She must get back to her lodgings—the miserable room in a narrow cobbled street; she must get there quickly and talk to Ann. Ann was a good woman—a practical woman who loved the children. When Lucy died Ann must take them to their fathers and make sure that they were well cared for.

She struggled to her feet, and began to walk away from the river. As she neared that part of the town where she had her lodging, a fishwife, from whom now and then Ann bought scraps, called to her: “Have you heard the news then?”

“What news?”

“You’ll be interested … since you are English. Cromwell is dead.”

“Cromwell … dead!”

“Aye! Dead and buried. This will mean changes in your country.”

“That may be so,” said Lucy in her slow, laborious French, “but I’ll not be there to see them.”

She mounted the stairs to her garret and lay exhausted on the straw.

“This will mean changes for him,” she murmured.

When Ann came in with the children she was still lying there.

Ann’s face fell into the lines of anxiety habitual to it now. She had been excited when she came in, and Jemmy was shouting: “Cromwell’s dead … dead. Cromwell is dead!”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “Cromwell is dead. Ann, there is something I want you to do without delay. I want you to leave at once … with the children. Find out where the King now holds his Court. Go to him. Tell him what has befallen me.”

“We’ll all go,” said Ann.

“Where shall we go?” demanded Jemmy.

“We are going to the King’s Court,” Ann told him.

“To the King’s Court?” cried Jemmy. He seized his sister’s hand and began to dance round the garret. He was so strong and healthy that the life of poverty had scarcely had any effect upon him.

“Ann,” said Lucy quietly, “mayhap the King will be going to England now. Who knows? You must find him quickly. You must not rest until you have found him and taken the children to him. He will do what has to be done.”

“Yes,” said Ann, “he will do what has to be done. Would to God we had never left him.”

“Ann … leave soon. Leave … now.”

“And you?”

“I think I can fend for myself.”

“I’ll not leave you. I’ll never leave you.”

Lucy heard Jemmy’s shouts. “Cromwell is dead. We are going to see the King. You are Cromwell, Mary. I am the King. I kill you. You’re dead.”

“You have a fever,” said Ann to Lucy.

“Leave tomorrow, please, Ann. It is what I wish … for the children.”

“I’ll never leave you,” said Ann, and the tears started to run down her cheeks.

Lucy turned away. She said: “It has to end. All things have to end. It was a happy life, and all will be well for Jemmy and Mary. He will see to that. He is a good man, Ann, a good gay man … for a gay man can be as good as a somber one.”

“There is none to equal him,” said Ann.

“No,” agreed Lucy. “None to equal him.”

She lay still for a long time; and she fancied he was beside her, holding her hand, telling her not to be afraid. Life had been gay and merry; let there be no regrets that it had come to its end.

She whispered as she lay there: “In the morning, Charles, Ann will set out to bring the children to you … Jemmy who is yours, and Mary … who ought to have been yours. Look after Jemmy and see that Mary is well cared for. You will do it, Charles, because … because you are Charles … and there is none to equal you. In the morning, Charles …”

All night she lay there, her throat hot and parched, her mind wandering.

She fancied she heard the voices of people in the streets; they seemed to shout: “Cromwell is dead! Long live the King! God bless him!”

“God … bless … him!” murmured Lucy.

And in the morning Ann, with the two children, set out for the King’s Court, for poor Lucy no longer had need of her.

SEVEN


It was almost two years since the death of Cromwell, yet the people of England showed no sign of recalling Charles Stuart to his throne, having installed Oliver’s son Richard as Protector.

The excitement at the news of Oliver’s death had still thrilled the King and his Court, who were then in Brussels, when Ann had arrived with the children.

Charles was silent for a few moments when he heard of Lucy’s death. He embraced Jemmy warmly and, when the little girl, Mary, waited with such expectancy, there was nothing he could do but embrace her also.

He laid his hand on Ann Hill’s shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Ann. Lucy was fortunate in you … more fortunate than in some others. Have no fear. We will do our best to see you settled.”

Ann fell on her knees before him and kissed his hand; she wept a little, and he turned away because the tears of all women distressed him.

Later he sent for Lord Crofts—a man whom he admired—and said to him: “My lord, you have this day acquired a son. I command you to take him into your household and bring him up as one of your own. I refer to my son James.”

Lord Crofts bowed his head.

“I thank you with all my heart,” said the King. “I know I cannot leave Jemmy in safer hands. Henceforth it would be better for him to be known as James Crofts.”

“I shall obey Your Majesty’s commands to the best of my ability,” said Lord Crofts.

And so Jemmy was handed over to Lord Crofts to be brought up as a member of his family and to be taught all that a gentleman of high quality should know.

There still remained Mary.

“God’s Body!” cried the King. “That child is no responsibility of mine.”

He sent for Henry Bennet.

“Your daughter is at Court. What do you propose to do about her?” he demanded.

“Alas, Sire, I know of no such daughter.”

“Come,” said the King, “she is Lucy’s girl. You knew Lucy well, did you not?”

“Even as did Your Majesty.”

“I have placed my son in a household where he will be brought up in accordance with his rank. You should do the same for your daughter.”

“Ah, the boy is lucky. It is a simple matter for a King to command others to care for his bastard. It is not so simple for a humble knight.”

“It should not be a task beyond the strength of such as you, Henry.”

“Poor little Mary! They have been brought up together, those two. It is a sad thing that one should have a future of bright promise and the other …”

“What do you mean, Henry? They’re both bastards.”

“But one is known to be the King’s bastard. The other, bastard of a humble knight. A King’s bastard is equal to any man’s son born in wedlock. It is not such a bad fate to be a King’s bastard. Poor Mary! And, for all we know, she might have been … she might have been …”

“She could not have been! I have a good alibi, Henry. I know I am far from impotent, but I am not omnipotent. My children are as the children of other parents. They grow as other children … before and after birth.”

“Many have thought her to be your child, Sire. You can be sure Jemmy boasted that he had a King for a father.”

“Are you suggesting that I should take upon myself the responsibility of fathering the child?”

“Sire, you have had children already, and there will be many more, I doubt not. Can one little girl make such a difference?”

“You’re insolent, fellow! You would shift your responsibilities on to me, when it is a King’s privilege to shift his responsibilities on to others. Did you not know that?”

“’Tis so, Sire!” sighed Henry. “Alas, poor Mary! The poppet has set her heart on having a King for a father. Your Majesty has charmed her as you charm all others. She is, after all, a woman.”

Charles said: “Oh … put the girl with a good family then. Give her a chance such as Jemmy will have.”

“In Your Majesty’s name, Sire? Mary will bless you all her days. She’s Jemmy’s sister, remember. You know how you love to please the ladies, and this little lady will be but one more.”

“You may get you gone from my presence,” said the King with a laugh. “First you steal my mistress when my back is turned; and not content with that you cajole me into fathering your daughter!”

He strode away laughing. He had been enchanted with little Mary; he wished she were in truth his child. But as Henry said: What did one more matter? The children would be well cared for, well nurtured; and Lucy—poor Lucy—could rest in peace.

He had thought at that time that his chances of regaining his throne had improved; alas, he had hoped too soon.

He went to Holland, where, on the strength of his hopes, the Dowager Princess of Holland smiled on his betrothal to Henriette of Orange. She was a charming girl, and Charles found it easy to fall lightly in love with her. But the romance was upset for two reasons: Most important, the Dowager Princess realized that Charles was not to be recalled and would doubtless remain an exile; and secondly, even while courting Henriette he had become involved in a scandal with Beatrix de Cantecroix, a very beautiful and experienced woman who was the mistress of the Duke of Lorraine.

Charles left Holland for Boulogne where he planned to journey to Wales and Cornwall, there to gather an army and fight for his throne.

But his plans were discovered by the enemy, and once again they came to nothing.

He decided then to see Mazarin and ask for France’s help in regaining his crown.

Mazarin was already in negotiation for a peace with Spain, and Charles was treated with the utmost coldness.

And so it seemed that, nearly two years after Cromwell’s death, his position was as hopeless as it had ever been.

The French Court travelled south. In the eyes of Mazarin this journey was very necessary. There had been rioting in some southern towns, and a great deal of dissatisfaction had followed the arrest of certain men, some of whom had been hanged, others sent to the galleys.