Charles said to me: “That would be an intolerable situation as far as I am concerned. You know what would happen. I should be asked to leave.”

“You should tell them to do no such thing.”

He looked at me in exasperation. “Dear Mam,” he said, “if the King of France, the Regent or Mazarin ask me to leave, I have no alternative but to go. There is only one course open to me. I must leave before they ask me to.”

I suppose he was right and in any case he began making arrangements.

Henriette was beside herself with grief; so was Henry. I was sorry to see him go but I reminded myself that when he was not there I could carry out my intentions with regard to Henry’s religious training.

Henry had begged Charles to take him with him. “I am not a boy anymore,” he cried. “I am nearly fifteen. That is old enough to fight.”

Charles hesitated. He was very fond of Henry and he liked the boy’s spirit. But I was against it.

“He is but a child, Charles,” I said. “He needs to be educated and where better than in Paris? It would be a sin to take him away from his lessons at his age.”

Charles saw this in time and Henry suffered bitter disappointment.

Charles said: “I promise you, brother, that in a few years you shall be at my side.”

And Henry had to be satisfied with that.

Before Charles left for Cologne where he had decided to stay for a while, he spoke very seriously to me. “Henry is a Protestant,” he said. “He is a Prince of a Protestant country. He must remain so. You must not try to make him a Catholic, Mam.”

That had been exactly my intention and he knew it.

I hesitated and Charles went on: “If you do not give me your promise, I cannot leave him with you. I shall either take him with me or send him to my sister Mary who, as you know, was loath to part with him.”

So I promised and Charles left. But after he had gone I thought that although I had promised, to bring up my son in the true Faith would be such a good thing that it would outweigh anything that was wrong in breaking a promise.

Henry had brought with him Mr. Lovell, the tutor whom the Countess of Leicester had given him when he was at Penshurst. The two were devoted to each other and Mr. Lovell was a firm Protestant. Charles favored Mr. Lovell because he had been such a good tutor and had been in fact responsible in some measure for the release of Henry. The tutor had personally gone to London and seen several of the leading men in Cromwell’s government and because Mr. Lovell was a good Protestant they listened to him, and his advocacy and the death of Elizabeth had been factors in their decision to release Henry.

Charles said Mr. Lovell was a faithful servant, the sort wise men grapple to them with bands of steel.

Mr. Lovell would stand in my way, I knew, and I might have to get rid of him, but I must work carefully and not let him know what I planned.

I was feeling more alive now that I had my two youngest with me and I could plan for them both. Henriette, the best loved of them all, gave me cause for anxiety. She was rather thin and delicate. I wished that she were more of a conventional beauty; although she had great charm and a lovely skin, her back, like mine, was not quite straight. I watched over her anxiously. I had great plans for her, which must be kept secret. I did not see why she should not marry her cousin Louis, in spite of the Grande Mademoiselle’s pretensions. What a glorious prospect! My little one Queen of France. But why not? They both had the same grandfather; she was the daughter of the King of England, and although the French government was so cruel and misguided as to recognize Cromwell, Kings were still Kings.

I was beside myself with joy when she was invited to take part in a ballet in which the King and his brother, Anjou, would take part. Henriette danced to perfection and I doubted there was anyone at Court who was as light on her feet as my child. And when she danced all that dainty elusive charm was apparent.

What a delight it was when the curtain rose on that scene to reveal my nephew Louis XIV, who was then about fifteen, magnificently attired as Apollo on the throne with the Muses around him. The piece was the wedding of Peleus and Thetis and my little Henriette had her part to play in it. I sat watching her, with my eyes filled with tears, sighing and regretting that her father could not be beside me to applaud our most enchanting child.

My hopes were high. She was eminently suitable to be the bride of the young King.

I had turned my attention to Henry and was finding him rather a stubborn little boy. When I talked to him about the glories of the Catholic Church he replied: “That may be, Mam, but it is not for me. I promised my father that I would cling to the Faith in which I was baptized and which is the Faith of my country.”

I laughed. “Oh, you are such a dear little boy and it is good to remember your father, but if only he were here he would understand. Think what the men of that Faith did to him.”

“I promised him, Mam,” he said firmly.

Well, he was young and he would be pliable. I would achieve what I wanted in time and that would mean that two of my children were saved. In the meantime, to show his independence, Henry went off every Sunday to the Protestant service which the English residents in Paris had set up.

But if he was determined, so was I. He had a strong supporter in Mr. Lovell and I was wondering more and more how I could get rid of him. To have him dismissed openly—which was what I should have liked to do—would have caused an outcry. Charles would hear of it and Charles was the King, whose word had to be obeyed, even by his mother. My children were not so ready to indulge me as their father had been.

The idea struck me that if I could send Henry away to some renowned tutor, the services of Mr. Lovell would no longer be required. I thought of Walter Montague who was the Abbot of St. Martin’s near Pontoise and also my Grand Almoner. He was a great friend of mine and an ardent Catholic, having been converted nearly twenty years before when he had witnessed the exorcisms of the Ursuline nuns at Loudon. We had been friends ever since he had come to France at the time of my marriage, and after his conversion we had become much closer. He would understand at once what I wanted and would be as keen as I was to turn my son into a Catholic.

I sent word to Charles explaining that Henry was too fond of the society of idle boys and that I believed he should be sent to some quiet place to study. What better than to Pontoise where our good friend the Abbot could supervise his education.

I could not dismiss Mr. Lovell or Charles would have been very suspicious and he would not believe that Henry had gone to Pontoise without his good tutor merely to study quietly.

It must have been disconcerting for Mr. Lovell to be the only Protestant—with Henry—in a Catholic community and very soon he did not see how he could remain there. It was not difficult to suggest that he take a little trip to Italy as I believed he had always wanted to see that country.

I was relieved when he went without fuss, not knowing that he had talked to Henry, explained my motives and those of the Abbot and urged him to stand firm until he could let his brother, the King, know what was happening.

The Abbot wrote to me that he had high hopes that the conversion would be soon. He had talked to the boy of the possibilities which lay before him. As Duke of Gloucester, son of one King and brother to another, he would have special advantages. It was a great honor to wear the Cardinal’s hat.

But Henry did not see it that way. “The boy has a strong will,” wrote Montague. “He says he cannot attempt to defeat me in argument but he knows what is right and what his brother expects of him and nothing will shake him in his determination to do his duty. He insists that his father told him to adhere to the Faith in which he was baptized and his brother, the King, wishes him to do the same. He added: ‘You can do what you like to me. I will cling to my Faith as I promised my father before he died.’”

As the weeks passed the Abbot was growing more and more impatient and Henry more stubborn. The boy wrote to me asking for leave to return to Paris, and seeing that it was no use keeping him there, I gave my permission.

When he arrived I noticed the firm set of his lips. I could see his brother Charles in him and it was ironical to realize that they had inherited their determination to have their own way from me, not their father.

Henry was clever too and I was incensed when I heard that he had sent for Bishop Cosin to ask his advice as to how he should answer the Abbot when he was cross-examined by him. Cosin was a staunch Protestant and a real enemy of the Catholics. My husband had sent him to Paris to act as chaplain to those of my household who belonged to the Church of England and at first he had worked from a private house until that had proved to be inadequate, when a chapel had been fitted up to accommodate the expanding congregation. Cosin was a man highly respected by all. At first I had believed I could convert him. He would certainly not have been accepted in England now because he was almost as much opposed to the Puritans as he was to the Catholics. He loved the rituals and ceremonies of the Church just as Archbishop Laud had, though whereas that had been Laud’s undoing, Cosin, who had escaped to France, prospered. Nothing could have been further from the truth than to imagine he would turn to Catholicism. He was fundamentally against it, and because he was one of the greatest speakers of the day, he was feared while he was respected.