Nor is that a limit to me which is a boundary of the world.
—translation of the Latin inscription on a gold medal cast by Nicholas Briot for Charles’s coronation in celebration of his divine right. (British Museum)
The Netherlands—The Hague
While Genevieve threaded a string of pearls in her hair, Henrietta gazed into the mirror of her dressing table. It was mid-afternoon and after a sleepless night she had finally allowed herself to be dressed. Her body ached from the hour spent kneeling at her altar and she longed for a nap, but one did not keep the Prince of the Netherlands and the King of Denmark waiting. Not when one was seeking favors.
‘Your majesty is displeased?’ Genevieve asked.
‘Non, tu me coiffe toujours trés bien,’ Henrietta was quick to reassure her, but the image staring back at her did not please.
The eyes were red and shadowed where she had cried into her pillow until the early hours. In the coded messages that passed between them, Charles had said when he left Hampton Court he’d taken James and Charles with him, but had left the young ones, Elizabeth and Henry, behind at St. James’s Palace. They had nurses, of course, and godparents and were sometimes separated from their parents for weeks during a royal progress, but her mother’s intuition told her this time was different. Thank the Virgin that at least Princess Mary was securely ensconced in her own royal apartment as the bride of William of Orange.
Genevieve held out to her a small mirror, so she could inspect the back, but she shook her head, not caring enough to look. ‘Bring me the King’s necklace,’ she said. Having already surmised her lady’s needs, she withdrew it from its velvet sheath and fastened it about Henrietta’s neck.
Henrietta touched it, feeling the tightness in her forehead release. Charles had given it to her more than a decade ago in her beautiful new garden at Somerset House. Young Charles had just been christened, and his father was very happy. There, among the roses and the elegant statuary, she had basked in her husband’s approval. It had been the first time she’d seen the love-light in his eyes, and she had resolved then that she would be the one to replace the dead Duke of Buckingham as the King’s companion.
She was still at the dressing table, her hand on the reassuring stone resting in the hollow of her throat, when the gentleman of the chamber knocked. ‘Your majesty, Frederick, Prince of Orange, and his Majesty, Christian IV, King of Denmark, desire to wait upon you.’
‘Il est temps,’ she said, standing up and smoothing her skirts. ‘S’il vous plaît, admit them maintenant.’
After the appropriate homage and exchange of pleasantries—much bowing and hand kissing: was everything to her liking, how did she like Den Haag; and then much thanking of the Prince for his hospitality—she bade her visitors sit on the two brocade chairs beneath the chamber window. She sat on the bench at the foot of her bed facing them, careful to spread her blue satin skirts. It was her best gown. She might feel like a beggar, but she would not look like one.
Christian IV of Denmark looked at her as though he were appraising goods. He was reputed to be a great womanizer and said to have a score of children amongst his wives and mistresses. He was a hulk of a man, which might appeal to some, but not at all as elegant as her Charles, despite the bow-tied white-lace sash that only accentuated his girth. ‘How does, our nephew, Charles I of England?’ he asked.
‘Trés bien. My husband sends greetings to your majesties.’
Her salutation included Mary’s father-in-law Prince Frederick, though technically he was not a crowned head but an elected Stadtholder of Holland, Zeeland, and Utrecht, a fact which to Henrietta made him unworthy of her daughter’s hand. But because the House of Orange was Protestant, a powerful trading ally, and a strategic defense partner against England’s old enemy Catholic Spain, Parliament had been quick to put its stamp of approval on the marriage. Wise strategy or another one of Charles’ acts of appeasements? Who could know? Their response to her request could be the first test of the wisdom of Mary’s sacrifice.
Frederick looked around uncertainly as if expecting someone else, then after a moment’s hesitation asked, ‘The Princess Royal, is she pleased with her apartments?’
‘She is pleased, your grace. And your William? Is he pleased she has come?’
‘Very pleased.’
‘They are becoming fast friends, already, I hear,’ the King of Denmark interjected. She ignored the smirking smile that accompanied the remark, addressing her comment to the father of her son-in-law.
‘As her mother, I am grateful for your understanding that Mary is much too young to assume the responsibilities of wife and princess of a foreign court. We agreed when they were married last year, oui?’
‘Indeed, your majesty. We did agree. All in good time, now that the marriage has been finalized by proxy. Your decision to accompany her was wise. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish and assist in her tutelage. It is our hope whenever you do return to your country, we will have earned sufficient trust that you are comfortable leaving her in our care.’
‘Merci beaucoup.’
‘We are pleased to have been of service to your husband’s widowed sister and her household as well.’ He smiled. ‘It is a rather large household. Have you seen her majesty the Queen of Bohemia? All of the children are here except the oldest son, who is now Elector of the Palatinate, of course and still in Heidelberg.’
‘I saw Elizabeth and her daughter Sophia briefly. Mary and I brought them greetings and good wishes from Charles.’ Then she added, a self-conscious elevated pitch in her voice—she was never a good liar—‘I brought her assurances of our love.’
‘We pray the conflicts that have driven that decades-long war will be resolved. Of course we are in sympathy with the Protestant Union, but it would seem a little more tolerance could be shown on both sides don’t you think, your majesty? The Protestant Union can be very aggressive in spreading the faith and Rome is so … intransigent and political.’
Henrietta swallowed the answer she wanted to give, realizing that he was probably baiting her deliberately to throw her off her guard. She said instead, ‘Prince Frederick, the King, and I are very grateful for your support for his sister and her family.’
How quickly he had turned his own son’s marriage to a king’s daughter into an act of Dutch charity and managed to lecture the Queen of England about religion and politics.
His face a mask of feigned sympathy, he said, ‘It must be difficult to be forced into exile after so short a time. And then to have lost her husband. I understand theirs was more than a political union. I am sure she is heartened by the welcome company of your majesty, whose devotion to her own husband is often remarked upon.’
As is my devotion to the Holy Father, but you knew that already, probably also knew I was not in favor of your son’s marriage to my daughter. But she could not say that. Instead she said, ‘Poor Elizabeth. Heidelberg has been her home since she left England as a young bride many years ago. I hear her time in Prague was as brief as her reign. I am sure she misses her eldest son and the beautiful gardens of her palace in Heidelberg. She never tires of talking about them. As do you, I hope her sojourn here will be short.’
In this sentiment Henrietta was sincere. Henrietta liked having Elizabeth as far away as possible. They were hardly kindred spirits.
‘She is welcome to stay as long as she needs to, as are you, your majesty. Perhaps you can find comfort in your shared circumstances.’
She longed to slap the smugness from his face.
An awkward silence developed in the room. The Prince seemed reluctant to broach the next item to be settled between them. His posture was one of expectancy. Beside him Christian IV also remained silent. She wondered if there was some protocol peculiar to his court that she had neglected. Finally, Frederick cleared his throat and spoke. ‘We are prepared to discuss the matter of your offer: the other purpose for your majesty’s honoring us with your presence.’
‘Oui, yes,’ she nodded.
He looked puzzled, then frowning slightly blurted out, ‘Have we come untimely?’
‘Untimely?’
‘I see your negotiator is not yet here.’
‘Negotiator? I am sorry. I do not understand.’ She could feel the little bunch forming between her eyebrows, the little wrinkles Charles always kissed away. She tried to relax them.
‘Someone to speak on your behalf. Lord Denbigh perhaps.’ He pulled on his little pointed beard. The Dane nodded in agreement.
She smiled at them, a smile calculated to charm, but a smile not wide enough to show the space from the missing molar she had lost after giving birth to little Henry. The doctor had said it had gone to help the infant’s bones, so she did not begrudge it, but she’d smiled more carefully since.
‘Lord Denbigh has returned to England with a message for King Charles. I speak for myself—and for my husband Charles I, King of England, of course.’ She raised her chin and gazed directly at her visitors, first the Prince of Orange then the Danish king. You have seen the—’ she groped for the right word—‘merchandise. Have you an offer?’
The King of Denmark cleared his throat and glanced at his companion, his face flushing brightly. ‘Your majesty, the rubies and the pearls are exquisite …’
‘Oui,’ she nodded in encouragement. He seemed ill at ease, as if he did not know what to say next. ‘They were part of my dowry. From the Medici family. They are the finest stones in le monde.’
The high starched collar at his throat wiggled a bit as he cleared his throat. ‘I am prepared to make an offer for some of them,’ he said. ‘But I fear—’ He glanced at the Prince of Orange for support.
Frederick responded. ‘The King of Denmark is afraid, your majesty, that since you are not held in the highest regard—please forgive me for speaking plainly—among your subjects, and since England appears on the brink of civil unrest—’
All the words were jumbling in her head. Were they refusing to buy because she was not popular with Parliament?
‘Mais oui, the crown jewels of England carry their own value, non?’
‘Yes, your majesty, but because they are the crown jewels of England, if the conflict should go in Parliament’s favor, Parliament might demand their return.’
She looked at them as though she didn’t understand, because she didn’t.
‘They will say you had no right to sell them,’ he said.
His embarrassed tone added humiliation to the words. Her head began to throb with the recurring headache she’d had for the past week. This was simply beyond her comprehension. If the jewels belonged to England, then they belonged to its king to do with as he pleased—at least in the world she inhabited.
‘We will buy your dower jewels outright,’ Christian of Denmark offered. ‘They are truly extraordinary. The crown jewels and the crown plate are another matter. But we are prepared, because of the kinship between our families and the friendship between our sovereign nations, to lend you a substantial sum with the crown jewels as surety, though it will be much less than the desired sum, because … forgive me, your majesty, but should your husband not be successful in squelching this rebellion by the English Parliament—
‘Charles I, sovereign ruler by divine right of England, Ireland, and Scotland, will be successful. He will be successful because God wills it.’
‘With all due respect, your majesty, do you not suppose the Puritans and the Scottish Presbyterians feel that God also wishes their cause victorious?’
Her mind leapt to where else she could go for aid. She had already been to her Catholic friends in France begging for money to assist the Irish Catholics against whom Parliament warred. And they had been generous. But they had their limits. This time she would go directly to the Pope. But the papal considerations were very deliberate. It had taken months for her mother and Louis to get permission for her to marry a Protestant.
The two men watched her expectantly, waiting for her response. She wanted to scream at them to get out of her sight.
She looked directly at the Dutch prince. ‘Mary, the Princess Royal, will be gratified to learn, when she is old enough to understand such things, of the high regard in which her new father-in-law holds her father’s kingdom.’
The looks they exchanged showed that her sarcasm had hit its mark.
‘But I am grateful for your offer of assistance. I will refer it to his Majesty, Charles I of England. S’il vous plaît, be so kind as to put the specific offer and the sum you are offering in writing.’
‘Of course, your majesty.’
Her visitors rose to take their leave, again with much bowing and hand-kissing, obviously relieved that their delicate errand was almost finished.
She was thinking how glad she would be to see the back of them, when the Dane spoke as if in afterthought. ‘Your necklace, your majesty, is exquisite. Is that part of the dower jewels as well?’
‘Non, ce nes’t pas,’ she shook her head vigorously. Her hand flew to the necklace, as if to shield it from his greedy gaze. ‘For the necklace I will not negotiate.’
After her visitors departed, Henrietta had sent Genevieve for a soothing tonic. Every part of her body hurt, and her heart still beat too rapidly, but as the night sounds of the castle settled into silence, her fatigue, along with the honeyed wine, soothed her to a troubled slumber. She dreamed again of the old familiar torment.
She is a girl again, walking through the narrow streets of London. It is her first pilgrimage, a penance to Tyburn Hill with its horrid hanging tree where the Catholic martyrs died at the hands of the Protestant English.
Sharp stones cut her bare feet. Filth and slime squish between her toes. She tries to think only of the martyrs as her Jesuit confessor instructed. She clutches a statue of the Virgin in her hands, reciting as she goes, lips barely moving, frozen in fear: Obsecro te O intemerato …
Her mind conjures distorted images of the hanged martyrs, even the smell of rotting corpses.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
Her naked skin shivers underneath the rough pilgrim’s smock.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesu.
Her fingers are numb and white from cold,
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei … But the Holy Mother sends no blessing and the statue does not warm beneath her touch. The girl’s progress to the holy site outside the city gates is excruciatingly slow. Ugly Londoners line the uglier streets, cheek to jowl, fine linen brushing homespun rags. Pope’s whore, they shout, their faces twisted with rage. She does not understand their English slurs, but she understands enough to know they do not want her here. They despise her for her devotion to the Virgin. They despise her for the tears she cries for the Catholic martyrs.
The foul and fetid smell that chokes her breath is not the conjured smell of the martyrs. It is the smell of hatred. Or is it the smell of her own fear? She struggles to break free of the dream so oft repeated that in her dream she knows it is a dream. And yet she cannot move.
This time the dream is different in one horror.
‘Wake up, up my lady, it is only a bad dream.’
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc …
She tries to cry out and has no tongue. A woman’s low moan, sad and anguished, calls to her. She ceases her murmured prayer, stares into the crowd. Her own visage, a queen’s visage, is painted on every mournful face, keening like a choir of angels at the crucifixion. The face of the girl carrying the Virgin is changing too. Beneath the pilgrim’s plain white hood is the face of her eldest daughter. And on her girlish cheeks, tears as big and bright as the King’s diamonds glisten. … et in hora mortis nostrae.
The statue crumbles in her hands.