Thousands had no mind to meddle with the wars
But greatly desired to live peaceably at home, when
Rage of soldiers and drunkards would not suffer them
—retrospect of Richard Baxter, Protestant Chaplain
February 1643
‘Pardon, monsieur, but I can no longer sit.’ With a weary wave of her hand Henrietta dismissed Van Dyke’s young protégé, for whom she had promised to pose during her stay in Den Haag.
Before she left London, the portrait painter had solicited this promise. They had been standing under Peter Paul Rubens’ magnificent ceiling panels Van Dyke was installing in the Banqueting House. He knew full well how devoted she was to all things beautiful and those who created them. As she had remarked upon the beautiful Baroque detail, the sumptuous color, the use of light, noting the influences of both Tintoretto and Caravaggio, they had mourned together the great loss of Rubens’ genius. It was the first time they had spoken since his death. Van Dyke had been visibly shaken by the loss of his teacher. He had persuaded her saying that she would be doing not only a great service to a worthy young artist but to him as well by helping him honor his dead patron—here he had pointed to the beautiful ceiling panels—through helping other students as Rubens had helped him. And then he’d added that there would of course be no commission.
‘You will have to finish it from memory, monsieur,’ she said now to the young artist. Brush frozen in mid-air, as if being summoned from another world, the portrait painter looked up from his palette. The bells of Jacobskerk clamored, marking the hour. The spaniel on her lap, a veteran poser, scarcely stirred as Henrietta shouted above the bells. Just one of many things she would not miss in this town. The clamoring would go on far too long to wait. ‘I will be departing on the morrow.’ What sweet words she thought even as they left her lips.
‘S’il vous plaît, un moment, your majesty.’ Hans—at least she thought that was his name, for weren’t they all named Hans? —Hans added with a shout of his own and a pleading smile, ‘I wish to capture your majesty’s elegant features as they deserve.’
Flatterer, she thought. But despite her weariness she nodded curtly, struggling to relax her face into a lying mask of tranquility. Her shoulders ached with fatigue. Ennui tormented her spirit. The only doctor who had attended her, his potions succeeding no better or worse than her English doctors, was a Portuguese Jew.
‘They are not banished?’ she had asked Prince Frederick.
He had only laughed and said, ‘The Jews? How can we banish them? They are half of the merchant class. Do not be concerned, your majesty, they are also very good doctors. I understand that England’s Queen Elizabeth even suffered the administrations of one.’
Henrietta doubted that was true. Charles had told her the Jews had been expelled way before the Tudor monarchs and she’d never seen a Jew in England—at least that she knew of. Now that she thought of it, she wasn’t altogether sure she would recognize one.
‘And,’ Frederick had droned on in his supercilious way, ‘I understand some Puritans are calling for tolerance in their English pulpits.’
She had shrugged. ‘The Puritans are tolerant of nothing. If what you say is indeed true,’ her tone implying that she doubted it, ‘Parliament would only let them back in to convert them. The Puritans would convert cows and baptize sheep to increase their tribe.’
In the near distance beyond the broad window, on one of the many buildings of the Binnenhof, a storks’ nest perched, an ugly pile of sticks at least six feet wide. Two storks, no English songbirds these but great ungainly birds, unable to sing or even squawk, guarded the nest. Her dreary hosts protected them, thought they brought good fortune, a silly superstition—everybody needed to believe in something, she supposed. The birds’ long beaks click-clacked their anxiety, or their amour, or whatever else they felt like clattering about.
These Dutch were clatterers too, talking on and on about their canal building or some other prosaic, dull matter. Den Haag was no great city like Paris or even London, just a collection of government buildings, a city of bureaucrats who placed matters of business in the highest priority. No courtly entertainments, salons, delights. Little music and scant frivolity. But what could one expect from a country of Protestants?
Poor Princess Mary. Henrietta would have to give her daughter something special to lighten her days in this kingdom of excruciating boredom, though she was pleased that the girl seemed to have settled in well. Some days she was even too busy with her lessons and her various entertainments to tolerate her mother’s company. Henrietta glanced at the only other occupant of the room besides herself and the artist. She would give Jeffrey Hudson to her daughter—if she could bear to part with him. He had proved himself an amusing companion even in exile.
‘Summon the maids to start packing my personal belongings, Jeffrey,’ she said to the exotic little creature, who had mischievously been striking poses at her whilst she sat.
The dwarf, meant as a diversion to distract a young Henrietta from the inattentions of her new bridegroom, was the only worthy bribe Buckingham had ever given her. She had grown very fond of him over the years. She had already promised Mary the pet monkey in her favorite portrait. She could not give up Jeffrey too.
The dwarf was suddenly as serious as a magistrate, strutting across the room, hands clasped behind his back like some pompous English barrister. ‘My queen, do you think it wise? I too wish to return home. But the clouds are heavy, and the palace seer says they portend storms.’
‘He does, does he? What a splendide prophète he must be to pronounce that clouds portend storms. Mon petit ami, we cannot wait. I care not what Prince Frederick’s astronomer fool says. It is just a ruse to delay. The longer we stay the longer they have to deliver the final installment on the jewels. The arms and stores are already loaded, and the ships are waiting in the harbor. Perhaps the Dutch Vice-Admiral Tromp will arrange with his Jewish captains for their Jehovah to part the waters. Surely they are as capable as Monsieur Shakespeare’s Prospero.’
The elegant little man shook his head in a gesture of long-suffering. ‘The magician did not part the waters. He conjured a tempest. Your lowly companion thinks we should delay until the signs are more favorable. It will be a miserable day to set forth on the sea.’
What her lowly companion lacked in size he made up in boldness. Of course he didn’t want to leave. The ladies of the Dutch court were quite charmed by him, flirting and spoiling him shamelessly, wondering no doubt—though much too shy to say as the French ladies did—if his manly hidden parts were as perfectly proportioned as his silk-clad calves.
‘My dear Lord Minimus, do you remember the Barbary pirates who waylaid you on your journey here?’ Knowing exactly which string to pull on her puppet doll, she took a perverse delight in seeing him blanch. ‘It is less likely there will be Barbary pirates abroad in rough seas.’
Mitte, as if disturbed by something in Henrietta’s tone, bounced from her lap to stand beside the dwarf. ‘You take his side, do you? Well, the pirates would put you in a fricassée.’ Then to the dwarf, ‘My ships are sailing with the morning tide. I have already promised his Majesty. Summon my ladies before I punish you by taking away that fine gold ring I gave you on your natal day. I might even leave you here in this dull Purgatory to entertain the Princess Mary.’
‘Your majesty, if I may have a word,’ the painter asked as he was packing up his easel, ‘I have a friend who desires an audience. You have been so gracious to me.’ His face reddened in embarrassment, but his blue eyes pleaded. ‘I uh told her you were leaving but she uh insisted that I ask. She is a widow, a very dear friend of my mother’s. She and her son have come all the way from Amsterdam to bring you a gift.’
A flash of irritation caused a pain in Henrietta’s shoulder. That was the trouble with a generous nature. It was never enough. They always wanted more. ‘I’m sorry, monsieur artiste, there is no time,’ she said crisply.
The young artist fished inside the bag in which he carried his paints. ‘She bade me give you this then.’
Some dreary little token, no doubt, she thought as she reached out to receive the tribute. ‘Please give my regrets to your friend and thank her for her kind—’ She looked down at the necklace in her hand and gasped. It was the necklace she had reluctantly parted with to buy arms—at Charles’ suggestion, which in spite of its being the only practical solution to close the deal with the Dutch, had wounded her to the quick.
‘It is only a replica, your majesty,’ the young artist said as, incredulous, she accepted it into her cupped hand. ‘Amsterdam has many fine goldsmiths. My friend learned the trade from her late husband. She saw the original around the neck of a Portuguese lady and enquired of its provenance. The woman who was a friend of Prince Frederick said it had belonged to you. My friend felt sympathy that you had to part with something so beautiful to—’ his faced turned a deeper shade of red, ‘to serve England’s cause.’
Did all these dreary Dutch know her business? She should return the gift, send the woman away. The necklace was exquisitely wrought. Even she could scarcely tell it from the original. She suddenly wanted to meet the woman who could do this.
‘S’il vous plaît, tell your friend I will grant her audience if she can come within the hour. I wish to thank her for her generous gift.’
The young man grinned. ‘She can come immediately.’ He hurried to the door and opened it, motioning with his hand. A soft rustling and the woman, who had apparently been waiting in the anteroom came in, greeting her with a deep curtsy worthy of any courtier. She was followed by a young man of about the artist’s age, who bowed stiffly. ‘Your most humble subject, Johanna Cartwright, your majesty. I too am from England. You are very kind to receive us.’
‘Us?’
‘This is my son, Ebenezer. If we could just have a moment of your time, your majesty.’ The woman’s voice was low, but self-assured and dignified as she said, ‘I much admire your devotion. I too have a devoted cause, if you would be so kind as to hear my petition.’
‘Un petition.’ She should have guessed. The beautiful necklace was but a bribe. But the woman had gone to much trouble and expense. The large diamond might only be cleverly polished glass, she wasn’t sure though it sparkled prettily, but the gold was real. Henrietta was well acquainted with the feel and the soft luster, enough to know it was not cheap gilt. ‘It would be most ungracious of me to entertain a petition from one who has made me such a generous gift,’ she said.
‘It is an act of kindness I am beseeching, your majesty, not for me or even my son but for a very deserving people.’
‘Speak your request, Madame Cartwright. I shall consider it.’
The woman paused as if trying how best to voice her request. This was tiresome. She should already have memorized what she was going to say. The room was very quiet now. Even the bells had ceased. Both Jeffrey and the portraitist had discreetly withdrawn.
The woman inhaled deeply, as if it were of no importance that she was delaying the Queen of England, and then finally lowering her eyes said softly, ‘It is about the Jews, your majesty.’
‘The Jews?’
‘Since you have been in the Netherlands, you may have been surprised to observe many Jews. You may have even noticed how they go about their business, creating no ill will in the community, and that they are a very productive people. You may be surprised to learn just how much they have contributed in trade and commerce to the Netherlands. The Dutch people have been well compensated for their tolerance through enhanced prosperity. Indeed, we have become like the hub on a wheel. Traders come from many ports carrying goods to and from in a great flurry of enterprise. The Jews are unhindered in their business as in their practice of religion. Their only influence on the Netherlands has been a positive one.’
There was a long pause. The room was strangely silent. This speech had indeed been delivered as though it had been rehearsed. Henrietta was taken aback. So what exactly was the favor this woman was seeking?
Madame Cartwright took a deep breath and then added, ‘As an English woman, I wish there could be such justice in England.’
‘Justice in England.’
The woman dropped her gaze, but said nothing. And then Henrietta realized what she was asking. ‘For the Jews, you mean?’
‘Yes, your majesty, for the Jews,’ she answered.
‘I assure you, madame, I bear no ill will toward any people, not even the Jews as so many do. Our Lord was a Jew. But what has this to do with me?’
The woman smiled, nodding, clearly not wishing to give offense, but in that same firm tone said, ‘You are the Queen. You have great influence. I was emboldened to come to you when I heard that you had attended the synagogue in Amsterdam to hear the great preacher, Dias Soeiro, who speaks so eloquently on the persecution of the Jews. Your interest gave me hope. If you could speak with the King on the matter of the Jewish people’s return from exile, you could be a force for great good for England, both morally and economically.’
Before she went to the synagogue Henrietta had never heard of this Soeiro and had not listened closely to what he said. She merely went to satisfy her curiosity and to humor her sister-in-law who had suggested the visit as a diversion, as if any pursuit Elizabeth Stuart proposed could ever be a worthwhile diversion. Henrietta had spent most of her time not listening to the sermon at all, curious about the sparseness of the synagogue and the shawl-wrapped golden scroll from which the preacher/rabbi/priest—whatever he was called—read in what she supposed was Hebrew. Mostly she had used her visit to Amsterdam for the greater purpose of visiting the artists’ quarter where, though she had been tempted, she had restrained her acquisitive impulses. Proud of her new austerity, she had reminded herself she was here to buy arms not art.
‘But I thought you said you were English. Madame, surely you or your son have not converted to the religion of the Jews?’
She could not keep the outrageousness of such a notion from seeping into her tone. The corners of Madame Cartwright’s mouth twitched as though Henrietta had said something amusing.
‘No, your majesty. I am a Baptist, as is my son, and I am as devoted to my faith as you are to your Catholic faith. But I, being a Baptist, strongly believe that no man—or woman—should be persecuted for his beliefs—and that includes the Jews. With your majesty’s forbearance, we have brought you the writings of others who can say it much more eloquently than we.’ She motioned to her son, who withdrew a sheaf of papers from his sleeve, and bowing, held them out to Henrietta. Not wishing to be rude to the woman who had gifted her with the necklace, she accepted the three pamphlets with a nod.
‘One of these tracts was given to your husband’s father several years ago. It is still widely read among many Europeans. One is by a man named Wemyss and is more recent and puts forth the Christian ideal that not only should no man be persecuted for his religion but should have freedom of disputation and argument. The third is by a young man named Roger Williams. He too makes a very cogent argument for a freedom of religion that includes the Jews.’
Henrietta was taken aback, her tone sharp. ‘That somewhat surprises me, madame. I have observed no such tolerance among the Puritans for the Catholic minority in England.’
‘I understand, your majesty, I do. But I pray you to remember that there are many stripes among dissenters just as there are degrees of intolerance among the Catholics.’
Henrietta knew this was a veiled reference to the Inquisition. Mon Dieu, must they all forever suffer because of that hateful Spanish stain?
‘I was very young when I came here. The Jews of Amsterdam have been very kind to me. They are a good, God-fearing people. They deserve to be able to go home—wherever home may be.’
Henrietta felt a sudden weariness. Her body ached from so long sitting. She still had to bid her daughter farewell. She should have never offered the woman an audience. ‘I would like to help you, but I’m afraid, Madame Cartwright, that you overestimate my influence. The English king has restraints that other kings do not. It is Parliament who would decide such a matter. And I am not much loved by Parliament.’ Then she added with reluctance, ‘I feel I should return the necklace to you. I do not wish to take it under false pretenses.’
‘Oh no. It is a gift from an English woman to her Queen, and I thank you for your patience in listening to me. I will do as you suggest. I will take my petition to Parliament, when the time is right.’
After Madame Cartwright curtseyed and left the room, Henrietta stood for a long moment looking out the window, wondering … but no, there was simply nothing to be done, not now when Charles was at war. She started to throw the tracts away but something about the woman, her quiet courage, continued to plead her case long after she was gone. She wrapped the necklace inside the papers and put both in her jewel case, which was now almost empty. Maybe she would read them later. Maybe even give them to Charles, when the war was over. He had too much on his plate now to be bothered with such a triviality.
The next morning the Portuguese ships set sail. Jeffrey pointed out the wall of gray on the horizon, feeding her general feeling of unease. But she was determined. Charles would be waiting. His last letter was loosely stitched inside her sleeve. She was to tell Vice-Admiral Tromp their exact point of entry only when they were well at sea. In the distance, lightning—a rarity in February—snaked across the sky. But the sails filled, and the ship moved out of the harbor.
‘We are going home, Mitte,’ she whispered to the spaniel she held in her arms.
Wisely the dwarf did not gloat when, two days out of sight of land, they were forced to turn back. Henrietta would have braved the roughest seas to return to her dearest heart. Unfortunately, Van Tromp, who was neither Moses nor a tempest-controlling magician, would not.
Arthur Pendleton was on his way back to the Gloucester garrison to give his reconnaissance report. He’d seen the town of Cirencester burning, even got close enough to see the King’s cavalry herding the townspeople into the church while they ransacked and looted the town. They would not burn the church—the priest was a well-known supporter of the King—though he wasn’t sure what abuses the people held inside might suffer. The cannons had ceased, but now and then, he heard musket fire.
Outside of town, he came upon the officers’ camp, encountering first the horses tied beside a grove of aspens. Settled behind a stand of brush, he watched a lone groom brushing their sweaty flanks whilst their riders passed a flask or took a morning piss. Once Cirencester fell, the cavalry must have pulled back, leaving the infantrymen to despoil the town. A disgrace. No discipline at all. Captain Cromwell would never have stood for such.
Plumes of smoke in the distance smeared the dawn. Most of the town’s buildings were still smoldering: cottages and townhouses, merchants’ shops, all belonging to the many supporters of Parliament. Not that it mattered. No such thing as neutral no matter which soldiers took the town. You were either on their side and easily identifiable—or you were fair game. But if the rumors about Rupert’s men were true, he pitied the poor souls in the church. Though truth to tell he’d heard of Roundhead atrocities too. Arthur had not lost faith in Parliament’s cause, but he had grown war-weary and was glad enough to be one of the dragoons assigned scout duty. Not that he was afraid to die. It was the killing he found hardest.
Raising the telescope to get a better look, he thought he identified the one they called Rupert of the Rhine. Tall, royal insignia on his horse, handsome, laughing—a young man not much older than himself. He had the fearless demeanor of a warrior, born to fight. Arthur had often noticed the excitement that flared in the faces of some of his own fellows, a raucous good humor as though the adventure of battle was no more than an afternoon’s sport. He counted the number of the officers and their horses, drawing with a stub of charcoal on a bit of paper a rough diagram of the area. Then he followed his twig-marked path back through the woods, untied his horse, and led him across the frozen ground until both were out of view and earshot.
He was riding back to the garrison when he came upon a woman sitting on the bank, shrouded in the morning mist like some ghostly apparition, rocking back and forth, in a silent, keening motion. No ghost at all, he saw, slowing his horse, but a real woman, her clothing muddy and stained with blood, blouse torn, arm and shoulder smeared with filth. In her arms she cradled a small bundle. His first thought was that she could have been planted there to trap him, but he couldn’t just ride on.
He dismounted, strode the few feet between them. He’d seen a woman’s breast before—more than once—but he’d never seen one full of milk. He knew he was staring, but she didn’t seem to notice. He watched in horror as the mother, crooning softly, tried to coax her unresponsive infant to take the distended nipple. He wondered how long the child had been dead. Could she not know? Its face had already turned blue. Whatever had happened to her in that town must have broken her wits.
‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ he said aloud. Captain Cromwell would have fined him for the profanity, but Captain Cromwell and his troops were way north and truly it was more prayer than profane. Sweet Jesus must not be listening anyway. What was he to do now? He couldn’t take her back to the burning town from which she had fled with her newborn. He had no choice but to take her to the garrison. Maybe somebody there would know her. He knelt beside her. She cried out, her eyes wide with fright.
Holding out his hand, he approached her as one would approach a startled doe. ‘Don’t be frightened, ma’am. I am not going to hurt you. I’m going to help you.’
‘He is not hungry. I’ll feed him later,’ she said, her movements slow and studied as she stroked the babe’s face and fumbled with blue fingers to place her engorged breast back inside her torn blouse.
‘Yes, ma’am. Let me carry him. I’ll take you somewhere safe. You can ride in front of me,’ he said, placing his coat around her shoulders. It covered her down to her knees. Her feet were bare and bleeding, but she seemed oblivious.
‘You are an angel sent from heaven,’ she smiled at him. ‘We are very grateful.’
Relieved at her gentle compliance, he assisted her to mount the horse. When she was settled he handed her back the lifeless child and climbed behind her.
‘My husband’s name is Godfrey,’ she said. ‘I am taking his son to meet his father.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He almost choked.
As they trotted off, he could feel her heart beating beneath his arms, and an odd little vibration. Merciful Jesus. She was humming a low, soft lullaby to her dead son.
‘Ma’am,’—he started, but there was no gentle way to say it. Let Colonel Masters sort it out. Somebody at the garrison might even know her husband. The horse picked his way gently across the frozen ground. The woman, who had ceased her humming, slumped in his arms, but her hold on the child remained firm. Mother and child might have been carved from one piece of marble.
Despite the slow pace necessary, he arrived at the garrison by noon and gently handed over his charge to one of the officers’ wives, who led the dazed woman away. She made no protest as following as gently as a lamb, she handed the child off. He gave his report about the Cavalier troop movements and the burning of the town to the commander of the garrison. ‘She said her husband’s name was Godfrey. I am sorry that’s all I could get out of her. I found her on my way back to report. She was beside the river pretty much in the state she is now.’
After being assured that the commander’s wife would see to the woman’s welfare and they would seek out her husband—there were three Godfreys assigned here though he didn’t know if he was currently in garrison—Arthur had a bit of food and fell into his bunk for a brief rest before receiving his new orders.
The next morning, on his way to the stable, he passed the officers’ quarters where two women sat on the porch enjoying the morning sunshine. One of the women called out to him, ‘Soldier, we would speak with you, please,’ and beckoned him. He was in a hurry to be off and didn’t have time for women’s questions; he’d told them all he knew yesterday, but this was the officers’ quarters, so he’d best not ignore them.
As he approached the porch, one of them looked up at him smiling. ‘We want to thank you again for your kindness, sir.’ She looked and sounded so normal he hardly recognized her, but, yes, it was the woman from yesterday, clean and wearing a borrowed dress too big for her. ‘My son would thank you as well, but he has not yet learned to talk.’
He stared in disbelief; she was still cradling the child in her arms. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe the child lived after all. He bent down to get a better look. She uncovered the child’s face, so he could see it. ‘Shh, he’s sleeping.’
The officer’s wife lifted her eyebrows and nodded at him, then raised a warning finger to her lips. But he could see from her expression that she was not warning him about waking the child. It was only a bundled ragdoll.
‘They took him away for a little while, so I could rest. But they brought him back to me this morning. We are both so much better, thanks to your kindness.’
‘You are very welcome, madam. I wish you and your … child well,’ he said, not looking at the doll.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ At that moment, Arthur thought his heart would break. He could not imagine what had been done to her in that burning town to turn her wits so. What a devil’s thing was war that it could change ordinary men to brutes.
The commander’s wife nodded at him and smiled in sympathy. ‘My dear, I expect our soldier here has gotten his new orders by now and is anxious to return to his regiment in the north. We should not detain him.’
Gratefully he tipped his hat and turned his back on the mad woman and her dead child. Behind him the fires of Cirencester still smoldered. The memory would be less easily left behind.
In London a cold, soaking rain had been coming down in sheets all day and Fleet Street was deserted. Early in the day the street urchins who hawked his news had returned the ruined papers to him soggy and useless, so James Whittier looked up in surprise from the press he was mopping to see a woman enter his print shop. He was even more surprised when she shook back the hood of her cloak and greeted him.
‘So, Lord Whittier, The gossip is true,’ she said, surveying the room with a half-smile.
‘And what gossip might that be, Lady Carlisle?’ He returned the ink mop to its pot and reached to help her out of her wet mantle. Holding it out gingerly, lest its dark green velvet rub against his stained apron, he hung it on a wooden peg by the door.
‘The gossip, my lord, is that you have gone into the gossip business yourself.’ She flashed him a smile, the same enigmatic smile she had worn the night she’d unwittingly donated her diamond earrings to his cause. ‘Quite an impressive set-up,’ she added, looking around his shop at the giant press, the stacks of paper. She picked up one of the engraved blocks from the nearest table and ran her fingers over its carved surface. It bore a crude likeness of the King. ‘Such trifles surely do not come cheap. One wonders where one who has been known to plead poverty on convenient occasions could come by such a sum.’
Restraining a laugh, he reached out and took it from her. ‘It is not a trifle, my lady, but you are right about one thing—it did not come cheap,’ he said, wondering how a woman no longer young could manage to look so good. Maybe it was that irascible personality or the confident way she presented herself. A practiced flirt, to be sure, sometime lady, sometime courtesan. He returned the wooden block to its correct position on the table. ‘To what do I owe the sunshine of your visit on such a day?’
‘Well of course, it is always a delight to see you, my lord, whatever the weather, and I had hoped that you would call at Syon House, but alas I can see you have been very busy’—a flutter of her lashes, a pause, and then, ‘but to get straight to the point, I have something you might be interested in. A little information. That is your stock in trade now, is it not?’
‘Stock in trade? Yes. You could say that.’ He pretended to consider as he pondered her real purpose for the visit. He was busy, although a pleasant afternoon diversion was always welcome. He leaned forward, casually placing his hand on the doorpost behind her shoulder as if for support. Close. Close enough to smell the essence of summer roses in her hair. He said playfully, his tone low and intimate, ‘I fear the cost may be beyond my meager means. What might my lady want in return for this … information?’
Her laughter reminded him of a piper’s clear notes. In one fluid motion she slid from beneath his arm. ‘In return? I had thought to offer it in friendship of course, but since you have turned tradesman I am not above striking a bargain.’
The way she lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow made him think she had more than money in mind. If not a little afternoon delight, then what? He was intrigued. Lucy Hay used gossip and the influence it gained the way powerful men used money. It had been the coin of courtiers like the Percy family for decades.
‘Of course, Countess. I never turn down a beautiful woman, especially one who is as generous as you have shown yourself to be.’
‘When have I ever been generous with you, Jamie Whittier—never mind.’
A few stolen kisses, some fumbling and heavy breathing in the clock courtyard once at Hampton Court came to mind. When Wentworth was in Ireland. She’d broken his courted embrace, reluctantly, murmuring something about other loyalties.
The sudden glow on her cheeks showed she remembered too.
‘These news things you are publishing—who reads them?’
‘I don’t really care who reads them, as long as somebody buys them.’
‘They are not partisan, I mean? Not carrying water for Parliament or King?’
‘Oh, they are partisan. Toward my interests. And it is in my interest to give the people what they want to read. This is London, not Oxford. Londoners—the ones who haven’t left or been clapped in prison—are solidly behind Parliament and they want to read about the atrocities of the King’s soldiers and the extravagances and scandals of the court.’
‘Every lurid detail, I suppose.’
‘Well yes, human nature being what it is.’
‘What about the Queen? Would your readers be interested in her activities? Nothing unseemly, as others of your ilk are reporting—Henrietta is not the whore she is represented to be.’
He thought he knew where this was headed. Lucy Hay had once been the Queen’s favorite. ‘My lady, if it’s some virtuous little wife and mother story you wish me to print, I cannot oblige you. I would be run out of town, shut down by the godly magistrates who blame Henrietta Maria for the King’s mismanagement of the kingdom. England might not have a Star Chamber anymore, but she has committees. I have too much invested in my equipment to see it trashed or confiscated.’
‘I understand. But your godly readers would be interested in the Queen’s whereabouts, surely—the possibility of her return even if their more salacious reading appetites are not fed.’
‘You are privy to this information?’
‘The young Princess Elizabeth and her brother Henry are under my brother’s guardianship. Since Lord Percy’s naval duties necessitate his absence, they are much in my care at Syon House. The Queen corresponds discreetly with them through me. That speaks to the coin I wish to exchange for a specific favor.’
‘Which is?’
‘I want you to print a story that the King’s youngest children are being well cared for under Percy guardianship and that, through gentle instruction and persuasion, they are being schooled to turn against the evil of popery. They say their prayers nightly in English and have an English cleric who reads and interprets an English Bible for them. And I don’t mean Archbishop Laud’s Book of Common Prayer. The old King’s translation is sufficient.’
‘That’s all? Just that story? Why do you care to see that in print?’
The Lucy Hay he knew was a woman with a survivor’s instinct and wit and talent to act on that instinct. Necessary commodities, given the Percy history. What did she have to gain from this?
She said the name as though it tasted sour. ‘Philip Herbert, Lord Pembroke, and his wife wish to take custody of the children. Parliament decides. I do not wish to inflict Lord and Lady Pembroke on the King’s innocent children.’
‘But surely their care is an imposition on a woman of your … sophistication.’
‘They have a nurse. And demands on a woman of my ‘sophistication’ as you call it are much diminished since so many who would appreciate that trait have fled to the Continent or decamped with the King. Besides, I am fond of the children, and in spite of my religious differences with the Queen, I retain something of a fondness for her.’
The archness had left her tone. She might even be telling the truth.
He grinned. ‘I am guessing you do not want that sentiment printed for our London readers.’
‘Assuredly not. I will give you some details concerning what I know about the Queen’s plans when I have seen your story praising the guardianship of the House of Percy. I wish to counter any issue which might be raised to the contrary by the Earl of Pembroke—before it becomes an issue with Parliament. You can help me do that by raising public interest in our favor.’
Lord Pembroke was a dour Puritan to be sure and capable of making all manner of trouble for a woman of whom he undoubtedly did not approve. Guardianship of the children would enhance his power with Parliament. And of course, Lucy would bear a grudge against him. He had argued mightily for the bill of attainder against Wentworth.
‘What sort of details?’ he asked.
‘Nothing to compromise the children’s safety—or the Queen’s. But I think your readers will find any news of her interesting, since she is so reviled. Do we have a bargain?’
‘Do you know where the other children are?’
‘I have it on good authority that Charles and James are with their father.’
Whose authority, he wondered, but he thought he knew. There were rumors that John Pym had taken Wentworth’s place in her affections, though much more discreetly, of course.
‘Mary, the Princess Royal, has been delivered by her mother to her husband’s household, Prince William of the House of Orange, and the Queen is lingering to see her well and safely established.’ Then adding, ‘In a Protestant household. Don’t forget to print that.
‘I will include that with a general story on the King’s children. With a teaser that there may be more to follow.’
‘You may say that the Queen misses her children. And that her health has not been good these last weeks. A sop to her enemies. They will be pleased to hear she suffers. You will not name your source.’
‘I will not name my source.’
‘And you will not say the children are at Syon House. Only that they are under Percy guardianship. A week hence then? How long does it take you to get your—?’
‘Issues. We call them numbered issues. A week will suffice.’
‘It would please me if you called at Syon House.’
He bowed, answering the invitation in her tone with a courtier’s gesture more suited to a nobleman than a tradesman wearing a stained apron. ‘It will be my pleasure, Countess. And I shall bring you the printed story to see if it satisfies. Before I print a run for distribution.’
She favored him with her coquette’s smile. ‘I am sure, my lord Whittier, that you always give satisfaction.’
‘May I send you home in a hackney?’
‘No, my groom is waiting for me.’ She indicated the carriage with the Northumberland crest, waiting at a discreet distance on the other side of the street. He had not noticed it.
‘Until next week, then,’ he said as he helped her on with her cloak, marking how fine her face looked framed by the sable hood. ‘Wait—’ He dug to the bottom of a stack of damp news books. ‘This one is reasonably dry. You might enjoy the story about the Irish rebellion. Like all such stories, it’s luridly embellished. Tales of gore and rage draw keen interest—human nature being what it is—though the rebel fighting there is truly fierce, I am told.’
‘Thank you, but no. I have already seen it. It was disgusting.’
‘You still have Carlisle property in Ireland, don’t you? I hope you have sturdy retainers.’
‘My overseers are trustworthy. They have a stake in the security of the property. Lord Strafford helped me find them.’
‘That is good. For what it is worth, my lady, I knew Thomas Wentworth to be a good and honest man who served the King well.’
‘Thank you, for that fine sentiment, my lord. He was—and that’s the irony of it.’ She tightened the ribbons on her hood and reached for the door latch.
‘I will run your story about the Queen’s children at the top of the page. It will be less eye-catching than a story about a burning Irish church filled with women and children, but there is always sufficient interest in anything royal. Ironic, isn’t it?’
‘As you said, “human nature being what it is.”’
He was still standing in the door watching, enjoying the view as she hurried into her coach, when one of the urchins who sold his papers ducked under his arm.
‘Can I come in, milord? It’s colder than witches’ snot out here, it is. We sold all our papers an hour ago.’
‘Kicked out again? What is it this time, Ralphie? You been misbehaving?’
‘Nay, milord. Ye know better than that. It’s me old stepdad. ’E got drunk mad at me mum, started yellin’, came after me with a stick of wood when I told him to shut his trap up. Best for both of us if I don’t go home. ’E won’t remember in the morning. Can I stay here tonight?’
James pretended to consider, then said. ‘You may keep Little John company. He’s been sleeping here since his mother was taken to Bart’s two days ago with lung fever. I am going out, but there’s coal in the scuttle to keep the fire going and I’ll bring you both back some soup for your supper. Don’t make a mess with your roughhousing. I’m counting on you. Now, finish mopping the press, while I set the paper in the frame. If you boys are going to sleep here, you might as well learn to print.’
Later, as the leaden sky faded to the color of ink, James Whittier slipped his favorite dice into his pocket and went out into a cold rain. A bad night to be sloshing through the muddy streets, but last week he’d picked up a rumor that the King’s troops led by the upstart Bohemian nephew were laying siege, burning and pillaging in the west. Amazing what secrets men divulged when they were in their cups. Besides even if he did not pick up any printable news, funds for the enterprise were getting low. His unwitting financial backers would be waiting at the George Inn.