… exceedingly loyal, understanding and of good judgment … the most loyal to King Charles in his miseries of any woman in England.
—description of Jane Whorwood from the Diary of Anthony Wood, Oxford
Caroline jolted awake, blackness all around. Her neck, stiff from sitting, hurt when she moved it. How long had she been asleep? Why had they stopped? The only sound was the creaking of the springs on the coach and then in the distance a cock crowed. Heart in her throat, she reached for the gun and pointed it toward the door. The door opened. Her fingers groped for the trigger of the pistol.
‘Whoa, mistress. Hold up. It’s me John, thy coachman. Thou be home. At least I think, from the directions I remember, though it looks deserted and as dark as a witch’s heart out here.’ He held out his hand for the gun. ‘Best let me carry that.’
‘Careful,’ Caroline said, handing it to him. ‘It’s loaded.’
She retrieved her scrip from the dusty floorboard, not even bothering to brush it off. What was one more layer of muck? The satchel was light without the weight of the pistol.
‘Glad thou caught a bit of shut eye. We made good time, we did truly. Guess every soul and even God’s critters was hunkered down, waiting for the guns to start.’
An overwhelming gratitude welled up inside her towards this good man whom she had never met before another good man brought him to her rescue.
‘Is this it then? Home?’ he said, uncertainty roughening his voice.
He had stopped on the road, short of the drive—not wanting to raise an alarm in case he was mistaken, she supposed, but close enough she recognized the hulking configuration of the Forest Hill outbuildings. No light in any window, not even in the kitchen, but she could just make out the arched doorway and the familiar roofline with its seven chimneys.
‘This is it,’ she said.
‘Then I’d be obliged if we could get thee in and safe, so I can head back to Reading afore daybreak. A while ago I heard the distant sound of cannon fire out of Reading. Probably practicing for the morn.’
The sounds of war ushered in a Sabbath profaned by the sound of gunfire. All in the name of God. She took his rough hand and stepped down.
The dogs began to bark as they walked up the stone path. ‘I’ll see if I can rouse somebody to give you some refreshment before you go,’ she said. ‘That is the least I can do.’
‘Aye, mistress. Ye’ll need to wake somebody so I can see ye safely handed off. Lord Whittier paid me extra for that duty, but I’ll not linger once that’s done.’
‘You are a righteous soul, good sir. I will pray for your safety on the road and I will be sure to tell my husband of your kindness. He’ll look you up at the inn outside Reading and thank you personally, when this horrid war is over.’
‘Righteous,’ he laughed softly. ‘I’d like my wife to hear you say that.’
Three times Caroline lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. ‘Late-night interruptions don’t usually put Squire Powell in a good mood,’ she whispered.
A light appeared in an upstairs window, framing a bulky silhouette, then heavy footsteps on the stairs and low cursing as a dog inside joined the chorus of epithets. ‘What is so blasted important that could not wait for a decent hour—’ More ferocious barking.
She leaned her face against the door and called, ‘Squire, are you there? It’s me, Caroline.’
‘Hush, Festus. It’s Caroline.’
The barking diminished to a welcoming whine. She could almost see the dog behind the door, tail beating back and forth, ready to spring in welcome.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late but—’
The door jerked open halfway, revealing a disgruntled Richard Powell in nightdress, holding a night lamp up to inspect his intruder. ‘Girl, is that really you? Where in the devil have you been? We have been sick with worry. Get away, Festus. Go on, git.’
The dog slunk under the hall bench, but his tail still beat a muted welcome on the stone floor. Caroline quickly banished the vision of her own Splendid Pair—not now. Not when she was so worn and weary, she could not hold the weight of that memory. ‘I left you a note. Did you not find it?’
‘Aye. We found it—four days ago. We went looking for you when one of the King’s soldiers came inquiring about requisitioning the empty house for a garrison.’
The coachman cleared his throat impatiently, reminding them of his presence. He handed the gun to the squire, who looked up at him with a startled expression. ‘This belongs to the mistress. Best handle it carefully. It’s loaded. We’ve had a worrisome journey from Reading this night. That city is tighter than a—well it’s about to come under the big guns of Parliament men.’ Then he straightened his shoulders and continued in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Now that the mistress is safe, I’ll be heading back if thou givest me thy pledge, sir, that thou knowest this lady and will offer surety for her protection.’
‘Know her!’ He reached forward to embrace Caroline. ‘Like my own daughter, and right glad I am to see her.’ The squire offered his hand.’ I am Justice Richard Powell, good sir. You wait here whilst I fetch come recompense for the service you have rendered this night.’
‘No need. I’ve been well paid,’ the coachman said.
The Squire did not press the matter of material compensation but said heartily, ‘Well, if you should ever be in these parts again and run afoul of the law for some petty misunderstanding, tell the constable that Justice Richard Powell will stand for you.’
The coachman nodded and then disappeared beyond the circle of the candlelight. Moments later she heard the crack of a whip and the hollow echo of hoof beats.
‘Come in, girl. I’ll rouse the scullery maid and fetch Mistress Ann and Mary. We’ll get you something to drink and you can tell us how you found William.’
‘No, don’t wake them. Please. You go on back to bed too. What I really want is to just go to my old room—is the bed still there? I need to close my eyes under a safe roof.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll have the maid send you up some clean clothes and a wash basin. You can tell us about your adventure tomorrow. But first just tell me about my dear friend William. Where is he? Is he well?
The realization of what Caroline was about to say and what it might mean suddenly stunned her. The admission of the truth. ‘I did not find him, Squire,’ she said dully.
‘But I thought—we’d heard he was at the Oxford garrison. Did you go there?’
‘I went there first. He had been there but left on a mission to Reading. I—I don’t know where he is, and the commander at Reading said he never arrived. Now Reading is under siege.’
She paused fighting back the tears that had threatened all night as he said nothing. Just a wide-eyed stare of disbelief.
‘But I’m not giving up hope. We would have heard if … if some calamity had befallen him. Wouldn’t we?’
Squire Powell hesitated a second too long, a little too much assurance in his answer.
‘Yes, girl. You can be sure of it. It’s just the confusion of war. He’s probably hiding out until it’s safe to either go back to his garrison or complete his mission. You go on off to bed. We’ll hear from him soon. I’ll make inquiries at the garrison myself. I should have gone with you in the first place.’
‘Do you think it’s possible that he was taken captive on the road? William was well known in London. He had friends in Parliament. They would not mistreat him, would they?’
‘They are all honorable men. All Englishmen. Try not to worry. You are exhausted and anxious. Everything always looks bleakest just before dawn. You are safe. That’s what William would want. We have a squadron of the King’s soldiers quartered here. They’ll check on him for us. They owe us that much for all the ale they drink and the beef they eat. Now go quietly off to bed and try to sleep. Things will look better in the morning. We’ll make a plan. Here, take this light. If Mary or Ann call out, don’t answer. They’ll only smother you with their tears and hugs and questions.’
Caroline fell upon the little attic bed she’d slept on as a girl, removing only her skirt and not bothering to wash. She lay there in the dark, inhaling the comforting smell of the rough-hewn rafters, unable to fall asleep as she waited for the dawn to come creeping.
Henrietta did not have to suffer the austerity of Castle York’s fortifications for long. It was the second stop on her journey south and judging from its meager hospitality an unexpected one. Within the week William Cavendish, Earl of Newcastle, came with an enhanced contingent of the Queen’s Guard to escort her to his fortified manor at Handsworth where the Queen’s apartment had been hastily but at least adequately prepared. Cavendish bowed stiffly and informed her that since the fighting in the Midlands was too fierce for either Rupert or Charles to come for her now, it would be his great pleasure if her majesty would remain his welcome guest in Sheffield for the time being. If she desired, she could inspect her troops now integrated with Newcastle’s army in York, but she would be better served to postpone that activity since her enemies knew that she had returned. When it was safe to travel to Oxford, he would pull her mercenaries and Catholic recruits out to join the King and Prince Rupert.
This was a disappointment. ‘His Majesty sent no personal letter for me?’
‘No letter, your majesty. But a verbal message. He said to tell you that he was very impatient to welcome you home properly and you may expect to hear from him as soon as the negotiations with Parliament have ended. He also instructed me to tell you he has added a new symbol to your private cipher. The letter N. He wisely did not say what it represented but that you should be on the lookout for it soon. He also pressed me to assure your majesty that Prince Charles and his brother are with him and his lieutenants. They are safe and well and anxious to be reunited with their mother at Oxford.’ Then the commander bowed abruptly and without waiting to be dismissed excused himself.
After he left, she sat very still, willing herself to parse what he had said, both in word and manner. The specter of betrayal ever loomed. She could easily be captive here, held to gain some private advantage. But if Charles had chosen Cavendish as his general in the North, Charles trusted him. She would have to trust him too. With Parliament’s spies everywhere, she had no other choice.
She was safe enough here, surrounded as she was by Nottingham’s fortress and her own Queen’s Guards, but the rebels knew where she was. Almost before she was settled in, messages came from Parliament, John Pym personally beseeching her to use her considerable influence with the King to persuade him to ‘reasonable and efficacious’ negotiations, lest more English blood be spilled. Efficacious for Parliament. She answered carefully: she was flattered by their confidence in her … she did not think it her duty to instruct his Majesty in policy … he would not be swayed by her opinions in any case. This last was a calculated reply. Pym was astute enough to discern how much influence she really wielded over her husband. She knew what Parliament feared most was the influence of their hated Catholic queen.
Parliament’s harassment, this crushing disappointment at Charles’ delay, and the fact that he had sent no personal message drove her to the hastily contrived prie-dieu in her chamber. There she prayed for the safety of her husband, for the safety of her children—the Holy Mother was a wounded mother too. But most fervently she prayed for an Old Testament wrath to rain destruction upon John Pym and his Parliament allies. God’s enemies, King’s enemies—one and the same. She knew their names and she called them all, staying on her knees until they were bruised. By the time Henrietta heard the commotion outside, the altar cloth was damp with her tears. Making the sign of the cross, she got up stiffly and went to see what was afoot.
‘Your majesty, come and see. It will lift your spirits. The grooms have brought your trunks.’
Henrietta clasped her hands together in delight. It was a sign from the Virgin: seven great hulking chests, filling up her bedchamber. Lord Denbigh’s wife, Susan Feilding, along with her faithful Genevieve, were bent over the first chest, cooing with admiration as they unpacked French silks and embroidered laces and velvet sleeves with colorful ribbons, all purchased at wholesalers’ cost from the Dutch traders. Henrietta’s eyes discreetly searched each trunk for signs that the false bottoms with their cache of Florentine gold had not been disturbed. All appeared intact.
‘Do not unpack them all,’ she instructed as she probed the bottoms, releasing the smell of lavender into the air. ‘The King will come soon to escort us to the new court at Merton College. We will save the best until we are safely there. This rose-colored damask will be sufficient for tonight’s entertainment.’ An attempt at an entertainment she thought, watching Genevieve shake out the gown. ‘No jewels for my hair. I shall wear no other ornament, only a plain cap and my necklace, until I am reunited with my husband.’
It would be a sober affair by Whitehall standards, yet better than the dreary feasts provided by the Dutch for their royal visitors, she thought as she considered herself in the mirror. How loosely the gown fell around her. ‘Genevieve, before I next wear this I think you must employ your needle.’
‘The Dutch food did not settle with you, I fear.’
‘Sometimes it was more than just not liking the food,’ she said pinching her pale cheeks.
Genevieve nodded and smiled in sympathetic understanding. ‘There will be a fine feast tonight. The company may be riotous, but it will not be dull, like the Dutch—or pretentious, like the Winter Queen—and the food will be hearty.’
‘Oui, it is good to be rid of that one.’ She turned sideways for one last look at her reflection. ‘You always know how to cheer me, Genevieve. Elizabeth’s beloved late husband, instead of planting a garden atop the old battery in Heidelberg, should have bought his bride a cannon. Her tenure might have lasted longer than one winter.’
Smiling, Genevieve stooped to smooth her skirts. ‘You are almost home. Eat well. And I may not have to get out my needle.’
Noise from below filtered up—hearty laughter and music. It had a welcome celebratory sound, and Lord Denbigh would be there by her side. But sweet Jermyn and young Henry Percy, gone to join the fighting, she would sorely miss. The stiff William Cavendish of course was hosting the Scots Catholic lords who supported the Royalist cause. Trés judicieux. It would give her a chance to bind their loyalty to their Queen through their shared religion. A bulwark against the Scots Presbyterians. Charming them into releasing some of their gold for Charles would be an easy night’s work.
Though Henrietta had difficulty with the Scots’ thick brogue, she smiled often and invited the visitors to celebrate vespers in the small chapel. Later as they feasted on venison and good English beef, she listened to the dirge of their groaning bagpipes and applauded prettily. But she applauded more enthusiastically when, after much good whisky and flattery, they emptied the little pouches strategically adorning their kilts. Before departing they swore fealty to her and Charles and left her with good profit and a feeling of accomplishment. She could not wait to tell Charles how his beloved Scots lords responded.
But as the days passed and still no word came from the King, this small triumph was soon forgotten. Why was Charles in no hurry to send for her? They had never been separated this long before. Was he not as eager for their reunion as she was? Had Hyde and other ministers of floating loyalty poisoned his mind in her absence? Or horror of horrors, had he found some other source of comfort? She remembered how easily she had wooed him away from grief after his cherished Buckingham was killed.
The relentless spring rains made her body ache and the news of the fighting depressed her spirit. The fact that the Earl of Newcastle, despite the additional troops and arms she brought him, had not been able to retake the armory at Hull from its traitorous commander infuriated her.
It was mid-morning when Susan Feilding tiptoed in. The sun was already flooding across the counterpane. ‘Your Majesty there is someone to see you. She says she has a gift for you.’
Henrietta started to wave her away.
‘She says it is from the King.’
‘Do we know her?’
‘I don’t remember ever seeing her at court. She calls herself Jane Whorwood, Mistress Brome of Holton. She says that she has come from Oxford where she is in charge of the royal linens.’
‘Receive the gift on my behalf and send her away.’
‘I tried that, your majesty. I told her you were indisposed. But she says that she will wait. Her instructions were to give the gift into your hands only. Here is the letter of surety that bears his Majesty’s signature and seal.’
Henrietta sat up in bed and examined the document, drawing in her breath sharply. Sketched almost like a flourish of the end was something unfamiliar, the letter N perhaps? Or it could be just a slip of the pen from a man writing hastily under hurried conditions. She considered for a long moment.
‘Grant her an audience,’ she said. ‘In the presence room. Give me half an hour and send Genevieve to help me dress.’
Why would Charles not send one of his heralds? Was the war so short of men he could not spare one to take a message to his wife? Not bothering with her complete toilet Henrietta assumed her place in the draped cross chair set up for her in the anteroom to her private chamber and signaled to Susan that she was ready.
When she was ushered into the makeshift presence room outside the Queen’s bedchamber, the woman dropped to the floor in a strong curtsy, not the slight perfunctory sort Henrietta too often experienced at court.
‘Thank you for seeing me, your majesty.’
Henrietta did not recognize the woman. She would have remembered such a creature if only for her tall stature, and bold, blue-eyed gaze.
‘You have come on a service for the King? You are lately of his household? I do not remember you at Whitehall or Hampton Court.’
‘No, your majesty. I serve him at the King’s court in Oxford as mistress of his linen closet and laundry. I am Mistress Brome of Holton. My family has long been in the linen trade and we have a wide network of individuals well placed among the King’s friends. That happy circumstance allows me to perform double service for him.’
‘Double service. How so?’
‘Here is one small example.’ She held out a parcel, wrapped in silk and tied with a crimson cord. ‘This is a welcome-home gift for you from some of those friends who have been generous in their support of your husband. Please forgive the little white smudge on the silk wrapping. We smuggled it out of London under watchful eyes of Parliament—in a barrel of soap.’
‘London. I doubt my husband has many friends left in London,’ Henrietta said as she accepted the parcel. It weighed lightly in her hands.
Jane Whorwood—although she had announced herself as Lady Brome, Henrietta thought the name Jane Whorwood suited her better. A common Jane, who when she tossed her head, revealed a pock mark hidden by a well-placed curl.
‘Parliament has not routed all the King’s friends, I assure you,’ the common Jane said. ‘Though they must show their friendship carefully for fear of Parliament’s thugs and spies. The same wagonload of soap and trade linens carrying that little parcel you hold in your hand, also carried a goodly amount of gold for his Majesty to Oxford, which I delivered to him this past fortnight.’ Pointing to the parcel in Henrietta’s hands, she said, ‘Please, your majesty, I would truly like to see you open it. I have come a long way. It is a welcome-home gift. I should like to tell the King and your loyal subjects in London that you delighted in it.’
Henrietta unwrapped the parcel as those it might contain a serpent, but her subsequent gasp was one of appreciation.
‘They are from his Majesty’s loyal servants in Cripplegate. The King commissioned the gift, but the Glovers’ Guild would not let him pay. They have not forgotten the royal charter that he signed for them.’
‘Exquis coutoure.’ Henrietta caressed the gloves lovingly, white kid stained cream. Tracing a fingertip over the embroidered gauntlet, she whispered more to herself that the messenger, ‘Tres belle,’ then added, ‘my husband has exquisite taste.’
The edging and lining were of sky-blue silk. Raised silver wire chain-stitching in heart shapes and scrolling arabesques surrounded crimson lilies. Yellow silk French knots formed the flower heads.
The common Jane sighed with pleasure at the Queen’s response. ‘Yes, his Majesty does have wonderful taste,’ she said. ‘You are fortunate in your husband, your majesty, as I am fortunate in my King.’ Admiration, a slight shade below worship, colored her tone.
Henrietta looked up sharply. ‘You have met the King, then? Personally, I mean.’
‘Only briefly, your majesty. When I took him the gold. He was most gracious to accept my offer of help—when I explained my family’s network of connected manor houses and shopkeepers.’
‘Your offer of … help.’
‘As a messenger, your majesty.’
‘Although I thank you for coming so far, Mistress Brome, I am sure you need not have troubled yourself in these unsafe times. The court has many messengers.’
‘Oh, but your majesty, I wanted so much to meet you. Surely so great a man must have chosen for himself a worthy queen. It is my honor to serve you as well. Shall I take a message from you back to your husband?’
‘No, but thank you.’ Henrietta tried to keep her tone polite. ‘I already have a trusted messenger. But you may express my delight to the glovers and say how much the Queen admires their gracious and beautiful gift.’
The woman just stood, apparently unaware that she was being dismissed.
‘You may go. If you would like I will order some refreshment for you to be sent to the hall.’
‘I thank you your majesty, but being admitted to your presence is refreshment enough.’
‘God’s speed then.’
‘Right. May God be with you as well.’ And then the woman curtsied again and backed away.
When she was gone, Henrietta turned her attention to the gift. She tried on the right-hand glove. A perfect fit. But when she tried to pull up the gauntlet on the left-hand glove, a slip of paper fell out. She recognized the signature. So, the woman had seen Charles, and he had seen the gloves or he had given her the note to place inside the glove. It was written in their private numerical code. The only letter in a string of numbers was the letter N. Holy Mother how she missed Jermyn. He always decoded for her. It was such a tedious process. Concentrating hard without retrieving the code from her private hiding place, she could just make out the numbers next to the N. The number 3 for J the double 6 would be oo and the 9 for W. Jane Whorwood. She would check it later, but the empty feeling in her stomach told her she didn’t need to.
Charles had another woman besides his absent wife who adored him, a beautiful and willing woman. A younger woman bearing gifts. It didn’t mean that he had bedded her. He was slow to attachment, not abandoning one too eagerly for another. Even she—and God knows she had tried, urged on by her mother—had not been able to capture his attention as long as the favorite Buckingham lived. But adoration was a strong aphrodisiac. The weaker the man, the stronger the spell.
Holy Mother, let me find a way to him and soon, she prayed. She traced the beautiful beadwork on the glove. She would write to him tonight, if she could find where she’d put the damnable cipher.