between my toes where the skin was rubbed. I rested there and I ate again; but the neighborhood was full of Roundhead soldiers, and it was certain that soon they would arrive at the house. Staying at Boscobel was a friend and good Royalist, Colonel Carlis, who had escaped from the Battle of Worcester, and was so delighted to see me that he wept—partly with joy to see me alive, partly with sorrow to see me in these straits—and he and I went out and climbed a great oak tree. The leaves were thick and they hid us, but we could peep through and see all that went on below. And while we were up there, we saw the soldiers searching the woods for us; and that was another miracle, Minette. Had we hidden anywhere but in an oak tree we should have been discovered; but who would look for a King in an oak tree? So Colonel Carlis and I waited hidden yet watching, while below us the Roundheads wandered about searching for me.”

“I shall love oak trees forever,” said Henriette.

Charles kissed her and they fell silent. Henriette was seeing pictures of Charles on a horse, riding for his life, a piece of bread and meat in his hand; Charles in a greasy hat, and pads of paper between his toes; Charles hidden in an oak, the leaves of which hid him from his enemies.

He was thinking of these things too; but he did not see them as Henriette did. He saw himself an exile, a King without a crown; he had left more than his curls behind him in England; he had left his youth, his lighthearted optimism; he felt jaded, cynical, and at times even careless of his crown.

Now he spent his time dicing and with women, as they had said of him in his little sister’s hearing.

He burst into sudden laughter.

It was perhaps a more satisfying way of passing one’s time than fighting for lost causes.

At her lodgings in The Hague, Lucy heard of the King’s return. She stared at her reflection in her mirror as Ann Hill tired her hair. Ann knew what she was thinking, and shook her head sadly. How differently she would have behaved had she been the King’s mistress!

Lucy said suddenly: “Do not look at me thus, girl!”

“I am sorry, madam,” said Ann, lowering her eyes.

“He has been away so long,” said Lucy sullenly. “It was too long. I was faithful to him for many weeks.”

“A long time for you, madam.”

If it had not required so much effort, Lucy would have boxed the creature’s ears.

“You are judging me, Ann Hill,” she contented herself with saying. “Take care I do not send you back to the gutter.”

“You would not do that. You and I could not do without each other now.”

“Do not deceive yourself. I could find a woman as clever with her fingers as you are, and less impudent with her tongue.”

“But not one that would love you as I do, and it is because I love you that I say what is in my mind.”

“Because you love him, you mean.”

“Madam, he is the King!”

“Oh, do not think of his rank. I have heard that he does not hesitate to take a serving wench, should the fancy move him.”

Ann blushed and turned away.

“There!” cried Lucy. “You see how you are! It is small wonder that you lack a lover. Men love those who are prepared to adventure anywhere with them. They look at such as myself and say: ‘Lucy is ready for anything! Lucy is the one for me!’ And they are right, for, Ann, I cannot live without a lover. I soon discovered that. I took my first lover when my home was being plundered by Roundhead soldiers, and I had only met him an hour or so before. When you can make love in such circumstances you will be one of whom the men will say: ‘Ah! She is the one for me!’”

“His Majesty, knowing that while he risked his life at Worcester, you were sporting with another man, will not be likely to say: ‘She is the one for me!’ I promise you that.”

“You promise me? What right have you to promise me anything? But, Ann, you are right. He would not have minded a little falling into temptation—who could understand that more readily than he?—but there is Mary.”

“Ah! There is Mary.”

“Some would have seen to it that the child was never born. I could not do that. I was too tenderhearted.”

“You are too lazy,” said Ann.

“Come nearer, girl, that I may box your ears.”

“Dearest mistress, how will you explain little Mary when His Majesty comes?”

“How can one explain a child? A child explains itself. There is only one way of begetting children. But I could say the child was yours.”

Angry color rose to Ann’s cheeks. “There is not one person in this town who does not know she is yours and the Colonel’s. Did you not start to call yourself Mistress Barlow when you grew large, so that people would think you had gone through the married state at some time?”

“It’s true, Ann. You cannot take credit for our little bastard. I believe I can hear her crying now … Go and see.”

Ann went away and soon came back with the baby. A boy of two years old, with lively black eyes, followed her into the room.

“Ah!” she said. “And here is young Jemmy too.”

Jemmy ran to his mother and climbed onto her lap. She laughed at his boisterous ways. He was the spoiled darling of the household, and his flashing dark eyes held a look of confidence that everything he wanted would be his.

Lucy kissed him fondly.

“Mamma,” he said, “Jemmy wants sweetmeats.”

His greedy little hands were already pilfering sweets from the dish beside her. She watched him, as he crammed them into his mouth.

The son of a King! she mused. And the sight of him brought back memories of Charles, which made her a little sad. She was wishing, not that she had been faithful to this boy’s father—Lucy was not one to wish for the impossible—but that he had not gone away. She wished that the little girl, whom Ann was soothing, had had the same father as the boy. A sparkle of animation came momentarily to Lucy’s face. Would it be possible to pass the girl off as Charles’ daughter? Suppose she had arrived a little earlier…. But it was impossible. Too many people had noted her arrival, had laughed up their sleeves because Charles’ mistress had taken a new lover. No! There was no way of explaining Mary; Charles would have to know.

“More sweeties! More sweeties!” cried the greedy Jemmy.

Lucy caressed the thick curly hair. At least Charles must be grateful for a boy like this one.

Henry came in and sent the children away with Ann, for naturally Henry had not come to see the children. His glowing eyes were appreciative of his plump mistress.

Later she said to him: “His Majesty is in Paris, Henry.”

“It’s true. Soon he will be seeking his Lucy. What then?”

“What then?” echoed Lucy.

“Sydney had to stand aside. I should not care to do that. I rejoice that we have the child to show him.”

“What will the King say to that, think you?”

“He’ll understand. Who better? That’s Charles’ way. He’ll not blame us. How can he? He’ll see how matters stood. How could he expect you to be faithful for so long? He knows how easy it is to fall into temptation. He loves us both, so he’ll forgive us. You look sad, Lucy. Do you feel regretful for His Royal Highness? I’ll warrant he has nothing I lack … apart from his royalty.”

“He is a very kind and tender man.”

“And I am not! Nay! You mean he is the King, and that counts for much. Come, cheer up! Be lighthearted as he will be, I am sure. I’ll tell you of a sight I saw outside the town yesterday. ’Tis a statue to a woman who is said to have borne as many children as there are days in the year—and all at one time. What an achievement, eh? What if, instead of one proof of our love, we had 365 to show His Majesty? What do you think he would say to that, eh?”

Lucy began to laugh. She said: “This is what he would do. He would laugh. He always laughs.”

“There is no need to fear the wrath of a man who is so ready to laugh as is our gracious King. Come, Lucy. Stop fretting. Three hundred and sixty-five all at one birth, eh? What manner of man was he to father such; what manner of woman she to bear them! I’ll warrant they were no more skilled than we are, Lucy. How would you like to see a statue raised to you in this town, eh?”

So they laughed, and very soon they were kissing and caressing.

They had nothing to fear from a King who, being so skilled in the arts of loving, understood so much.

In Paris Mademoiselle de Montpensier was discovering a new quality in the young King. He now spoke French without embarrassment; he had left his shyness behind him with his luxuriant locks.

He was skilled in the graceful art of paying compliments; even the young French gallants could not do so more graciously than he could, and with the words he spoke went such eloquent looks from those large brown eyes that Mademoiselle was tempted to consider him seriously as a husband.

Charles was certainly seriously considering her as a wife. She was handsome—though not as handsome as she believed herself to be—and she was rich and royal. He could not make a more suitable marriage, he believed, than with the daughter of the King’s uncle.

He thought of Lucy now and then. He had little fancy for Lucy now. He was not the inexperienced boy who had been her lover; he had grown up since he had last seen Lucy. Adventures such as he had experienced since he had left the Continent had done much to change him. He had sobered considerably, though this was not outwardly visible; he had lost those wild dreams of easily regaining his kingdom; the defeat at Worcester had marked him deeply; not only had it set shadows beneath his eyes, etched new lines of cynicism about his mouth; it had touched the inner man.

He was indolent; he knew it now, and he blamed himself for his defeat at Worcester. He firmly believed—for his gift of seeing himself without self-bias had been heightened by his misfortunes—that a better man would not have suffered defeat.

He had had a chance and lost it. He did not blame the superior forces of the Parliament, ill-luck, bad weather, or any of the ready-made excuses of defeated generals; it was characteristic of him that he blamed none but Charles Stuart. Somewhere he had failed. He had failed in Scotland; he had failed at Worcester; and he blamed himself because of his inclination to shrug his shoulders and think of dancing, gambling and going to bed with women, rather than starting a new campaign. He often thought: If the first Charles Stuart had had the power of the second Charles to see himself as he really was, and the second Charles had had the noble inclinations of the first Charles, they would, combined, have made one Charles worthy to wear the crown of England. It was a distressing foible to know oneself too well.

He had thought of this when riding with Jane Lane through the Forest of Arden. Dear Jane! So beautiful, so aloof, yet so entirely conscious that she rode pillion with the King. William, she had called him—William Jackson, her humble servant, who must accompany her on a journey. He would never forget that journey, the beautiful girl riding pillion behind him. He had been dressed as a farmer’s son in a gray cloak and high black hat; and for a week, Jane—and only Jane—had held his life in her hands. Yet never once had he attempted to make careless love to her, though when he said adieu to Jane, he had ceased to long for Lucy.

Lucy had a child now; he had heard that she was Sir Henry Bennett’s mistress. He was fond of Henry—an amusing fellow. He wished Henry luck with Lucy; he wanted to see young Jemmy; but he believed he had finished with Lucy. He wanted a different sort of woman. So he would not seek out Lucy; a meeting between them might provoke an awkward situation, and he had lost none of his desire to avoid such happenings.

No! He would enjoy these weeks in Paris. He would play with his little sister; he would court Mademoiselle who, he could swear, was more inclined to listen to him now than she had ever been.

“My cousin,” she said to him, as they walked through the gardens of the Tuileries, “you have grown up since you returned from England. You have ceased to be afraid of me.”

“I was never afraid of you, fair cousin,” he answered, “only afraid of myself.”

“Those are meaningless words,” she countered. “Afraid of yourself! What do you mean?”

“Afraid of the lengths to which my passion for you might lead me.”

“When you went away you could not speak French. You go to Scotland; you go to England; and you return speaking it fluently. Pray, did they teach you French in those two countries?”

“They taught me much, but not French. I came away not caring what was thought of my French or myself.”

“How was it you acquired such indifference to the opinion of others?”

“I suppose, Mademoiselle, it was because my opinion of myself was so bad that that which others had of me could not be much worse.”

“You sound like a cynical old man. Were the sins you committed in England great?”

“No greater than those committed by others, I dare swear.”

“Am I to conclude that you now have a contempt for the whole world?”

“Never! The world is made up not only of saints and sinners—both of which I have no doubt I should abhor—but also of beautiful women.”

“Could not beautiful women also be saints … or sinners?”

“Nay! They are but beautiful women. Beauty is apart. It exonerates them from all charges of sin or saintliness.”

“You are ridiculous, Charles. But you amuse me.”

“You would have been amused far more to see me with servants in the kitchen, posing as a nailer’s son from Birmingham. There I sat … one of them … so sure of myself—William, the nailer’s son from Birmingham. God’s Body! What a strange world this is, when it is better to be the son of a nailer from Birmingham than the son of a Prince of Scotland and Princess of France!”

Mademoiselle clenched her fists at the thought. She could not bear to contemplate insults to royalty. Charles noticed this and smiled. He was a King, and therefore it was easier to bear such insults than it was for poor Mademoiselle to contemplate them. Mademoiselle would never be a Queen in her own right; though she could achieve a crown mayhap by marrying him. Was this the moment to remind her of this? He doubted it.

He went on, “Unfortunately for me the meat-jack ran down. ‘Now, William,’ cried the cook, ‘why do you sit there … as though you’re a lord? Wind up the meat-jack and be quick about it!’ I was eager to serve the cook, but although much time and care has been spent on my education, the winding of meat-jacks was never taught me, and I, William, the nailer’s son, was exposed in my ignorance and called by that fat cook ‘the veriest clownish booby in the world!’”

“You should have drawn your sword and run the fellow through.”

“Then, dear lady, I should have left my head behind me on London Bridge. ’Tis better to be called a clownish booby—if you merit the name—than a corpse, to my way of reckoning. Howsoever, I fared better than Wilmot who, hiding in a malthouse, came near to being baked alive, while our enemies looked everywhere but in that spot for him.”

“And this Jane Lane … doubtless she became your mistress?”

“This is not so.”

“Come, Charles! I know you well.”

“Not well enough, it seems. I was the lady’s servant and as such I behaved.”

“Some servants, possessing the necessary qualifications, have been known to lay aside the garments of servitude at certain times.”

“Not such servants as William Jackson when serving such a mistress as Jane Lane. Ah! It is small wonder that you find me changed. You should have seen me trying to squeeze myself into a priest’s hole. You should have heard me. That hole was made not only for a smaller man than I, but for one less profane. You should have seen me mingling with the ostlers and the serving men. It is not easy for me to disguise myself. My dark and ugly face seemed known to all. How often was I told that I had a look of that tall, dark, lean man for whom the Parliament was offering a thousand pounds!”

“Yes, assuredly you have had adventures, cousin.”

“And one day, I shall succeed. You know that, dearest lady. One day I shall go to England and not return.”

“Do you mean that you will settle down to a life of servitude with a charming lady—a Mistress Lane?”

“I hope to settle down with a charming lady, but as a king, Mademoiselle. Would you be that charming lady? I should be the happiest man alive if that could be.”

“Ask me later, Charles. Ask me when you have won your crown.”

Charles kissed her fingertips. He was by no means upset. Mademoiselle was too proud a young woman to make a comfortable wife. Moreover, he had caught sight of one of Mademoiselle’s ladies-in-waiting, the young Duchesse de Châtillon. She was a lovely creature—calm, serene and so gentle. In some measure she reminded him of Jane Lane; she was warm and tender yet unapproachable, being completely in love with her husband.

The hopelessness of loving her suited the King’s present mood.

He was happy to transfer his attentions from the haughty Mademoiselle to charming “Bablon” as he called the Duchesse.

Life suddenly began to change for Henriette. When she was eight years old she renewed her acquaintance with the two most important boys in France. One was Louis, the King, who was fourteen years old; the other, Philippe, his brother, was aged twelve.

The excitement began suddenly. Her mother came to her, and Henriette had begun to know that when those black eyes—embedded in pouches and wrinkles—sparkled and gleamed with speculation, when those plump white hands gesticulated wildly, there were plans in her mother’s mind.

“Great events are afoot,” cried Henrietta Maria, and she immediately dismissed all attendants.

The little girl gave her some anxiety; she was so thin and was growing too rapidly; and although she was vivacious and intelligent, she lacked that conventional perfection which was recognized in the Court as beauty.

“What may well be a very important day in your life is approaching, my child!” cried the Queen.

“In my life, Mam?”

“You are the daughter of a King—never forget that. My dearest wish is to see you wearing a crown. That alone can compensate me for all I have suffered.”

Henriette was uneasy. Her mother had a habit of imposing unpleasant tasks which had to be done for her sake, because she was La Reine Malheureuse who had suffered so much.

“The war of the Fronde is over. The King and his mother and brother are to return victorious to Paris.”

“And this … is important to me?”

“Now, child, you are not showing your usual intelligence. Is it not important to all France that those wicked rebels are subdued, that the King returns to his capital?”

“But, Mam, you said for me …”

“For you in particular. I want you to love the King.”

“All France loves him. Is that not so?”

“You must love him as the King of this land, of course; but you must love him in another way. But more of that later. Louis is the most handsome King that ever lived.”

Henriette set her lips stubbornly. There was only one King who could be that to her.

Henrietta Maria shook her daughter. “Yes, yes, yes. You love Charles. He is your dear brother. But you cannot marry your brother.”

“I … I am to marry King Louis?”

“Hush, hush, hush! What do you think would happen if any overheard such words? How do we know? This is the King of France of whom you speak. Oh yes, he is a boy of fourteen, but nevertheless he is a King. Do not dare talk of marrying him!”

“But you said …”

“I said you were only to think of it, stupid one. Only to think of it … think of it day and night … and never let it be out of your thoughts.”

“A secret?”

“A secret, yes! It is my dearest wish. Mademoiselle, your cousin, hopes to marry him. A girl of her age and a boy of fourteen! It is a comedy! And what does she think will be her reception when the King and his mother come back to their own, eh? What will they say to Mademoiselle, who ordered the guns of the Bastille to fire on the King’s soldiers? I will tell you, my child. Monsieur Mazarin declared that the cannon of the Bastille killed Mademoiselle’s husband. That is true. When those shots were fired, she lost her chance of marrying her cousin. Foolish girl! And double fool for thinking herself so wise! She thinks she is another Jeanne d’Arc. The foolish one!”

“Mam, you were talking about me, and how important this is.”

“And so I shall talk of you. Let the foolish ways of Mademoiselle be a lesson to you. I’ll swear that when the Court returns, Mademoiselle will be requested to leave the Tuileries; she will be retired to the country. There let her toss her pretty head; there let her write in her journal; there let her wonder whether it might not be a good thing to turn to the King of England before it is too late—lest she lose him as she has lost the King of France. The King of France! A woman of her age! Nay, she shall never have Louis. Ah, my little Henriette, how I wish we could plump you up! How thin you are! Bad child! You do not eat enough. I shall have you whipped if you do not eat.”

“Please, Mam, don’t do that. I eat very well, but it does not make me fat. It only makes me tall.”

“Louis is tall. Louis is so handsome that all who see him gasp at his beauty. A King ten years … and only fourteen now. It is said that he is not mortal, that no one could be as perfect as this boy, and be human.”

“And is he so perfect, Mam?”

“Of course he is. More beautiful than all other boys; taller, more full of health, high spirits and good nature. They say he is the son, not of his father, but of a god.”

Henriette’s eyes glistened; she clasped her hands together and listened ecstatically.

The Queen of England caught the child to her and kissed her fiercely. “No! You must forget you are eight years old. You must conduct yourself as a lady. You must never … never forget that, though exiled, you are the daughter of the King of England … and that only a daughter of kings would be worthy to mate with such as Louis. Our dear Mademoiselle is not quite that, eh? For all her airs and so-called beauty … for all her wealth … she is not quite that. She is the King’s cousin, as you are, my little one, but there is a difference. Ah! There is a difference. You are the daughter of the King of England, and your mother is as royal as Louis’ own father, for their father was one and the same—the great and glorious Henri Quatre of great fame.”

Henriette shifted from one foot to the other; she had heard all this before.

“Now tomorrow His Majesty will ride into his capital, and you will be there to greet him. Beside him will ride your own brother—two young kings side by side.”

“Charles!” cried Henriette gleefully.

Henrietta Maria frowned at her daughter. “Yes, yes, brother make you forget your homage to the King of France. It is all very well to love your brother … but it will be necessary for you one day to love another more than you love Charles.”

Henriette did not tell her mother—for it would have made her angry—that never as long as she lived could she love another as she loved her brother Charles.

“You are eight years old,” repeated the Queen. “Old enough to put away childish things. Time enough for a princess to think of her future.”

Eight years old! Often Henriette thought of that time as the end of her childhood.

The next day the King of France rode into his capital. Along the route from Saint-Cloud to Paris the crowd waited to cheer him. It was a year since he had left Paris, and the people did not forget that, although they had rebelled against the Court, they had never felt any resentment towards this beautiful boy—so tall, so physically perfect, so charming to behold that he only had to show himself to win their applause.

Everywhere was pageantry and color; the city guards in red-and-blue velvet led the procession, and following them rode the King, glorious in purple velvet embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his plumed hat well back from his handsome face, his brown eyes alight with triumph and loving kindness towards his people; his beautifully shaped features looked as if they had been carved by a Greek sculptor out of stone, because of their very perfection; yet his clear, bright complexion showed him to be of healthy flesh and blood. Beside him, such an excellent foil to such celestial beauty, was the tall lean figure of the King of England, his dark, saturnine face alight with humor; he seemed ugly in comparison with that pink and white boy, and yet many women in the crowd could not take their eyes from him to look at the beautiful boy-King of France.

From the churches bells pealed forth. The war of the Fronde was over; there was peace in France; and men and women wept and told each other that this handsome King was a gift from Heaven and that he would lead France to prosperity. At the windows groups shouted and cheered; silken streamers hung from those windows; people climbed to roofs to get a better view of their monarch. One woman—ragged and dirty—pushed her way through the crowds that she might kiss the royal foot. The guards tried to prevent her, but the King merely smiled that smile which made the women cry “God bless him!,” and all began to cheer the beggar woman with their King.

Behind the King rode the great Dukes of France—the Duc de Vendôme and Duc de Guise; then followed the Marshal; and after them the Lords in glittering apparel, followed by more guards on horseback.

The Swiss Guards followed just ahead of the Queen’s coach. In this Anne of Austria sat back plump and arrogant, displaying her beautiful hands, jewel-covered; the crowds had few cheers for her; they had never liked her and they blamed her—not handsome Louis—for the troubles from which the country had just emerged. With her rode her second son, Philippe—known as Monsieur—who was twelve years old and a little sulky now because of all the fuss which was being made of his brother. It was difficult for a younger son not to resent the fate which had decreed that he should be born after his brother. Philippe lacked the striking beauty of Louis, but he knew himself to be of a sharper intellect, and it was sad to have to take second place on every occasion.

His mother, watching him, reminded him that it was necessary to smile and bow to the people. Did he want them to think he was a sullen fellow, so different from his brother? So Monsieur smiled and bowed and hid his feelings; and the people murmured together that it was a marvelous thing that after twenty-two years God had blessed the union of Louis XIII and Anne of Austria with two such boys.

Now the guns of the Bastille and the salvos from the Place de Grève roared forth; lamps shone in the windows and bonfires were lighted in the streets of Paris.

The war of the Fronde was over; Louis was back in his Louvre. Now there would be a return of pageantry and gaiety such as the French loved.

So Paris rejoiced.

In the great hall of the Louvre the King welcomed his guests.

Henrietta Maria was present with her daughter. Anne of Austria smiled on her sister-in-law, and Henrietta Maria had reason to believe that she was not averse to a match between their children.

That made Henrietta Maria’s eyes sparkle; that made her almost happy.

If only one other could be here to see this day! she thought, and the tears gushed to her eyes. None must see them; they were all impatient of her grief, as people always are of the grief of others too long preserved.

If Charles could have the fortune of Mademoiselle, he could begin campaigning for the return of his kingdom. If Anne of Austria would agree to a match between Louis and the little Henriette …

All these were dreams; but surely not impossible of fulfilment?

Young Louis had an arrogant air. Would he obey his mother? He was surrounded by sycophants who told him he had been sent by Heaven to govern France; he had been a king from the nursery; none had ever dared deny him what he asked; the most sweet-tempered person in the world could not emerge without a little arrogance from an upbringing such as that which had befallen the boy-King of France. No! He would make his own choice within reason; and was it not likely that he would choose her little Henriette?

Henriette herself felt bewildered by all the pageantry; she had lived so quietly during the war of the Fronde when the Court was not in Paris; she had never in all her life been in such glittering company.

She was excited by it; she loved to see the flashing jewels and the brilliant garments of the men and women. And Charles was here, in a place of honor beside the King of France. That gave her great pleasure. It was wonderful to see the honor paid to him and to remind herself that he was, after all, her dearest brother whose hair she pulled, who tossed her in his arms and was never too much the King to remember that he was Minette’s brother.

Now she must go forward and kneel to the King of France. She thought how handsome he was; he was all that she had been led to expect he would be.

She knelt and kissed his hand as she had been told to do.

“My little cousin,” he said, “it makes me happy to see you here.”

But his gaze flickered over her lightly and, looking up, she caught the eyes of his brother Philippe on her. Philippe studied her languidly and without great interest.

She thought in that moment of her mother’s words; she remembered that she had to make this King love her and that she had to love him for the sake of La Reine Malheureuse who had suffered so much and must therefore not be allowed to suffer more.

How can I make this magnificent young man love me! she thought in panic, and she felt so forlorn and frightened that she hesitated for a moment when she should have passed on.

She was aware of the shocked silence about her. Etiquette was of the utmost importance at the Court of France. She could not think what she must do now. She began to tremble.

Then she turned her eyes to that beloved face; she knew that she could rely on him.

The eyes crinkled up into that well-loved smile; the corners of the mouth turned up. She was appealing mutely to him for help, and, of course, she did not appeal in vain.

He was beside her, dispensing with etiquette, knowing that a breach on the part of the King of England was negligible compared with that of a little girl.

He laid his hand on her shoulder and drew her to one side, that the person who was waiting to kneel before the King of France might proceed.

“This is my own little sister,” he said lightly. “I hope you will like her well, Louis, for I love her dearly.”

Her hand curled round his finger. She felt safe and comforted. He kept her standing beside him, defiant of raised eyebrows.

I am growing up, thought Henriette, and growing up is frightening. I need not be afraid though … if Charles is near.

Charles’ eyes sought those of his mother; his glinted with amusement. She was not displeased, and he was glad of that for Minette’s sake.

She was thinking: Let all the Court be reminded that this little girl is the beloved sister of the King of England. Let the Queen-Mother also be reminded. Yes … it is a not unhappy little incident.

God’s Body! thought the King of England. Mam is already trying to marry the child to the King of France. So Minette is leaving childhood behind her. My little sister is growing up.