The crowd dispersed in a dissipating swarm of murmuring silence.
A few women lingered. One by one, they silently approached the basket that had received a martyr’s head. Genuflecting as before an altar, they dipped their handkerchiefs in the King’s blood, already thickening into clots, then clutching their relics unobtrusively – lest they be seen by the guards posted at the entrance to the courtyard – they also left. Among them was a tall woman in a forest green hooded cloak.
On the afternoon of the King’s execution, Lucy Hay was not among those assembled in the street outside Whitehall. She went instead to St James’s Palace to console the condemned man’s children. She had visited them often since Parliament had abruptly removed them from Syon House, placing them under the control of Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army. At least St James’s Palace was familiar to them. Much to her relief, they had seemed content. Elizabeth had been allowed her tutor and Henry a fencing master – he was always eager to show her his en garde and feint – but she was never left alone with them, a circumstance which troubled her for many reasons.
And today, when they would be most in need of a friend, she was denied entrance.
‘The children are indisposed.’
She protested but the chamberlain was adamant. ‘Then when will I be allowed access to them?’ she asked.
Stone-faced, he replied, ‘I cannot say, my lady. Decisions concerning the Stuart children are left to the Committee of Safety.’
The Stuart children. He did not say the King’s children.
So, it was finished, Lucy thought. England had no king. Parliament had removed their troublesome sovereign the only way they could, by committing regicide. She should feel some measure of grief, but she could not. Her memory of Thomas Wentworth left no room in her heart for sorrow. It was apt that Charles Stuart should die by arbitrary decree. The circle was complete. She spared a sympathetic thought for his wife who had loved him, though, and wondered if Henrietta knew she was a widow. Surely, he had been allowed to see his children. Even his enemies could not be so cold.
She considered protesting the guard’s refusal, appealing to their better angels, even flirting, but she could see it would avail her nothing but her ultimate humiliation. ‘I shall speak to the Committee of Safety you may be sure,’ she said with a forced smile, and with an air of umbrage walked briskly from the room.
The coachman, huddled in his muffler, looked up in some surprise, then hastened down from his perch to help her into the carriage. Resting her head against the back of the seat and inhaling purposefully to still her racing heart, she stared out the window, not seeing the lowering clouds and the winter-blasted landscape as it passed, seeing only images in her head, her imagination conjuring what she had refused to witness. How did the crowd react? How did Charles conduct himself? Were there any present to protest or speak on his behalf? And what now? These thoughts and more needled her. What did it mean for England? And the most troublesome of all: what did it mean for her? She had not heard from the chancellor since they took the children away, nor had she any news of the Queen. Who would tell the Queen that her enemies had cut off her husband’s head? Were her sons with her, or was she alone?
Despite her threat, Lucy did not plan to go into London, to confront the Committee or any other Parliament member. She should not attempt again to see the children, lest her efforts called unwanted attention to her regard for the ‘Stuart’ children, harming both her and them. Her mind tried to frame an argument. What would she say if some committee called her in for questioning? What exactly is your concern for the children, Lady Carlisle? Are you part of some conspiracy? Exactly where do your loyalties lie?
Finding no ready answer, her thoughts turned in another direction. She should not sit at Syon House and wait. Checkpoints at the Lines of Communication would not be closed to her, not yet at least. But they might be soon. Perhaps it was better to go in an unmarked carriage as a yeoman’s wife. But where? Northumberland and the ancient Percy family seat at Alnwick? A bleak prospect, to be sure, but she could gain some time to think there in that isolated place. The more she thought about it, the sounder the idea became. If enough Scots in the North were still loyal and should recognize Prince Charles as King, he would surely offer her protection for old times’ sake and for her service to his mother and his siblings. There was certainly nobody left in the Rump Parliament to plead her cause. All the moderate voices had been expelled. Best to get out now if she still could.
Large snowflakes had begun to fall, softening the bare branches and muddy fields. How peaceful it looks, she thought. Nature’s little white lie, for there was no peace. A kind of helplessness enveloped her, unlike any she had felt since she was a girl held virtual prisoner by her father in the Tower.
She leaned her head out the window and shouted for the driver to make haste. Snowflakes powdered her face. The cold air was bracing, the kiss of a light breeze comforting.
She closed the window and leaned back, listening to another voice in her head. Dig deep, Lucy. Find some vestige of that girl’s spirit. All is not lost. You still have breath and your wits have not waned, if anything only been enhanced by the wisdom of experience; and if no longer a celebrated beauty, you are still a handsome woman – in proper lighting. Tomorrow is not too late. It is a good thing that you were denied access to the children. That was your warning sign, lass, probably the only one you’ll get. James Hay always gave good advice. She would leave early in the morning. In three days she would be close to the Scottish border before anybody knew she was gone – if anybody cared.
4 February 1649
Prince Charles shouted for the footman outside his chamber in Le Louvre to summon his chamberlain. He rolled out of bed reluctantly, pulled on his breeches and belt. The room was cold, his fire unattended. His mother’s Paris relations had not been eager in observing the protocols due a Prince of England, not even providing an adequate staff. But that was just as well. They probably were not to be trusted anyway. His loyal chamberlain had come with him when Edward Hyde had successfully pressed the King to send him and his brother into exile in France. The heir and the spare, their lives should be protected for the future of England, Chancellor Hyde had argued, when it became clear that the breach between the King and Parliament was not likely to end in the King’s favor.
His father agreed. ‘You will be safe there and available to give comfort to your mother, should Providence decree thy father’s …’ But, not wishing to voice this outcome, he had only shrugged. Charles had understood he was being banished because his capture would have been catastrophic for the kingdom, but he had reluctantly quit the field, thinking the action overly cautious and unwelcome. Until Newbury. After that it made more sense, but, still, he was restless here. At nineteen he belonged on the battlefield. At his father’s side.
With a sigh of boredom, Charles gazed out the window at the bleak winter scene, last week’s snow still patching the black mud along the bank of the Seine and the bare-branched wood beyond. But the sun was shining. His father favored such a day for hunting. Maybe he would be able to join them before the season ended. Yesterday his mother had hurriedly summoned him and his brother, telling them that they were not to worry if they heard some French tales about their father’s trial in Parliament. She had heard from one of her spies that the King had escaped, rescued by a party of his loyal Scots, and was on his way to France, where they would rally French troops and put an end to this devil-spawned insurrection … Hysterical with relief, she had almost choked on her words.
His back still to the doorway, Charles heard the chamberlain enter. ‘Tell my brother to dress for the hunt today. The deer will be easy to spot in the snow. And see if Henry Percy is up for some sport. Bring some bacon with my loaf and some butter and a pot of jam if you can wrangle it out of that stingy cook.’
But there was no response. Only the sound of heavy breathing.
In reflex, Charles’s hand went to the small knife attached to his belt and wh
irled around, but it was only his chamberlain standing there, his face a mask of uncertainty. Gripped tightly in his hand was a … news book?
‘Speak up man! What ails you? Have they closed our favorite tavern?’
The servant dropped to his knees and, bowing his head, muttered ‘Your Majesty.’ His hand held out the news book.
Your Majesty? To be thusly addressed could only mean one thing. Charles ripped the quarto from the man’s hand. The headline in bold black ink screamed ‘Le Parlement Décapite Charles I, Roi d’ Angleterre.’ His knees weak, he sank onto the bed, his eyes ravaging the print as he disciplined his mind to register the details.
The weekly La Gazette gave eye-witness details, according to which at least after the execution, the English had treated the body of their sovereign with respect … sewed the head back onto the body … black draped coffin … procession escorted by an honor guard of Parliament’s cavalry … interment in St George’s Chapel, Windsor. It also reported that the assemblies along the route were well-behaved and sober, with many crying and kneeling as the King’s coffin passed by, including one stunning encounter with a tall blonde woman in forest green.
Charles sat on the bed oblivious to his chamberlain, who was still on his knees. His brain struggled to absorb what he had read and to marshal a response. Such excruciating detail could not reasonably be refuted. It read like an eye-witness account. It could only mean one thing. His father was stone cold dead. Executed by Parliament and … he was King now. But a King in exile. He longed to gather a company of horse and invade Westminster to avenge his father’s murder. But he dared not go back – at least without an army. Or not without an invitation from Parliament to take up the Crown.
He had never felt so alone in his life. The sentence had been carried out on 30 January. Five days ago. Why had nobody come to tell them? Where was Edward Hyde? And God have mercy, it had befallen to him to tell his mother.
‘I am so sorry, Your Majesty. I will pray for his soul.’
Charles looked up then and awkwardly gestured for the chamberlain to stand. ‘Summon my mother. I must speak with her. You will probably find her in the chapel at this hour of the morning.’
By the time she arrived, he had composed himself sufficiently to put on his doublet and ring for a footman to build a fire. ‘Enter,’ he said to a tap on the door.’
‘The Queen Mother, Your Majesty,’ his servant said as they entered.
She did not look happy. ‘You are a bit ahead of yourself,’ she said to the man, curtly. Then, ‘You are dismissed.’ But he just stood there looking uncertain.
Charles nodded, and the chamberlain left, backing out of the door.
‘What is wrong with him?’
‘Pay him no mind. He means no disrespect. He has had a shock. Please, Mother. Come. Sit here by the fire.’
‘No. Just tell me why you have interrupted my morning devotions. What is it now? Your quarters not to your liking? Your meals insufficient? Your service inadequate? I know you would prefer to be in England, but you must temper your expectations. Remember, my son, we are guests here.’
Instead of answering back, he placed his arm around her, his voice scarcely above a whisper. ‘Mother, please sit,’ he pleaded. But she just straightened her spine. ‘Just say whatever it is that spurred you to this urgent summons.’
‘I-I bring you the most miserable of news.’ He paused for a breath, then without looking at her said, ‘It has fallen my sad duty to tell you that your husband and my father has succumbed to the calumny of Parliament. He … he was executed at Whitehall five days ago.’
She sat then but did not react as he had expected, and when she spoke her tone was still exasperated.
‘Charles, I warned you and James about this. Do not be distressed. It is a lie. I told you—’
‘No, Mother. You have been misinformed. It is all here. In this paper. Every excruciating detail. The false news you received from your spy was a scurrilous lie.’
She pushed away the paper he held out to her. ‘He wore the livery of St James’s Palace. Why would he lie?’
‘Delivering bad news is a hard service and not a welcome one. Did you reward him for bringing you good news?’
‘Absolument …’ Then understanding dawned in her face. She reached for the paper.
He watched as disbelief, denial and understanding warred in her countenance, contorting her mouth, wrinkling her brow, widening her eyes. When she had finished reading, her face was a frozen mask of pain. He knelt beside her, extended his arms in an embrace. But she did not cry out, nor did she move. The paper fell to the floor, its whisper against the stone flags and the popping of a burnt log breaking in half, the only sounds in the room. Still holding her, he waited for the storm that never came. She might have been a statue except for her trembling hands. He had seen his mother in many moods, but never like this. His legs were cramped from his kneeling position, but still she did not move.
When he could no longer sustain his uncomfortable posture, he stood up. Bending down, he stilled the tremor in her clutched hands beneath his own. ‘Mother, may I help you to your chamber? Do you need a physician?’
‘No. Leave me. I wish to be alone.’
But he could not leave her. Not like this. ‘May I at least send for someone to sit with you? Lord Jermyn?’
‘Genevieve,’ she whispered. Then, more strongly. ‘Assemble Percy and Jermyn and your brother and those of our servants whose loyalty you trust. Show them this,’ she said, closing her eyes as she scuffed the offending paper with the toe of her slipper. Charles picked it up and left to fulfill yet another unwanted duty, suspecting it would be the first of many.
Henrietta did not know how long she sat there in her son’s empty room. When she next opened her eyes, he was gone. The room was cold, the fire dead.
She thought that she should seek out her sons to comfort them. They had lost their father. She was their mother. They needed her. But she did not move. Her thoughts came quick and fast and disjointed. In killing their King, Parliament had at long last attained their desire. They had finally rid themselves of their despised Catholic Queen, but they would never be rid of her influence. She was the Queen Mother. The son born of her body, sired by their father, was still their rightful King. But their new King was still a boy. He would need guidance, guidance only she could give. They could exile her body but not her influence.
She should cry for her husband, but she had no tears. She should go to her chapel to pray for her husband’s soul. But she could not summon the strength.
Ave Maria … but the Virgin was silent. Charles was dead. She would never see his face again, feel his touch, hear his voice. At least not in this life. How could she live without him? He had been the center of her life since she was but a girl. Parliament had robbed her of that. Robbed her children of their father. Still she did not cry.
A hot anger rose inside her, quickening her strength, flowing through her limbs and into her heart. Where was that sycophant Hyde? Why did he not come to her to tell her of the fate of her husband? And what of her youngest children? What would now be their fate?
Only when Genevieve came into the room, knelt beside her and put her arms around her did Henrietta begin to cry. She sobbed in her faithful servant’s arms until she had no more tears. Then she straightened her face and the two women went to Henrietta’s apartment. It was warm there. Genevieve offered her a posset of honeyed wine, which she accepted gratefully.
‘Would you like to lie down, Your Majesty?’
‘There will be time for sleeping later, Genevieve. Send a footman to summon the princes and the English exiles to gather outside the chapel within the hour,’ she said. ‘Tell my sons to wear their blue satin.’
Exactly one hour later, Henrietta gathered with her fellow exiles and loyal servants in the hall outside the chapel. The young princes were elegant in their blue satin but subdued. A hush fell over those assembled as she stood before them. She lifted her chin, cleared her thr
oat and took a deep breath, her voice ringing clear. ‘The King is dead.’ She reached for the hand of her oldest son and, lifting it high in the air, exclaimed in the strongest voice she could muster, ‘Long live the King.’
Charles stood up and those assembled, inspired by the resolve and firmness of the posture and voice of Henrietta Maria, mother of Charles II, echoed, ‘Long live the King.’ His mother first, his brother next, one by one they knelt before him to swear fealty. Then, led by the Queen’s private chaplain, they went into the chapel to pray for the soul of the one who Edward Hyde would later eulogize in his History of the Rebellion as ‘the worthiest gentleman, the best master, the best friend, the best husband, the best father and the best Christian that the age in which he lived produced.’
HISTORICAL NOTE: INFLUENCES AND OUTCOMES
The historical relevance of England’s Civil War, the bloodiest war ever fought on English soil, cannot be overstated. The regicide with which it ended was a watershed event for England and beyond. Not only did it mark the end of absolute rule for the English monarchy, but it birthed the republican ideals and representational government that would provide a foundation stone for the philosophy of governance and constitutional underpinnings of the United States: Freedom of religion, freedom of speech and a free and unfettered press. Within the constraints of my story, I could only deal with portions of the war. The years between 1642 and 1645 – with 1641 prologue and 1649 final chapter – offered the richest vein for mining the emotional and dramatic details wherein I found my story. Within that frame, I have made every effort to remain true to the recorded timelines of events and battles.
A Far Horizon Page 28
