A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  She opened her mouth to protest but he held up his hand in a halting gesture.

  ‘Mistress Milton also has a voice. If she should wish to use it, then I will of course provide her a channel in which to do so.’

  ‘If the authorities don’t shut you down for illegal printing first,’ she said.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is a risk we are prepared to take. For the time being … I believe that while it is unfortunately true that people sometimes get hurt when we wage war with words, there is much less blood-letting than when men wage war with guns and knives. I say “we” because Ben has worked very hard with me on a new project dealing with issues of persecution and freedom, which also will not be well received by Parliament. You should be very proud of him, Caroline.’

  ‘I am. I always have been. Even when he defied his father and joined Parliament’s cause, though I did not agree with him, I understood. I listened and even agreed on some points. And I was proud of him for standing up for what he believed. Though when I see what he has lost,’ she said, bitterness in her tone, ‘I wish we had locked him up until the war was over.’

  ‘Then he would have been locked up for a very long time. But I don’t think you really mean that,’ he said. ‘A boy cannot become a man if his most sincere decisions are obstructed. And even the voices of the young deserve to be heard. They are not always wrong. And speaking of the young,’ he said, glancing sideways toward the lake, ‘they will be back soon.’

  He reached out and took her hand. ‘We are wasting this interlude.’ She should have withdrawn her hand, would later wonder that she had not. ‘I find talking with you very stimulating, Caroline. I think you and I are a lot alike in that we are both survivors. Whenever I engage with a strong, intelligent woman, I cannot help but be in sympathy with Milton’s argument. Even if a wife is beautiful, obedient, and dutiful, a man needs something more.’

  She still did not withdraw her hand. The moment had become suddenly so abruptly intimate, so personal, she was frozen in it, like a startled rabbit.

  He leaned forward and kissed her.

  She broke away, but not quickly enough not to taste the wine on his lips, not quickly enough to fail to realize she had never been kissed like that before.

  The look on his face was bewilderment. He was not a man used to rejection, she supposed. He just looked at her as if he was due an explanation.

  ‘You must not get the wrong idea,’ she said, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. ‘I … I still feel like a married woman. I will always be indebted to you, but not … not enough to dishonor my husband’s memory.’

  ‘I don’t want a woman who is indebted to me,’ he said with some pique. ‘I can’t believe you think me such a churl that I would exploit your situation or whatever kindness you think I have done for you. I can only plead that I was simply overcome by the moment. I understand. William has only been gone a few months. I should have been sensitive of that. Though I do dare hope, Caroline, that at some point we might be more than friends. I would be less than honest with you, if I did not tell you that.’

  She heard Ben’s distant laughter, glanced at the two of them, strolling back, captured in a pastoral scene, a portrait torn from the fraying fabric of another time. Another place.

  ‘But for the time being, please be assured that I will settle for the pure pleasure of your company, whenever and wherever you should deign to give it.’

  Not really knowing how to answer such a declaration, Caroline said, ‘We should gather up the picnic things.’

  He got up to help her gather the plates and napkins.

  ‘Friends then?’ he asked. Then grinned, as if what had passed between them was trivial, but weighting even that with intimacy by adding, ‘But good friends, yes?’

  She nodded and murmured, ‘Yes, of course, Lord Whittier, friends,’ she said casually, busying herself with folding the blanket as carefully as if it were an altar cloth. He reached to take it from her, just brushing her hand with his. It was almost like an electric shock between them.

  She would try to avoid being alone with him again. ‘Would you mind driving us home, James?’ she said. ‘Arthur said he wanted me to get to know Patience better. I think she will be more comfortable if Arthur is riding in the carriage too.’

  He cocked his head to one side and looked at her knowingly. ‘Whatever my very good friend desires,’ he said.

  ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES

  Cromwell’s own division had a hard pull of it; for they were charged by Rupert’s bravest men both in front and flank; they stood at the sword’s point a pretty while, hacking one another; but at last (it so pleased God) he (Cromwell) brake through them, scattering them before him like dust.

  Scoutmaster-General Watson to Henry Overton, after the Battle of Marston Moor, 2 July 1644

  16 June 1644

  ‘The babe is crowning, Your Majesty. Once more. Push. Now,’ the midwife insisted.

  ‘Je ne peux pas! Aides-moi. Je sui trop faible. S’il vous plaît, s’il vous plaît,’ each plea accented with a breath.

  It was Anne Villiers, Lady Dalkeith, and not the midwife, who had been standing behind the birthing chair for the last eight hours, crooning to her, gently wiping Henrietta’s brow.

  ‘Yes you can,’ she said. ‘You must, for the sake of your child.’

  ‘For the sake of the King’s child,’ Henrietta said, tasting the blood on her lips where she’d bitten into them. Drawing a deep breath, as if she could breathe in strength, she asked, ‘Did you remember to light the candles for St Margaret?’

  ‘I have checked them every hour. They are burning brightly.’

  Another wave of pain crouched, waiting to pounce and maul. Henrietta tightened her grip on Lady Dalkeith’s hand, feeling the soft flesh give beneath her nails, but she could not let go. Anne flinched, but neither woman lessened her grip as Henrietta pushed and screamed.

  Henrietta had not been all that pleased to see the grandniece of the late Lord Buckingham when she had arrived at Bedford House; had even thought of refusing her when she offered to stay in the birthing room. But Genevieve had said they needed her, pointing out that the chatelaine of Bedford House was too fussy and there were no other ladies-in-waiting to assist. Feeling foolish and a little petty, Henrietta had conceded. Now it was Anne Villiers whose hand she gripped as another wave of wrenching pain swept through her body, taking with it her last vestige of strength and determination.

  ‘Appelez le docteur! Cademan must cut the babe out of me. The King’s child must not die!’

  The midwife dragged a bloody sleeve across her face, wiping the sweat that dripped down her nose. ‘For God’s sake, someone open a window. And tell Sir Thomas that we are past women’s work here. The Queen requires his scalpel.’

  Genevieve flung open a window and rushed from the room to search for the doctor. When she returned to the chamber, doctor in tow, the Queen, pale and still as death, was slumped in the birthing chair. The midwife was already at work kneeling over the child. ‘The King’s child lives. She appears healthy and none the worse for the extended labor. Give your attention to the Queen,’ she said to Thomas Cademan.

  Anne and Genevieve half carried, half dragged her, supporting her on their shoulders. They positioned her gently on the bed, bending her legs at the knee, covered her with clean linen. Clean linen between her legs too. She heard Sir Thomas giving instructions and Anne answering him, their words broken as if they floated through bubbles. I want to see the baby, but her lips would not move. She was only half conscious of hands working on her body.

  A tall shadow moved from the end of the bed and hovered. The hand that pressed at her throat smelled of vinegar and herbs.

  ‘She has a pulse … weak … bleeding heavily,’ he said. Then, his voice louder, he asked, ‘You gave her blue cohosh? Where did you get it?’

  ‘From a local apothecary. He said it came from Nicholas Culpeper in London. I thought it would strengthen the contractions. Her labor was long. And she
was already weak when it started.’

  ‘That explains the excessive bleeding,’ he said. ‘Your decision was justified. It probably saved the child’s life, but she is very weak. The Queen is a woman whose will is stronger than her constitution, and she is no longer young.’

  The words formed in her mind, but she could not voice them. I am here. Don’t talk about me as if I am dead.

  ‘I have packed the cavity with a cotton compress. The flow seems less vigorous than it did. I will check on her throughout the night. I think she will sleep, but if she stirs put two drops of this beneath her tongue. Be precise. More could kill her. It is Culpeper’s tincture of poppy and very pure. You have had a long day, but you have not finished. I suggest you take turns here. We do not know how long the Queen will need a constant watch.’

  Henrietta struggled to speak. The words were close. So close.

  ‘The baby. Does the child live?’ Could they hear? Did she say the words out loud?

  ‘Your Grace.’ She felt the pressure of the doctor’s hand forcing her shoulders back into the pillow as she struggled to lift herself up. ‘You have given the King another beautiful Princess,’ he said.

  ‘I wish to hold her,’ she whispered.

  Thomas Cademan nodded. ‘Just for a minute. You need to rest. We will take care of the babe.’ He gently lifted her head and shoulders up onto the pillows.

  ‘Merci, Sir Thomas. Merci d’avoir sauvé mon enfant.’

  ‘I did not save your child. God saved your child. And you did the hard work. Her entry into the world was easier for her than for you. She is breathing well, and all her parts are perfect.’

  The midwife had finished cleaning and swaddling the infant. When Henrietta looked down at the tiny little girl in her arms, tears streamed down her face, so many tears, she could not stop them. The baby screwed up her rosebud mouth and started to whimper.

  ‘What is wrong with her?’ Henrietta asked, her heart racing.

  ‘She is a very healthy infant, Your Majesty. She feels her mother’s heart beating. She is trying to suckle.’

  ‘Minette. Ma petite Minette,’ Henrietta said. ‘I have nothing for you.’

  ‘Shhh. Do not worry, Your Grace. You must rest. The nursemaid is standing by.’ He looked at the midwife with a question in his eyes.

  ‘Lady Dalkeith has secured a good woman from the village, capable of both nursing and taking care of the princess,’ the midwife said, ‘but today another nurse arrived. She said she was sent by Anne of Austria, Queen of France, from the royal nursery. Madame Peronne.’ She reached down and took the child, who was crying loudly now. ‘Which would you prefer to have primary care of the infant?’

  ‘The French one,’ Henrietta said, her arms falling back upon the bed like dry sticks as she released her daughter.’ So that she will learn to sing in her mother’s tongue. She did not say that aloud, did she?

  ‘Both women are waiting in the nursery. Lady Dalkeith will take the child to her and we will use the village nurse for feeding and swaddling.’ He motioned toward the midwife and handed her the squalling infant. ‘Let me put this tincture under your tongue, Your Majesty. It will help you to sleep and regain your strength, so you can care for your child.’ The drops tasted bitter. ‘It will make you feel better.’

  The doctor picked up each of the little bottles the midwife had laid out. ‘Use the herbal salve when the bleeding stops.’

  To Henrietta the room looked as though it was melting around her. Sir Thomas’s voice faded away, the words coming and going.

  ‘All … is good … little of the elderberry syrup … clove … complain of cold … a lot of blood … red wine laced with honey and cinnamon. No blessed thistle … increases mother’s milk … too weak …’

  Henrietta’s mind faded into oblivion then and she dreamed strange dreams with vivid colors, bloody reds and bright yellows and deep greens, swirling in and out and around, drawing her into their black center. Sometimes she heard people talking and sometimes thought she felt wet swabs on her tongue.

  On the third day, she awoke to a strange woman by her bedside spooning tiny bits of calf’s-foot jelly into her mouth. It tasted of salt and broth. The woman called Henrietta’s name and explained in blessed French that Her Royal Majesty, Anne of Austria and Queen of France, sent greetings to her beloved sister-in-the-law and her best wishes for a soon-to-be reunion. She proved herself a worthy and determined nurse, insisting that Henrietta get up every day and walk in the garden. She prepared her food herself and limited the time the Queen spent with the baby, so that she did not get too tired, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the nursemaid. When Henrietta protested – even though it was truly wonderful to be pampered – that she wished madame would care for the child, the nurse retorted that the child was thriving under the care of Madame Villiers and the nursemaid. ‘J’ai été envoyé pour prendre soin de vous,’ she said. And take care of her she did. Henrietta was grateful.

  As Henrietta’s strength returned, so did some of her optimism. She had heard from Charles, who had sent her a letter celebrating the birth of the little Princess, filled with sweet endearments. It was accompanied by an exquisite pair of embroidered boots, fit enough even for the French court, he said. He said also that he hoped to see her again before she left for the Continent and could not wait to hold her and the babe in his arms. She had to call for Henry Jermyn to interpret the code for the rest of it. Her head ached just trying to decipher it. Charles was always changing the code.

  Henry glanced at the letter briefly and reported the gist of what it said. Since Newcastle and Prince Rupert were securing the North and trying to open a path for Lord Montrose’s Highlander Catholic troops to counter the Covenanters, the King was leading a regiment of horse into the West Country to protect their garrisons from Essex. He hoped she would not have to leave for Falmouth Harbor before he arrived.

  Henry had looked up then and said a little reluctantly, ‘And His Majesty also says that he wishes to have the child baptized into the Church of England as soon as you can arrange it.’

  ‘But the King is not here, is he?’ she said.

  ‘He also says that you should not wait for his coming, and to see that it is done “with all speed.’”

  She should not have been surprised. Charles had always insisted on the Anglican baptism with every child, and she had complied – after the child had secretly been baptized by a priest. She had done that with the first child – and thank the Blessed Virgin she had, because that first little Princess had died, and her soul would exist forever in Limbo if she had not. What did it really matter if all her children’s births were listed in Church of England records? That church had no authority in holy matters and their baptism was hardly more than a bath and an English legality. Though admittedly the surreptitious Catholic baptism had been much easier in her chapel at Somerset House with her own priest.

  ‘There is no hurry. The King is not here.’

  The look in Henry Jermyn’s eyes betrayed his understanding. ‘I doubt that Lady Dalkeith is acquainted with any Catholic priests. She is devoutly Church of England.’

  ‘Henry, you have always gone out of your way to befriend me, even at times of great danger to yourself. You know how important this is to me,’ she whispered as though the walls had ears.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty, I do,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I can try to find a recusant priest somewhere in the village. I shall make discreet inquiries.’ Then suddenly his aspect brightened. ‘I believe I should start with the good doctor. What do you think?’

  She nodded and smiled her agreement.

  That very evening, whilst Henrietta was enjoying her time alone with her little Minette, a tall man of some years dressed in everyday britches and shirt was ushered in by Henry Jermyn. He was carrying a small satchel. He looked startled when he saw the Queen, but he did not question or comment except to say, ‘I am Father Andrew, Your Highness. I understand you require a private christening.’

  Henrie
tta smiled her gratitude to him. ‘It is necessary, Father Andrew.’ Turning to Jermyn she said, ‘Lord Jermyn, will you please summon Madame Peronne? She will witness the baptism.’

  While he was gone, the priest withdrew from the bag his vestments and little silver vials of oil and blessed water. ‘Is this the prepared space?’ he asked, motioning to the altar with candles and crucifix that Henrietta had set up in a small corner of her chamber.

  ‘It was the best I could do,’ she said, doing a mental inventory in her mind: a small silver bowl to hold the holy water for pouring, a larger bowl beneath to catch the water, a basin of clean water for the priest to bathe his hands in, bits of bread to remove the anointing oil from his fingertips, and even an embroidered white linen handkerchief to cover the infant’s head.

  ‘It will do,’ he said, donning his purple stole. ‘She feels warm,’ he said, taking the child in his arms.

  ‘I was perhaps holding her too closely. She has been healthy.’

  Madame Peronne entered the room, quietly, closing the door behind her, saying only, ‘Lord Jermyn will not be present. He was called away by a messenger.’

  ‘You will be witness then?’ he asked the nurse.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Then let us begin.’

  The child was quiet in the beginning as though asleep. ‘Exi ab ea, immunde …’ Even as the priest made the sign of the cross with his thumb on her forehead and breast, she did not stir. But when he poured the holy water over her head, she opened her eyes and howled. Father Andrew continued chanting the liturgy as if this was not an altogether unusual occurrence. At first Henrietta was not disturbed by it either. Prince Charles had howled, and James had released a noxious amount of gas, but by the time the priest finished the last Pax Tecum this child was shivering and wailing, that intense, breathless crying that signals trouble.