I had always thought of Mary as a good daughter. She had extended help to Charles—of whom she was very fond—and her Court had provided a refuge for many of our supporters.

And now for the first time she was pregnant. I was delighted at the thought of a child and I wrote to her telling her that if it were a boy she must name him Charles after her father and brother.

There came sad news. The Prince of Orange had been struck down with small pox and within a few days of contracting the disease had died. The Dowager Princess Amelia who took a great pride in forcing her will on others and whom I had never liked, gave orders that Mary was not to be told of her husband’s death until after the confinement.

The news, however, leaked out, but Mary was determined to give birth to a healthy child, and she did. I was delighted when I heard the news. “Our little Charles,” I called the baby.

My chagrin was great when I heard that the Dowager Princess had insisted that the child be named William after his father, and to my disappointment Mary agreed with her.

It was wonderful news that we had the child but his father’s death was a tragedy for us all. When I heard it I said it seemed as though God wished to show me that I should detach myself from the world, by taking from me all those who would lead me to think of it. The loss of my son-in-law made me see this very clearly, for my hopes of Charles’s restoration to the crown were based largely on William of Orange. And my daughter obeyed the wishes of her mother-in-law rather than those of her own mother!

Wherever I looked for comfort there was none.

The Queen of France however was very good to me. She commiserated with me over the deaths of Elizabeth and my son-in-law.

“Life is very cruel,” she said. “One can be happy for a time and then it strikes…and does not always strike singly but many times as though to stress the fact that we are all at the mercy of our fate.”

I told her then how anxious I was on her behalf.

“Believe me,” I said, “I have experience of the people. They are like savages when aroused. I shall never forget Charles standing at my coach door when I came out of the Louvre. They were all around me. I am sure it would not have taken them long to tear me to pieces.”

Anne looked a little impatient. She was easygoing and I was sure she believed that Mazarin was so shrewd and clever that he could do anything. She did not like me to warn her. My criticism of Anne—and Heaven knew I should not be critical of one who had been so good to me in my need—was that she liked to pretend that what was not pleasant was not there.

After all I had suffered I saw the folly of this. One must be aware all the time. Think the worse…and face up to it as a possibility. If only Charles and I had done a little more of that I might not be in the position I found myself in at this time.

But because I felt it was my duty to warn her, her frowns did not stop me, and I went on to give her advice until finally she said in exasperation: “Sister, do you wish to be the Queen of France as well as the Queen of England?”

I looked at her sadly and did not take offense at the rebuke. I merely said gently: “I am nothing. Do you be something.”

I think she saw my meaning and at that moment faced the truth and saw herself possibly in my position—a queen without a kingdom. Perhaps she was realizing what an empty title it was when one had lost one’s throne.

She was immediately sorry for her harsh tone, remembering all I had suffered and most of all the recent death of my daughter, for she was a devoted mother, living for her children, so she could understand the terrible sorrow a child’s death could bring.

She put her hands over mine and said: “Oh, my poor sister, I know your sadness and I know that sometimes you wish to leave it all and go to the Faubourg St. Jacques and stay there with the nuns. Is that what you wish?”

“How well you know me! If I had a choice I would go there and pass the rest of my days in peace. But how could I do that? I have my sons…my little Henriette….”

“I know,” said Anne. “You could not rest there. I have been thinking of you and there is something which I believe could bring you great cheer.”

“It is difficult to think of what could do that. Only my son’s restoration could make me happier and even then there would be so much sadness to look back on.”

“You are indeed the unhappy Queen, my sister. But I know you have always wished to found an order of your own.”

I looked at her in amazement and she smiled at me.

“I was thinking that to found your own convent would bring great ease to your mind and spirits. Am I right?”

“To found my own convent! Oh, what a dream! But how could I? All the money I have from the sale of my jewels must go to the battle for the throne.”

“I would help you with the convent,” said Anne.

I could not speak. I fell into her arms and hugged her.

At length I said: “I bless that long ago day, dear sister, when they brought you to Paris to be my brother’s wife.”

“You did not like me very much at first.”

“True affection is that which grows with the years,” I answered and added, “I shall never be able to show you my gratitude or to tell you what your friendship has meant to me in my adversity.”

“It is in adversity that true friendship is seen,” she answered. “Now let us plan. First we must find a suitable site. Do you know the country house on the hill at Chaillot?”

“I do,” I cried. “It is a fine house. The Maréchal de Bassompierre used to live there. My father gave the house to him. It has been empty since his death.”

“That is why I thought of it. I have asked the price. It is six thousand pistoles.”

“Dear Anne, would you indeed do this?”

“Guessing that you would like it, I had already decided on it.”

I felt happier than I had for a long time and the Queen and I forgot our troubles in planning our convent. We should both use it as a retreat, and then I looked over the place with her and chose the apartments we should have when we came to the convent. The windows overlooked the Seine and the Avenue of the Cours La Reine.

I think Anne was as happy as I was planning it.

It was nearly two years since Charles had left France, and I was dreadfully worried. Rumors were coming across the Channel. Some reported that he was sick; others that he was dead. I refused to believe them. Something within me told me that Charles would survive. He had had to swear what the Scots wished him to and this he had done in order to gain their support, and for this he had been crowned at Scone but if ever he was victorious over the Parliamentarians he would be a Presbyterian King on both sides of the border.

Cromwell was marching to Scotland and soon we had news of the royalist defeat at Dunbar and the capture of Edinburgh by the Roundheads.

Charles then marched south into England. It was a desperate move but I could see it was the only one to take in the circumstances. I hoped and prayed that there were some loyal Englishmen left in England to join him. Alas, he was disappointed in this and few came to augment the ten thousand men who constituted his army. Charles had impressed all with his bravery and his excellence in the field. He was always calm and serene and seemed not in the least perturbed by danger and disaster. It was a wonderful gift to have. I could admire it although it certainly had not come through me.

Battle took place at Worcester and when the news came to us it was the old story. Disaster for the royalists. Success for Cromwell. And what had happened to Charles? He had disappeared. It was then that the rumors started to come, thick and fast.

Most people thought he was dead.

My nights were haunted by evil dreams. Where was my son? What other and greater evils had Fate in store for me?

I was seated in my apartments in the Louvre sunk in the deepest despair when a man burst unceremoniously in. I stared at him, a little alarmed and then incensed by the intrusion. He was well over six feet tall, gaunt, and his hair was cut in the manner I loathed—that of the Roundheads.

He cried out: “Mam. It is I.”

Then I flew to him, tears streaming down my face. “It is you. Am I dreaming…” I stammered.

“No, Mam. I am indeed here…and the first thing I did was to come to you.”

“Oh Charles…Charles my son. You are safe then. Oh thanks be to God.”

“I come to you defeated, Mam. But it will not always be thus.”

“No…no. Oh, Charles, I have had such fears…such dreams. I will send for your sister. She has been sunk in melancholy. First she must know that you are here. Then you can tell me all that happened.”

I shouted for attendants and sent them running to the Princess Henriette.

While I waited I took his hands…I kissed them. I pressed him to me. He smiled in his rather sardonic way, but there was tenderness in him.

My little seven-year-old daughter ran into the room and into his arms. He picked her up and danced round the room with her.

“I knew you would come. I knew you would come,” she kept chanting. “They couldn’t kill you… not even wicked Old Cromwell.”

“No,” he said, “not even wicked Old Cromwell. I am indestructible, Minette. You will see.”

“And when you have won the crown you will take me to England with you. We shall be together forever and ever….”

“When I win the crown miracles will happen.”

I loved to see them together and wished fleetingly that Charles had the same affection for me that he had for his sister. But of course she was a child and children showed only adoration. I had a duty to perform and that sometimes made one displease those whom one loved most.