… a sober man [rather than a worldly man] may easily chance to meet, if not with a body impenetrable, yet often with a mind [impenetrable] to all other due conversation and to the superior purposes of matrimony useless and almost lifeless.
—From The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce by John Milton
London
July 1643
Just before sunset Henrietta’s entourage came to the River Avon. Its broad expanse was shaded by willows leaning in as if they too thirsted for its cooling waters. Captain Cavendish galloped up beside her, expanding the cloud of dust that surrounded her. He slowed his horse to match its pace with hers.
‘We shall rest here, if it pleases your majesty.’
‘Inviting as it looks, don’t you think we should press on, Captain? This is enemy territory,’ she said, though she longed to bathe in the clear stream—she had done nothing but wipe herself from a basin for a week, had not changed her chemise in three days.
‘You are well informed, your majesty. This is enemy territory. But our intelligence says the fighting is west of here. We have just received word that the King’s nephew and his troop of cavalry are going to meet us here.’
Reflections from the setting sun caressed the shadow pools beneath the willows, gently painting them orange and purple. ‘How long?’ she asked.
‘The herald said they are less than an hour away. The Prince is to escort you to the King’s encampment at Edgehill.’
‘Edgehill. How far is that? Does this mean you will leave when the Prince comes?’
‘I must, your majesty, as much as it grieves me. The King has ordered me back to Bristol. To help my father keep the peace gained there. I am relieved of duty here as soon as the Prince arrives.’
This was not how she had planned the longed-for meeting, not how she had dreamed it in the lonely nights. She did not want Charles to see her, after so long an absence, dusty and disheveled, worn out from the road, more generalissima than queen. Such a sight would dampen any man’s ardor. She wanted to rush into his arms unadorned by the stink of the journey. There had been such sadness in his eyes when she sailed away. She wanted to see joy there now—and not just for the goods she was bringing.
She reined in her horse. At her signal, he reined in his as well. ‘Captain, I thank you for your service to me. It has been beyond compare, but I would be pleased if you would do one more thing for me.’
‘Anything, your majesty. Just name it.’
‘While you keep watch, I am going to bathe in that little cove behind the willow. As soon as you fetch a few things from my private carriage. Tell Genevieve and Lady Denbigh. They will know what I need.’
‘Your majesty, I don’t know if—’ but she did not wait to hear his objection.
She spurred her horse in the direction of the weeping willow. By the time the captain returned with Genevieve and a satchel, the Queen’s horse was tied loosely to the willow, head down. The beast flicked his tail against a swarm of gnats and continued drinking greedily. Henrietta, already chin-deep in the cool clear water, swatted at a dragonfly that had dared to rest its jeweled wings on her streaming hair and shouted a greeting at them. Blushing, he retreated, her laughter floating after.
James Whittier assessed the progress of the Milton project and said to Ben, ‘Looks as though we’ll finish this print run before the Sabbath and that is much to be desired. The church wardens will be on patrol. St. Bride’s has already fined me once for working on the Sabbath, but the vicar vacated it with a warning.’
Ben grinned. ‘But it’s probably still on their book. Next time he might call the bailiff to lock you up. I’d hate to have to bail you out,’ he said as he removed the last page from the press and handed it off.
James cast his critical gaze on the page he was inspecting and said, ‘My turn to press. Your arm must be sore by now.’
Ben did not argue. His right bicep had begun to twitch with the strain. ‘Patience said that Mr. Milton seemed pleased with the first lot.’
‘He is not lavish in his praise, so I assume he was satisfied. But regardless, I am pleased. We struck a good bargain. I have already taken orders from several booksellers. This lot will sell out quickly. Apparently J.M.’s Doctrine of Divorce has caused quite a stir in godly London.’
‘It is a radical stance for a Puritan to be sure. Patience and I talked about it, though she was reluctant to discuss her employer’s personal affairs. She did say that truly she had never seen a more ill-suited pair in her life. Brooding tension all the time except the storm never burst. At least in her hearing, though Mistress Milton cried in her chamber—which Patience said she did not believe her husband shared—’ Ben paused to hang two more of the big sheets that would be folded into a pamphlet-style codex before continuing—‘and Mr. Milton kept to his study or the schoolroom most of the time. The misery in that house was as oppressive as summer lightning. Her words.’
‘What finally happened to make her leave?’
‘Patience didn’t know. She just came to work one morning expecting to see her new mistress ‘fumbling about in the kitchen,’ as Patience put it, with that dazed look of a cornered animal. One day she just wasn’t there. Not the next day either. When Patience asked if she was indisposed, Mr. Milton said that she had gone home to attend her father who was ill. And that was his last word on the subject. He just carried on as before with his bachelor routine.’
The press groaned as James pulled the lever down. ‘Well, that’s a dreary little outcome,’ he said. ‘But if you read the essay, it makes some sense. One can assume husband and wife were dismally incompatible. Milton likened an unhappy matrimonial bond to being chained to a corpse.’
‘I didn’t read past the introduction. The language was way too high-blown for a poor one-armed printer’s devil. But Patience conceded the girl was fairer than most and gently spoken so I’m thinking she was not a scold. What possible complaint could a bridegroom have with a prize like that?’
Ben’s accompanying grin was a welcome sight. James admired the way he treated his loss as something to be overcome, a challenge to be mastered. Remarkable really, James was thinking as he answered, ‘From my reading—and yes J.M. is overly fond of words—it seems he just did not find his bride a fit intellectual companion. But having met him, there is a pomposity that rankles—one would be interested to hear her side.’
‘If you don’t want to see her eyes flash pure temper, don’t let Patience Trapford hear you disparage her paragon, though she admits she felt sorry for the girl. She said she would have liked to see Mary Milton stand up for herself. Just once. So that he could see she was not just an empty-headed doll.’
Ben turned his attention to removing and stacking the dried sheets, his one arm working rapidly. Then suddenly he paused and looked up at his employer with a look of curiosity as though he had just stumbled upon a puzzle. ‘Why did you never marry, my lord?’
The press stilled.
When James did not answer, the boy blushed to the roots of his light hair and shook his head. ‘I am sorry. I overstepped. It was an impertinent question.’
James waved him off as if the question were of no consequence. ‘I came close. Once. But it’s a tedious tale.’
They worked on in silence for a while. James pressing, Ben retrieving and hanging, retrieving and hanging, Ben embarrassed and James, for his part, still pondering the question and thinking about how terribly wrong it all had gone. The two other players in that sad little drama were gone now forever. Best not to think about. And certainly not to talk about it.
The atmosphere grew heavy in the room as the fading light slid away through the western-facing window. James peeled the last sheet, handed it off, and wiped the press.
‘How are the reading lessons progressing?’ he asked to lighten the mood.
‘Surprisingly, quite well. Patience is a quick learner, but for a woman she has some strong opinions and is not afraid to express them.’
‘Opinions? About what? Besides the domestic failings of her employer’s household?’
‘Religion mostly. She has plenty to say about the Church of England and some of the Independents as well. She doesn’t like the Queen. She thinks the King is a power-hungry tyrant. But she says some in Parliament are “too bull-headed to see that war is going to bring nothing but more war.”’
‘Maybe she should sit for Parliament,’ James said, immediately repenting the sarcasm in his voice. ‘What opinion does she have of you?’
‘Me?’ The blush returned. ‘Well, she calls me a friend.’
‘And you?’
He paused, considered, as if thinking about the question for the first time. ‘A friend is a good thing to have. Sometimes she makes me laugh to hear such unorthodox observations come out of her mouth with such certainty. Yet she never takes offense when I laugh. Just throws it right back. But you need not worry that my time with her hinders production. We work as we spell and recite. She practices her reading on the headers. She sewed most of the pamphlets in that last lot we sent out.’
‘Maybe I should put her on the payroll. How does she have the time?’
‘She gets a half-day every other week and all day on Sundays. Course Sunday mornings she goes to church.’
‘Do you go with her? You seem to be keeping the Sabbath with sudden regularity.’ James finished cleaning the press and handed the rag to Ben who deposited it with the others in a basket in the corner.
‘I make sure that Ralphie and Little John get up when they sleep here. I make them scrub up good before I deliver them to the new Sunday school that one of the Independent congregations has opened for the poor children. Patience shamed me into taking them. But I think it’s a good thing.’
‘They go willingly? Even Ralphie?’
‘They like it. They get a crust smeared with honey or jam, instead of the dripping I give them, sometimes a cup of milk, and they say the teacher tells awesome stories with giants and battles and big fish that can swallow a whole man.’ He shrugged, and the grin was back. ‘The way I figure it I don’t have to give them breakfast and a little religion might help keep them out of trouble. Keeps the Church police away from your door, too.’
‘I’ve noticed some of the Independents’ rules are in some ways more lenient than Laud’s ever were.’
Ben nodded. ‘Can you imagine the old archbishop letting parishioners take Sundays to work on the earthworks? But the independent preachers say the ‘ox is in the ditch’ when the godly kingdom is under siege. Even Parliament has declared that the Lord will understand if the able-bodied take a Sabbath to work on the earthworks that protect it.’ The grin grew wider. ‘As long as we chant a psalm or two to keep the rhythm while we shovel on the big ditch.’
James didn’t dare raise an eyebrow at ‘the able-bodied,’ but he didn’t have to.
‘I know what you are thinking, my lord. That maybe I am not so ‘able-bodied.’ But pulling on your presses has built up a powerful strength in my good arm. Besides sometimes Patience works with me. I put my foot on the shovel while we both push, and then I pitch the load into the bucket. We have three hands instead of two to carry it and empty it onto the pile.’
‘And I guess the two of you are chanting the psalms the entire time.’
‘Sometimes,’ Ben said. ‘And sometimes we have this little rhythmic spelling song we’ve made up.’ And then the lad must have caught the sarcasm in his employer’s remark about the psalms. His face flushed, but he lifted his chin and looked straight into James’s eyes. ‘You should join us sometimes, my lord. You’ll have an excuse when the church wardens at St. Bride’s come calling. How about tomorrow?’
‘On the morrow, if the church warden bangs on my door, he’ll get no answer. I’ll be at the private chapel of the chop house down by the river. I’ll try to remember to bring you and the boys a morsel for your supper.’
How could Ben argue with that?
‘Maman, hold.’ The child held up his chubby arms for Lucy to pick him up.
‘Do not call her that,’ Princess Elizabeth said. ‘She is not Maman. Maman is in France. She is Lucy Hay, Countess of Carlisle, Henry. You must not call her Maman.’
‘Maman,’ the child insisted, his mouth set in a pout.
Lucy picked him up, inhaling the sweet smell of him. His clinging incited in her a longing she had not felt in many years. ‘Don’t scold your brother, my lady. Let him take his comfort where he finds it. He doesn’t remember his mother. But he will. It will not be long now. I believe your mother has arrived back in England and will soon be at the new court in Oxford.’
‘She is not coming here to see us?’ Elizabeth’s mouth flew open, her forehead crinkled in disbelief.
‘It is not yet safe for her to travel to London.’ And then seeing the tears threatening, Lucy added, ‘Maybe we can visit her.’ Doubting, as the words left her lips, if Parliament would ever give permission. ‘Would you like that Henry? Would you like to see your maman?’
‘Maman,’ the child said and grabbed for a strand of Lucy’s hair.
‘Oh,’ she said with a fake screech to which the child giggled. ‘You are a naughty boy. You will pull Lady Carlisle bald.’
‘Maman bald,’ the child grinned and grabbed another handful.
‘If you will let go my hair, we will go to the kitchen and ask Carter for pudding.’ The little boy pursed his lips as though considering, then splaying both his hands, he squealed, ‘cake.’ At least he was learning the courtier’s art of negotiating.
A few minutes later, when Carter had scavenged the promised tribute from the diminished cupboard at Syon House, Lucy watched as her two charges divided the sweet tart between them. Henry protested when his sister tried to help, ‘I do it,’ then crammed a fistful of the sweet into his mouth, smearing the crumbs across his chin.
Elizabeth ate hers in petite bites, tiny wheels always turning in her head, as she quizzed, ‘Lady Carlisle, why do you not have any children?’ Before Lucy could summon an answer to this impertinent question, the girl followed it up with another. ‘Is it because you have no husband? I know this is not your house. It belongs to your brother.’
‘You know much about many things, don’t you, Princess Elizabeth?’ Lucy’s tone had just the slightest edge to it. ‘But you are right. This is my brother’s house. I am called Lady Carlisle because I had a husband once. His name was James, the same as your grandfather, King James, whom he served. Lord Hay, Earl of Carlisle, was a very fine gentleman and a Scots lord, with a grand estate in Ireland that your grandfather bestowed on him,’ she said, a bit of wistfulness softening her voice.
‘I should not like to live in Ireland. Maman said the Protestants there are savages. Where is your husband now?’
‘He died a long time ago.’
‘Were you sad when he died? Why did you not have children?’
Lucy felt a forgotten sadness stirring. She looked away on the pretense of wiping Henry’s face, unwilling to let the girl read her face as easily as she translated Greek to Latin and Latin to English, and answered. ‘I was very sad, but it was a long time ago—stop squirming, Henry. Yes, we had a child. A little boy. He died very young.’ She held her breath lest the child ask, how old was he, as she pressed her lips against Henry’s head.
Words formed himself in her mind. The age of this child when I last held little Jamie in my arms. I smelled the fever on his hot skin when I cradled him.
But she did not utter them.
‘We had a sister who died,’ the girl said, bringing the subject back to herself. ‘I never knew her, but Maman cried when she told me about her.’
Lucy had known that long-ago child. She had been particularly fond of baby Anne with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and remembered well the Queen’s tears and the hours she had spent in her chapel, praying for the child who coughed up blood. Lucy had cried with Henrietta when those prayers were not answered. Real tears. Not court tears.
‘Will I be allowed to write to Maman at Oxford?’
‘You write the letter and I will see that it is delivered. Please go and do it now,’ she said, ‘while your little brother gets his nap.’ She wiped the child’s sticky fingers one last time and picked him up, grateful that the girl’s curious mind had turned to her mother.
Later, alone—Elizabeth, closeted with the formidable tutor and Henry with his nurse—Lucy went to her own chamber. As she crossed the threshold a glance at the image of the woman passing in front of the glass pulled her up short: a true reflection, without artifice or contrivance, a naked face she seldom saw when she was at her toilette.
She thrust out her chin, turning this way and that, and considered herself with an appraising eye. If beauty had been this woman’s blessed wealth, then this reflection in the ruthless light of mid-afternoon promised a reversal approaching penury. Her breasts had lost their perkiness and her waist was undeniably thicker. Not a lot thicker. But enough. And those marks at the corners of her mouth, Holy Virgin’s tears, when had they gotten so deep? A toss of her head, the practiced courtesan’s smile, but the face was still the portrait of a faded beauty. Even her hair looked dull. What did you expect, Lucy? her mind muttered to the image in the mirror. Nothing lasts forever. Beauty fades. Age creeps, first into the skin, then the bones and finally into the heart.
This bleak recognition and what it implied for her future brought a second shock. Had she squandered her youth carelessly? A fading beauty with children and a husband was one thing. A withered crone, adrift in a hostile world, was something else altogether, a woman to be pitied—or scorned. Had her best prospect for any kind of security died on that scaffold with Thomas Wentworth? She had taken the man’s measure in every way a woman could and knew he would have endured. About John she was becoming less sure. Whatever passion she had lit in him now was more ember than flame.
Turning her back on the image in the mirror, she lay across her bed and closed her eyes in concentration, plotting a path forward. The bloom is not completely off the rose, Lucy, and anyway, you have more than your looks to sustain you. There is still time. If nothing lasts forever, this horrid war will end, too. Everyone around you will have aged—perhaps not as well as you. If Parliament gains the day, John will come back to you. You will still be the brightest star in his firmament. And the five whom you warned of the King’s impending arrest, they will lend support and protection. Because of the Percy name, Algernon will not abandon you. He is the Earl of Northumberland. And then the voice in her head added, But what if Parliament does not win?
Dangerous political alliances—remember, remember the guns of November—had haunted her girlhood. Where they to hound her into old age? One brother already in exile with the Queen and one who had deserted the King for Parliament. The one who lost would lead to exile, the Tower—or worse. And what about you, Lucy? Where will you end up? Right back in the Tower where you once bartered your favors for your freedom?
Worn out from trying to marshal her wits to hold the middle ground, she longed for that lost interlude of youthful happiness and tried to conjure its images. The Stuart court had provided a wonderful refuge from the penalty of Percy intrigue. The music and dancing, the laughter of breathless flirtations, the thrill of riding to the hunt at the Queen’s side, the glory of Whitehall festivals and masques: where had it all gone? The future had not mattered then, only expectations and the seeming certainty of an everlasting present.
But try as she might, she could only summon glimpses of those carefree days: stolen kisses in fragrant gardens, great halls with a thousand candles dancing in their mirrors, and young Lucy Hay, the Queen’s favorite, holding a court of her own. Shapes in a fog, as ephemeral as youth. All of London was now a dreary, cold wasteland, its streets littered with broken soldiers and fatherless, hungry children whilst the halls of Westminster echoed with endless argument over how to end an endless war.
Unable to make herself get up and do something, anything, she heard Carter tapping at her door to present her with two messages. With trembling hands, she tore into the one whose hand she recognized. It was from John. He said he was sorry to have been so preoccupied the day she came to Parliament to seek him out. He longed for her ‘good company’ too, but she should not come to Westminster again. It was too dangerous. She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room, then repenting, retrieved it and smoothed it out. Dangerous? Dangerous for him? Or dangerous for her? Was he tired of her or was he just tired?
Sighing, she opened the other missive. It too was written in a hand she knew, though less familiar. It was signed simply E H. She had to read it twice before she caught its message. Edward Hyde was telling her—in cryptic language what everybody in London already knew. His cousin, he said, had returned to England and was looking forward to renewing dear acquaintances, but travelling conditions being made unsafe at this time, his cousin was relying on him to arrange it. Further news would be forthcoming as to how such arrangements might be facilitated between his dear cousin and her friends.
That the children should be allowed to see their mother suddenly became a burning resolve for Lucy. No purchase in waiting for Hyde to persuade Parliament—even that simple negotiation would take weeks and might not bear fruit. Parliament would never consent to any reasonable conditions. Even John—if she could convince him to intercede—would be unable to persuade them. Maybe there was a better way. Neither Parliament nor John need know the children were gone. Weeks went by without his checking on them. Months since he had seen them, just a note through a messenger inquiring if they needed anything. Yes. The more she thought of it, the easier it seemed. With Hyde’s help the children could go to Oxford and be back before anybody at Parliament ever missed them. Such an action, if successful, would rekindle her friendship with Henrietta, while not endangering her position in London. Besides, it would make the children very happy.
And what if it is not successful, Lucy? What if John suddenly gets a burning desire to visit Syon House in their absence? But she banished that cautionary voice, confident in her own resourcefulness, especially in the face of that unlikely circumstance. Much later, as twilight descended, and she went to the nursery to bid the children goodnight, she was still running scenarios in her head.
‘Have you decided when we can see Maman?’ Elizabeth asked, her eyes lit with eagerness.
Glancing at Cosette, who was struggling to coax Henry into his nightdress, Lucy lowered her voice and answered, ‘Not for a while. We must first arrange with Parliament and the Queen for their mutual consent.’ The nurse had always been loyal to the children and the royal household, but a dropped word in the wrong place …
‘But, you said—’
‘Best get to sleep, now, Princess, as soon as I have heard your prayers,’ Lucy said, brusquely, casting around in her mind to divert the girl, who was nothing if not persistent. ‘Mistress Makin says that you will begin translating Plutarch’s Lives tomorrow.’
The girl’s eyes widened with pleasure. ‘Did she really say that?’
Lucy kissed her on the top of her head. ‘She did. She said you were the best student she has had in a great while.’
Elizabeth snuggled down into bed with a smile on her face, apparently the longing for her mother temporarily appeased. What the good Lord had not given the child in physical strength, he had made up for in intellect, Lucy thought as she checked on the already sleeping little brother. Lucy breathed a prayer in her Presbyterian soul that such a gift would not be wasted.
By the time Lucy returned to her own chamber, Carter was lighting her boudoir candles. ‘Do you require anything else, my lady?’
‘No—well yes, there is one thing. The messenger who brought the letter. Not the one from Westminster. The other one. Do you know how to contact him?’
‘Yes, my lady. He is a footman at St. James’s Palace.’
‘Will you ask him to call on me tomorrow. I wish to reply to the message.’
Carter looked at her as if he might be considering questioning her request.
‘Think you not that he can be trusted?’
‘Oh yes, my lady. I have known him for a long time. He is an old servant of the royal family.’ He paused and then added. ‘It is just that, please forgive me, my lady, but I am thinking of your well-being.’
‘Ah. I see. You are a good man, Carter. I thank you for your constancy. And if I may say, for your friendship. I shall be careful. I think we can arrange for the children to meet briefly with their mother without bothering the learned gentlemen of Parliament. Do you agree?’
‘Indeed, my lady.’ He nodded, smiling softly. ‘Indeed. I shall send Tom to fetch the footman tomorrow. Will that be all, my lady?’
‘Yes. That will be all.’ Then as he started to leave, she called him back. ‘Carter, tell the footman it might be best if he not wear the St. James’ livery.’
Carter nodded in silent confirmation.
But Lucy was not as sanguine as she appeared to Carter. She lay awake during the long night running scenarios in her head. About midnight the wind rose. The sound of its keening unsettled her. A summer storm building, she thought, not surprising since the day had been warm, but a branch, slapping against the windowpane, scratched at her nerves. She got up and checked the window latches, then went back to bed. In the distance, thunder grumbled.
As the storm blew ever closer, lighting the darkness outside, she listened for any sounds coming from the nursery. All was quiet.
Like a cat worrying a mouse, her mind kept returning to its afternoon’s preoccupation. In the heart of the night, she felt less sure of herself. If Parliament did find out the children were not at Syon House but had gone to Oxford, what would be the consequences? With what could they charge her? Even in the unlikely event that John was willing to turn her over—out of a sense of betrayal or to deflect blame—he would be loath to admit to a Parliamentary inquiry that he had made the arrangement without seeking permission. Parliament had put the children under Percy family guardianship. Officially, they were Algernon’s responsibility. A cover story could be invented easily enough. There would be no real evidence against her—unless she was discovered in the implementation of the plan.
A flash of lightning lit the pier glass between the windows. Lucy’s breath caught in her throat. No. She did not see what she thought she saw there. It was a mere figment of her agitated brain. She was not the kind of superstitious woman who trafficked with such foolishness. James Hay’s reflection, with its crooked grin and large Roman nose, was not illuminated in the mirror. As plain as if he were standing beside her bed. No. It was a trick of the mind’s eye. Pulled from the recesses of her mind? Or somewhere else?
Then in the answering rumble of thunder, she heard the sound of his wry laughter.
Nothing much to worry about, little darling. Though I suppose they could charge you with treason. And as you know, Lucy, all too well, they don’t have to prove it.
‘John would protect me from that,’ she whispered into the empty silence.
Quite certain, are ye now, lassie? The devoted Parliamentarian has another mistress whom he serves with greater ardor—despite your many charms. Still the dear, familiar Scottish lilt in the voice that had played so well in the old King’s court. Consorting with the enemy? A dangerous game, Lucy. But, aahh, who is the enemy? That is the question. You will be forced to pick a side, you know.
She closed her eyes, but the image was burned on her eyelids. Go away, Jamie, and let me think what to do. You are just a trick, anyway. Just a remnant of a girl’s foolish dream and a woman’s fears.
She concentrated on the fierce beating of the rain against the window as her heart answered with a hard rhythm. Real rain in the real now. She’d enough of the illusions of her youth. When she glanced again at the pier glass, mercifully, its surface reflected only the wavering flame of her bedside candle.
The rain had cooled the air. A draft seeped in. Wrapping a shawl around her, she got out of bed and paced. Her mind was made up, despite Jamie’s unsolicited advice. Her only worry now was how to best convey the necessary information most discreetly. She lit a candle—was that a tremor in her hand!—and taking up paper and pen sat down at a bedside table but did not write. This required careful thought. If the letter should fall into the wrong hands, it must not be something that could be used against her, so she must answer in the same cryptic syntax Edward Hyde had used.
Pym was inattentive and preoccupied, with any luck at all, the children could be back in her care before he ever found out. And if he did find out—he would be angry but he would protect her, regardless of his devotion to ‘that other mistress.’ Wouldn’t he? Regardless, she had made up her mind and it must be done now, or she would get no sleep. Dipping her pen into the inkwell and pausing only to glance at the pier glass in which no ghostly image emerged, she wrote:
My Dear Sir,
We would all so very much like to see our dear cousin again. I can arrange to meet you in Reading to discuss the possibility of a short visit whereby aging Cousin Eleanor will not have to hazard travelling over rough roads. Please respond to this letter by the same messenger. You name the time and place, since you are privy to Cousin Eleanor’s needs. You may also tell her that every care is being given to the safety and well-being of the nieces who have come to live with us during these difficult times.
She paused here, thinking she should give him another clue, some sign that it was indeed an authentic answer from the recipient and not some trap.
Also, tell her to please convey to her husband our appreciation for his kind acknowledgement of our gift to him last year.
Your servant,
She scrawled her initials L. H. in such a smeared fashion that careful scrutiny and some precognition would be necessary to decipher the letters. She did not seal it. That could wait for morning. She would need to fashion a crude seal. The letter must not be traced back to Syon House.
Blowing out the candle, Lucy went back to bed, but she remained awake to see the dawn creep around the window sill. Only the grey light of a shrouded sun was reflected in the pier glass.
Prince Rupert suggested the Queen should ride in the royal carriage with the Countess of Denbigh and Genevieve. Henrietta refused. Rupert’s lip twitched into a pout, but he bent his knee for her to mount a horse.
‘I do not see the wagons with my personal belongings. I gave instructions they should always be within my sight.’
‘They will follow behind the carriage in which your majesty does not wish to ride,’ Rupert said with irritation in his voice.
Churlish upstart. She would speak to Charles about his nephew’s insolence. ‘See that the Captain of the Queen’s Guard escorts them personally. I wish to have access as I desire,’ then instructing Rupert to keep his mount a length behind hers, she rode astride, her posture bold and proud. Because the heat of the day lingered, the gold cloth of her miniver-trimmed mantle flowed away from her body, spreading out across the horse’s flank. A light breeze released the scent of lavender in her hair as it streamed out beneath a golden coronet and covered her shoulders.
She set a deliberate pace—slow, sedate. This was the way she had dreamed it: a bold reentry, forever erasing the image of a frightened young Henrietta’s first entry into England all those years ago. This was the way she wanted Charles to see his Queen when they were reunited. Beautiful. Triumphant.
As her entourage arrived at the encampment in Edgehill, two dozen royal guards lined her entry route. Torches lit the deepening twilight and royal banners floated in the early evening breeze. Each cavalier dropped in salute when her horse passed in front.
At the sound of her herald’s trumpet, the tent flaps of the royal pavilion opened. Forgetting her careful pose, she leaned forward, craned her neck, her gaze searching the shadows. There he was. Waiting. Royal scepter in hand. A king poised to greet some foreign dignitary. Not the posture of a man welcoming a beloved wife after so long an absence. So rigid in his stance. Detached. Did he not see her?
Sedately, her horse moved forward between lines of soldiers formed on each side. Still, the King made no move. She could see his face clearly now, expression still unchanged, he turned his face away to speak to an attendant. Did he not long for this reunion as much as she? Was he so busy playing the warrior king that he had forgotten he was also Charles, the husband, and she the wife who cherished him, who bore his children, who sacrificed for him? Holy Mother how she had sacrificed for him, bearing insults from his subjects, laboring in exile to raise an army to save his kingdom.
Having lost its auspicious breeze, the warmth of the declining sun was suddenly stifling, the weight of her mantle heavy on her shoulders. Her thoughts scurried, conjuring doubt. In her absence, had Parliament succeeded in turning him against her? Was it possible another woman had gained his favor? Her mind’s eye summoned the young woman who had brought the gloves to her. How her face had glowed with passion when she spoke of her loyalty to the King. What man could resist such adoration?
But Charles was no ordinary man. Her husband’s devotion could not be so easily turned. Could it? Not the Charles she knew and loved. But in that instant swirl of doubt, she remembered how easily she, a green girl, had lured him away from Buckingham’s affections. This acknowledgement of his weakness made her light-headed. Fearing she might swoon in the saddle, she gripped the pommel, reminding herself to breathe.
Suddenly, with a great shout the King handed off his scepter. Ceremony forgotten, he cast off his royal pose, and closing the distance between them, grabbed the reins of her horse, halting it.
‘My lord,’ she said breathless with relief, nodding her head. She wanted to fall into his arms, but mirroring his own earlier formal stance, she maintained her royal bearing. ‘How good it is to see you.’
‘A hearty welcome home to England for our beautiful and brave Queen,’ he shouted. He laughed, and holding up his arms, encircled her waist and pulled her from her mount. Beneath the cheers that followed, as her feet touched the ground he said softly, ‘My Warrior Queen, my Dearest Heart.’ Then holding her out at arm’s length, said, ‘My eyes cannot drink their fill. It has been so long …’ and he kissed her, his hands still cradling her waist.
Home. At last.
It was she who broke away first, though it took all the royal discipline she could muster. ‘Your majesty, the men—’ she whispered.
Later, after the men had been dismissed, after the tent flap had been secured, they made love. Twice. First hungrily, like thirsty travelers stumbling in from the desert, then after a brief respite again, more deliberately. As he slept, she lay in his arms, her eyes exploring the dear landscape of his face: the lines around his eyes, etched more deeply, stray gray hairs hidden in his hair, in his eyebrows, the hairs on his chest. Even his complexion was darker, weathered from many battles. The lines, framing the mouth she loved, had deepened. Unable to stop her hands, her fingers traced its outline. He awoke. ‘I feared our lovemaking was but a dream,’ he said, huskily.
This time, she coaxed him, gently with her hands.
Finally, just as dawn was breaking and they were hungry for something other than each other, he rang for a soldier, who brought them bread and porridge and salt herring. Charles apologized for the food saying he shared a soldier’s rations and the costs of the war—but she cut him off telling him she didn’t mind, to share any meal with him was a feast. She told him then about the chests of gold that would help feed his soldiers, told him too, with pride in her voice, about the mercenaries that were camped nearby awaiting his command.
‘Send for two stout footmen,’ she said. ‘I will instruct them to bring you my tribute.’
He smiled as if she had said something amusing. ‘No footmen, Henrietta. All my footmen serve as foot soldiers now.’
‘Only the most trusted soldiers would tend the King’s person. Send for them then.’
The two who came had summoned three others. ‘Bring the large chests from my wagon, the three marked with the queen’s insignia.’
‘You said tribute. The love of my queen, my wife, is the only tribute I require.’ And he reached for her again, and began nuzzling her neck with kisses. She pushed him away gently.
‘But love will not fund a battle royal,’ she said. ‘Tell me what it is you need most.’
‘Where to begin?’ he said, his mood darkening as he complained about the depletion of his military, the cost of weapons and provisions, the truculence of Parliament. With each grievance he became more agitated. He was pacing around the royal pavilion, brow furrowed, his voice rasping out a litany of burdens, when she began wondering what was taking so long. They should be coming back by now. When had she last inspected the locks? They could have been sprung crossing the bridge in Newark and the contents discovered and plundered. But just as she was beginning to really worry, thinking that if this delay—or worse—was Rupert’s doing, he would be made to pay, the men returned. Staggering beneath the heavy chests, they placed them at the King’s feet.
‘Merci,’ she said, with a sigh of dismissal. ‘Come, dearest heart. Sit. Calm yourself. Relief is here.’ He sank down beside her on the rug, anticipation softening his visage, as with trembling hands she knelt, retrieved a key from a hidden panel on one of the caskets, and unlocked all three. Throwing back the lids, she exhaled pure relief and exclaimed in exultation, ‘Voilà, mon cher.’
Charles stared at the glittering contents with an expression of awe. Henrietta clasped her hands and giggled like a girl. In the cryptic messages that had passed between them she had hinted that she was not coming empty-handed. He knew that she had borrowed against the jewels of course but the three chests: one with gold bars and nuggets from the Dutch, one with gold florins from Italy, and one filled with Scots brooches, Spanish gold plate, and jewelry—with one or two ornate rosaries among them: this was certainly beyond any expectation. He knelt beside the chests and ran his fingers through the gold, weighing it in handfuls. For a moment she was afraid he would scold when he saw the florins and the rosaries, but he just shook his head and laughed, a quiet, mocking laugh as he said, ‘Parliament deserves to be defeated with Papist gold. They have earned it.’ Then he stood up and grabbed her to him. ‘This,’ he said, ‘Henrietta, this could turn the tide in our favor. You said you brought men, too?’
She smiled and nodded, but in her heart, she was giddy with delight. ‘Your nephew is reviewing the troops now. They are accompanied by a wagon load of weapons.’ He just looked at her in wonder. ‘Many of the men came from good—’ she paused not wishing to say Catholic families—‘families who wish to show their loyalty to an admired sovereign. Some are soldiers of fortune who have been paid to fight, but they too are well chosen.’
He smiled in a way that she had rarely seen her sedate husband smile and kissed her hard, then held her chin and shook his head and kissed her again. And if Rupert had not approached the tent, she was sure they would have made love again. Right there. On the earthen floor of the tent surrounded by all that gold.
But Rupert called for him and he broke abruptly away to answer. Their urgent voices carried through the thin walls. Roundheads … Waller … Roundway Down … Salisbury … Waller … Hopton … needs relief …
When he re-entered, he started to dress himself in soldier’s clothes. His manner had completely changed, and by the time he had donned helmet and breastplate, it was as though all royal vestige had disappeared.
‘A common soldier, my lord?’
‘The King does not dress for court. He dresses for battle.’
Her heart squeezed twice. One pinch for fear. One pinch for irritation.
‘Now? But I have only just returned. Surely you need not go so soon? Cannot Rupert or one of the generals go?’
He kissed her, but lightly this time. A hurried kiss of dismissal. ‘Rupert is going to accompany you to Oxford. Queen’s College is preparing to entertain you. Hopton is in trouble. We cannot afford to lose the West. I will see you soon, my darling. I promise.’
‘But we haven’t even talked about the children, Charles. When can I see my children?’
‘We will work it out later, I promise. For now, they are safe. The boys will come to you soon and Hyde will arrange for the younger two. You must know that I miss Elizabeth and Henry as much as you do. And I do not wish to leave you so soon any more than you wish me to leave.’ And then with one brief embrace he fastened his helmet and said, ‘Pray for me, my darling. Pray for us all.’
Henrietta sat down in the middle of all that gold and wept as foreboding crept into the tent with the murky morning. What if this should be the last time you ever see him? Foolish thought, her bolder self scolded. Silly women’s worries brought on by her fatigue. The tide would turn now in his favor. Now that she had brought him resources and reinforcements. By Christmas they would be back at Whitehall and this miserable war would be a bad dream.
To be continued in Broken Kingdom Volume II.