‘Only some of his poetry, which was actually quite good. What did you publish for him?’ she asked, not really caring, thinking how wonderful that he had found employment and wondering where he was living. Please God, do not let it be on the street like so many of the others, yet knowing that he was hardly likely to have found a place to rent in a city full to the brim. ‘Where are you living?’
‘I sleep at the print shop, like a glorified apprentice. The printer has a couple of young boys who sell papers for him. I sort of look after them, cook for them, keep them busy so they stay out of mischief. In between print jobs. You’d be surprised what this one arm can do. I pull the press. I am even learning to set type.’
‘Your father would be very proud of you. The way you are making a life for yourself in this troubled time. I am very proud of you.’
He smiled, a faint smile, but real. ‘I even have a new girlfriend. Well, sort of. I have just lately begun to think of her that way, though we have been good friends for a few months.’
‘Tell me about her.’
‘Her name is Patience, though she’s sometimes not very patient. I think you would like her. She is very strong like you, though at times a little … stern. Disciplined too, when she sets her hand to a task; but what else could be expected of a godly Puritan girl? She drags me to church at least once a week when we are not working on the big ditch together. Sometimes the preacher even lets her speak. She preaches better than some of the men.’
The coals heaved a dying sigh and fell in bright embers into the ash pan. He closed the iron damper to cut off the flow of oxygen to any embers, then grabbed a poker and looked around for something to thicken it into a ramming tool.
‘There,’ she said, pointing to a threadbare pillow sack filled with rags. ‘Dip some of those rags in that bucket of dish water so we won’t start a fire.’
He wrapped the wet rags around the poker and poured the rest on the embers. ‘Do you have any old broadsheets around we can spread to catch the mess?’
‘There is a stack under the cupboard. The officers bring them in. I rarely have time to read them. The soldiers use them to wipe their bums. Did you print any of Milton’s poetry?’
He looked at the stack of papers he was riffling through and frowned. ‘Nah. No poetry. Just his opinions. Not worth the price of the ink.’
He opened the damper and jammed the poker up the flue with more vigor than was necessary. His effort was answered with clumps of black soot and creosote.
‘That’s what you get for burning good English oak instead of coal,’ he said. ‘That should hold it now that we have coal again.’
Together they cleaned up the mess. ‘A man with a good right arm is hard to find,’ she said. ‘The potato soup should be ready. It is seasoned with a bit of bacon. Would you like a bowl and some bread?’
‘Tempting as that sounds,’ he grinned. ‘I’d better get back. The boys will be wanting their supper.’
‘Will I see you again soon?’
‘Of course you will. Now that I know where you are. Caroline, we are family. If you need anything … They told me at the house that you and the old mistress who owns it are still living there. But do you have enough money to get by? I have saved a little.’
A great wash of relief flowed over her. Here was William’s son in the flesh. Really here and offering his help: what she had prayed for, the boy found at last, safe and sound. And claiming her as family.
‘I am doing fine, better now than I have been in weeks, just knowing you are safe.’ She took his hand, pressing it firmly between hers, and brought it to her lips, not wanting to let him go. ‘You and I will be fine, Arthur. If we have each other, we have not really lost William. He binds us together. He will always be with us in our shared memory. You must make a life for yourself. Your father would want you to be happy. Maybe when the war is over, and Mary returns to London, we can all be friends again. Even the impossible Mr Milton.’
‘Not Mr Milton. I can’t see us ever being friends. Though Patience would like that.’
‘Does Patience know Mr Milton?’
‘Patience adores Mr Milton. He is her employer.’
Patience. That name sounded familiar. Patience … Patience Trapford. Milton’s housekeeper. Mary had spoken of her and how her husband thought the girl could do no wrong while his wife never did anything to suit him. Patience Trapford and Arthur. What a strange world.
‘She thinks he is brilliant and any flaws he might have should be overlooked.’
‘Because he is such a good poet?’ Caroline asked.
‘No. She’s not much for poetry. For reading of any kind – except the Bible. She thinks he’s a most marvelous theologian and a very godly man. She gets really cross with me if I criticize him.’
‘So, you don’t criticize him.’
He grinned in resignation. ‘So, I don’t criticize him.’
‘Does Patience know that you and John Milton’s wife are friends, practically family?’
He looked down then, scooped up a last bit of ash and dropped it in the trash bin. ‘I haven’t talked much about my life before. It was too painful.’ Then his face colored a little with embarrassment. ‘At the print shop they know me as Ben.’
‘Ben.’ And then she repeated it, trying to wrap her mind around it, ‘Ben. Ben for Benjamin.’ She thought she understood. He was looking for a place to hide, too.
‘I can’t explain it.’
‘You don’t have to. After all, Benjamin is your middle name. Your mother named you after her father. I shall call you Ben also,’ she said, ‘if you would like me to.’
‘I was hoping you would understand.’
‘Will I see you again soon?’
‘We are working pretty hard on a new project, but I’ll be back first chance I get. In the meantime, Caroline, if you should need me for anything, just come to the print shop. It’s on Fleet Street. There’s no name on the door, but you can recognize it by a printed sign in the window: two crossed swords. Just ask anybody for James Whittier’s print shop. They’ll tell you.’
‘Whittier,’ she said. ‘Whittier. I think I can remember that.’
ABANDONED
But what, Sweet Excellence, what dost thou here?
Sir William Davenant, Cavalier, poet in exile, and supply runner between Paris and Oxford, addressing Henrietta
‘Think you, Husband, that I should have returned to Paris with William Davenant,’ Henrietta asked, ‘risking both your child’s life and mine?’ She was pacing now, hands gripped across her belly as if to protect it. ‘Would you have me give birth to a prince or princess of England in a supply boat?’
‘I want only what is best for you and the child,’ he said without looking up from his writing desk. ‘Your presence here puts a target on the court and, most importantly, on you. Chancellor Hyde says—’
‘Edward Hyde cannot wait to have me gone so he can talk you into signing away your royal prerogative.’ She wanted to scream in outrage but, having learned what scant purchase that gained with her stubborn husband, she stilled her frantic pacing and stood beside his desk. Since Christmas he had sat at that desk, or hovered in conference, preoccupied with endless schemes that always came to naught. The only fruit he had produced in months was heavy in her womb.
He put down his pen and reached up to take her hand. ‘Henrietta, you need not fear that I shall sign away the King’s prerogative. It is a groundless fear. I would never. Not ever. In any case, Parliament has refused to negotiate with the Oxford Parliament by countering with their original proposal. Against Chancellor Hyde’s recommendation, I have terminated any further hope for rapprochement.’
‘Vous êtes arrivé en retard au jeu!’ she wanted to retort, but squeezed her lips shut.
‘There is nothing now to be done and there will be nothing more to be done until either I or Parliament rules the field. General Essex knows you are here and will blame you for the failed negotiations – though, of course, as always, it was
my decision. But I know the way Robert Devereux thinks. When he learns that I have rejected Parliament’s proposal again, he will put Oxford under siege. I cannot stay here to protect you, Henrietta. It is not honorable that the King should tarry here in his wife’s arms, eating and drinking by a protected hearth, whilst his loyal soldiers take the field. I am King. I must lead.’
She wanted to scream at him, Verily? When have you ever led? But she did not. There was logic in what he said. She sank into the chair beside his desk, suddenly too weary to stand. ‘If it were not for the babe, I could go to the field with you. It would not be the first time.’ She said this softly, more to herself than to him.
‘For mercy’s sake, Henrietta, distress me no more than I already am! Extreme remedies are requisite for extreme evils, and of two evils we must choose the one to do least harm.’
Startled by his intemperate tone, she found enough energy to match it with her own. ‘And where would you have me go? Back to Den Haag to beg for more money for you?’
‘That was your idea, remember, madam. Not mine.’ He looked down at his hands, flexed his ringed fingers, examined his nails, inhaled deeply. ‘I think you should go home. To Paris. To be with your family.’
‘Home? Where you are, that is my home, Charles. Buckingham took me from my home when I was just a girl,’ she said in disbelief. ‘And family? I have no family in France. Who will be my royal protector in Paris? A six-year-old nephew whom I have never seen? Or Cardinal Mazarin, the protégé of Richelieu, who hounded my mother into exile?’
He just looked at her with that long-suffering expression she had observed in his negotiations with Parliament. It was an expression that presaged a turn of mind beyond influencing: eyes closed, implacable, just waiting for the appeal or argument to run its course, his mind already made up. Then he said, ‘You are not your mother. Marie de Medici was a schemer and a reckless spendthrift. Cardinal Mazarin is a friend of the Queen Regent. He will see you as an asset. As I do. He will receive you graciously.’
‘If I am an asset, then why are you sending me away like some discarded mistress?’ Her tone changed from outrage to pleading. ‘My brother, the King, is dead. My mother is dead. I have no family but you. I. Am. Your. Wife.’ The last word broke on a sob.
Opening his eyes, he stood up then and drew her to him. Wiped at her tears. ‘Dear heart,’ he said softly. ‘Do you have any idea what a sacrifice it is for me to send you away? But I know that it will not be forever. And when we are reunited, it will be as sweet as last time. Remember Edgehill,’ he said, speaking softly, patting her belly.
‘I am not likely to forget,’ she said, trying to calm herself. For the baby’s sake. For his sake.
‘Your sister-in-law has sent you a gift for the baby and an invitation for you to come to Le Louvre, to wait out the war at the French court, dans le sein de votre famille – in the bosom of your family: her words, not mine.’
Le Louvre. That dreary pile that her mother had scorned. If Anne of Austria, her brother’s widow, was to be her only family, she was destitute indeed. Though she supposed she should be grateful. It was better than wandering friendless among the Hapsburgs or going back to Den Haag.
‘And what about Elizabeth and Henry?’ she asked.
‘I would like them to stay in England a little while longer. Susan Fielding will look after them until I can get them permanently and safely settled.’
Her heart raced. What was he saying? ‘Permanently? S’il vous plaît, mon cheri …’ Was she truly being sent into exile then? ‘I beg you, Charles—’
‘No. Do not work yourself into an emotional state. It is not good for the child. I only mean away from Oxford. I will see that the children are protected until it is safe for you to return. If that doesn’t happen soon, I will send them to you in France. I promise. It will only be a little while, dearest. In Paris, surrounded by your beloved Capuchins, you will be a prayer warrior for me. For England. Every day I will know that you are praying for our cause. We can be nothing if not victorious. God is on the side of a dutiful and divinely anointed king – even one who makes mistakes. Remember King David? He made a mistake or two.’
‘You will not make that mistake, will you, Charles? Remember how his children paid.’
His soft laughter fell like gentle rain on her wilted spirit. ‘You are Bathsheba enough for me.’ He embraced her before adding firmly, ‘You do not have to go immediately, but soon.’ He pulled her closer. Kissed the top of her head. ‘You will be able to move slowly, stopping often to rest,’ he said. ‘It is best, I think, for you to go southwest. Our hold on the West is solid and, if you cannot return here, Falmouth would be a safer port from which to depart. They will be watching the eastern ports. Davenant said he barely kept the supply boat from being boarded at Harwich.’
‘I will go to Bath for my lying-in,’ she said, some of the old self-assurance returning to her voice, ‘I will not birth this child on the Continent. This child will be an English subject, as are all my children,’ she said, trying to sound brave, but thinking how exhausted she felt, wishing she was already in Bath, lying in the spa, her mind floating, soothing waters washing over the white mound of her belly.
‘The Royal physician is with Rupert’s company in the North. But I will send for Sir Thomas Cademan. I know you prefer him.’
‘It is not only because he is Catholic. Remember how skillfully he tended Lady Carlisle when she had the pox. He has helped me with the headaches. I need to rest now, Charles,’ she said. ‘Just thinking about birthing this child alone has given me a wretched ache in my bones.’
‘Of course, my dearest heart,’ he said. But his attention had already returned to his writing. He did not glance up again.
That was how she left him, as weary as she had ever been, but she did not go to her room to rest. She went instead to her altar to pray: for the child in her womb, for all her children, for her husband. for his kingdom; so many Ave Marias that her voice grew hoarse. Spirit restored, she left the chapel, determined. She would go to Bath for her confinement as Charles wanted. But she would return to Oxford. She was the Queen of England. She would not run.
Several days later, Edward Hyde looked up in surprise when the Queen stormed into the chancellor’s office. He stood up and delivered a perfunctory bow. ‘Your Majesty, how may I be of service?’
‘I wrote a letter to General Essex demanding safe conduct to Bath.’ She slapped a paper down on his desk, her hand like her mouth, trembling in rage. ‘This was his reply.’
Hyde picked up the paper calmly and, scanning its context, sighed heavily. He recognized the beginnings of a royal tantrum. ‘Please, Your Majesty. Calm yourself. It is not good for the child. Come, sit.’ When she had seated herself, he handed her a pillow to put behind her back and said as gently as he could, ‘How did you expect him to reply? I wish Your Majesty had sought my advice before you saw fit to write to him. Did His Majesty give consent?’
‘I did not ask for consent. His Majesty agreed that I should go to Bath for my lying-in. For this traitor general – to whom Charles once offered the highest office in the land – not only to refuse his Queen’s request but to threaten to provide safe conduct instead to London is beyond outrage. He said I should answer to that devil’s Parliament for my part in fostering the conflict. This insult to the Crown simply must not go unanswered.’ Her voice was rising.
He rang the bell and a page appeared. ‘Bring Her Majesty a glass of honeyed cider.’ As her pregnancy had progressed, so had the storms. Some passed as quickly as they came. His fervent hope was that this one would pass as quickly. He chose to overlook the implied insult that he had not been the King’s first choice for chancellor. The offer to Essex had been a bribe to get him to switch sides. Charles knew Essex was war-weary. That’s why he was always pursuing negotiation. Had the King succeeded in turning Essex, it would have been a lethal blow to Parliament. The Queen and Robert Devereux had never been on good terms. Henrietta had spoken against his preferm
ent, so little wonder he was not anxious to accommodate her, especially now that prospects for peace were over.
‘Your Majesty,’ Hyde said, ‘it is unfortunate that you provided your plans to the enemy, but I think Lord Essex may have done you a great service here.’
‘Mon Dieu! Il n’est pas possible that you should defend—’
He handed her the honeyed drink, then lowered his voice, hoping she would mirror his calm. ‘Essex’s response, aside from its obvious disdain for royal regard, is a warning to you. To us. We must take every precaution. You must travel in disguise. In an unmarked carriage. Did you give him the date for which you were requesting the safe conduct?’
‘I told him I was leaving in two weeks.’
‘From when?’
‘I wrote the letter last week.’
‘Then you must leave immediately. And plan to tarry in Bath no longer than you have to.’ He tried to keep his tone calm, even matter-of-fact. ‘Your enemies know that is your destination. You will need to make your way to France as soon as you can travel. The general and his siege machines are probably already on their way to Oxford. The King will accompany you south as far as he can. The captain of the Queen’s Guard will accompany you all the way to France and the royal physician will meet you in Bath and travel with you also.’
‘And Genevieve?’
‘Genevieve will be there when you arrive.’
She started to cry softly then. Sometimes his enemy, rarely his friend, the slight woman and her silent tears moved him. If it were permissible, he would have hugged her to him.
‘Pardonnez-moi, s’il vous plaît,’ she said. ‘I … I made a grave mistake.’
Nodding, he smiled weakly. ‘Nothing that cannot be remedied,’ he said with more surety than he felt. ‘But it is good you came to me so soon. With swift action we may even turn it to our advantage.’
She sniffed hard and stood up, straightened her frail shoulders. He walked with her to the door. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I have always admired your courage. It will not fail you now. When you are safe in France, His Majesty will be greatly relieved. Do you think you can leave tonight? Hours count.’
A Far Horizon Page 10
