Jean Plaidy - The Wondering Prince

Henriette did not know what to answer; she could only take her little kerchief and wipe away her mother’s tears.

And now her mother had gone away to stay with the nuns, and she could only feel relieved because of this. She was left to the care of dear Anne Morton and Père Cyprien. But these two were beginning to cause her some anxiety; and their teachings often seemed to be contradictory. She was conscious of some vague strife between them, of triumphs enjoyed by one to the discomfiture of the other; and in some way, which she herself did not understand, she was involved in their polite warfare.

“I wish my brother would come,” she often said to herself. “All would be well if he were here.”

She thought of him constantly; he had always been kind and loving; he was so big and clever, yet not too big and clever to make a little girl feel she was of some importance to him.

And then, one day, he came to the Louvre.

He had grown up since she had last seen him; he was a young man of nineteen now. He was taller, but he still had the same luxuriant black hair and humorous eyes.

When he came into the apartment Lady Morton and Père Cyprien both fell on their knees, but Henriette ran to him and flung herself into his arms.

“My child,” said Anne reprovingly, “you forget the respect due to His Majesty.”

“But it is Charles!” cried the little girl.

“Come now. You should kneel to him. He is your King first … your brother second.”

“A poor King, my Minette,” he said, as he swung her up that her face might be on a level with his; “a King without a kingdom, but a brother rich in love. Which will you have?”

She did not understand him, but she had never had need to understand his words; she only knew that he loved her; his eyes told her that, as did his loving arms about her.

His mother, who hearing of his arrival had left the convent and returned to the Louvre, embraced him warmly. She wept afresh for his father. She was La Reine Malheureuse, she declared. “Life has nothing left to give me. I have lost not only a crown but a husband and a friend. I shall never regret enough the loss of that good man—so wise, so just, so worthy of the love of his subjects.”

The young King smiled his melancholy smile. “’Tis no use to weep, Mam,” he said. “We must look forward as he would have had us do. We’ll defeat them yet.”

“Amen, my boy, my Charles, my King.”

When the Queen-Mother of France heard that the King of England was at the Louvre, she asked the royal party to join the French Court at Saint-Germain.

“I have warned Queen Anne,” said Henrietta Maria, “that my husband lost his life because he was never allowed to know the truth, and I have implored her to listen to her advisers before it is too late … before the crown of France goes the way of that of England.”

Charles smiled ruefully. “It is difficult enough to learn through one’s own experience, Mam, let alone the experience of others.”

His mother smiled at him sadly. Even when he was a baby—an ugly, solemn little fellow—she had felt he was cleverer than she was. Now she hoped that was true. He would need to be clever. He had to fight his way back to his throne.

She had heard that there were plans afoot, that soon he would be returning to Scotland where he could hope for support which would help him make an onslaught on England.

“May God go with you then, dear son,” she said. “You will need His help.”

“That’s true, Mam,” he answered. “But ’tis better to die in such at enterprise than wear away one’s life in shameful indolence.”

“I heard rumors concerning your visit to The Hague.”

“There will always be rumors concerning our family, Mam.”

“This was concerning a young woman named Lucy Water. You know of such a one?”

“Yes, Mam. I know of such a one.”

“They say she is a foolish little thing … though beautiful.”

“I doubt not that they who say it are often foolish—and never beautiful.”

“Now, Charles, this is your mother speaking, your mother who had you beaten when you would not take your physic.”

He made a wry face. “That physic, Mam; it was no good to any. Lucy is not in the least like a dose of physic.”

“A woman of easy virtue … too ready with her smiles and caresses, I understand.”

“What should I want of one who was niggardly with the same?”

“You are no longer a boy, Charles. You are a King.”

“You speak truth, Mam. I am a King. Pray thee do not think to make of me a monk. Come! We prepare ourselves for the journey to Saint-Germain. The crowds in the streets are ugly. But never fear. I shall be there to protect you. I must tell Minette that we are going.”

“Henriette is a child. She will not understand.”

He lifted his sister in his arms. “Minette will wish to know that we are going on a journey. Minette, do you wish to go on a journey?”

“Are you going, Charles?”

“I am taking you and Mam.”

Henriette smiled. “Yes, please; Minette will go.”

“Dearest, the crowds may shout at us as we pass through the streets. You’ll not be afraid, will you, if I am there?”

She shook her head.

“Nobody would dare hurt Minette while King Charles is there to protect her. You know that, don’t you?”

She put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

“How much do you love me, Minette?”

“Forty thousand livres,” she answered, remembering that amount which Paul de Gondi had urged the Parliament to grant to her mother.

“Forty thousand livres! That’s a lot of money.”

She nodded happily. “But it’s all for you—and something else.”

“What else, Minette?”

“The silver laces in my shoes.”

He kissed her. “And what shall I give you in return for those you give me, eh?”

She thought awhile, then she said: “Never go away.”

“Ah, Minette,” he said, “if only that could be! And if all loved me as you do what a happy man I should be!”

Then he thought of Lucy, charming, gay and very loving; Lucy who had initiated him into delights which he had scarcely been aware existed, and had promised more revelation; Lucy, practiced harlot, some said, but nevertheless his love.

He had much love to give; he loved them both—Lucy and Minette; he loved them with all the capacity of a nature deeply concerned with the pleasures of loving.

He continued to think of Lucy, who was now with child.

“Your child, Charles,” she had said. “Your royal bastard—that is unless you marry me and so make an honest woman of your Lucy … and your bastard, heir to the throne of England.”

He smiled. Lucy was amusing; Lucy was light, but Lucy was gay; he would look forward to enjoying her amusing and erotic company as soon as he possibly could.

But in the meantime he had his little sister to love, and deeply he loved her.

She sat with him and their mother in the coach which carried them through the dangerous streets of Paris; about them swirled the mob of angry men and women, and among them were those to whom Madame d’Angleterre—as they called Henrietta Maria—owed much money.

Minette felt safe; she did not fear the people, for there was her big brother, one hand on the door of the coach, the other on the hilt of his sword, ready to repulse any who dared come too near.

And so they came to Saint-Germain; and as the little girl observed the homage paid to her brother, she was thrilled with pride and pleasure.

And he, turning suddenly, caught her earnest eyes upon him.

Ah, he thought, if only I could be as sure that Lucy loves me as does my sweet Minette!

The first time Lucy set eyes on Charles he was merely Prince of Wales—a boy of eighteen. Lucy was also eighteen; but she seemed older. She was full of wiles and she had been born with them. There had always been admirers for Lucy from the days when, as a little girl, she had played in the grounds of Roch Castle. She was brown-skinned, brown-eyed, and her rippling hair was brown also; she was plump and indolent. Her father, watching her even as a girl of twelve, decided to marry her off quickly. She was a girl who was obviously ripe for marriage.

There were local squires in the neighborhood of Haverfordwest and St. David’s who would have been ready enough to link their fortunes with those of the Waters, for Lucy’s mother was a niece of the Earl of Carbery, and her family was not without fortune. Moreover, Lucy was as luscious as a ripe peach and wherever she went men’s eyes followed her. Her voice had a soft lilting Welsh accent and it rose on a note of laughter at the end of her sentences; it was not that Lucy’s conversation was so very amusing and witty; it was merely that she appeared to be ready to enjoy life. She was aware of her ripe young body; she was aware of the ripe young bodies of others. Lucy was longing for amorous adventures; she would lie in the grass on the mound at the top of which stood Roch Castle, and dream of lovers.

The war altered life at Roch Castle as it did everywhere else. Her father went off to fight for the Royalist cause, and Lucy remained at home—a girl of fourteen, restive, forced to sit at her needlework during long sunny afternoons, stitching reluctantly, the despair of her governess.

There was continual talk of the war. Lucy rarely listened to it with any great attention. She was a fervent Royalist because the Cavaliers, in their dashing clothes, their curls falling about their shoulders and their jauntily feathered hats, pleased her; and the soberly clad soldiers of the Parliamentary forces, with their round cropped heads and their text-quoting, did not attract her at all.