For King and Country

by Oliver Ma

  Chapter 2, The Hague

  France soon proved to be useless for our cause. My cousin Louis and I were not exactly friends, but we got along fairly well. He treated me with the politeness one monarch would expect from the other, while I treated him with manners as a subject would to his king. It was the old cardinal Mazarin that finally drove us from France. He was constantly plotting, as if everything in his life was a giant equation. If something benefited him, he supported it, not caring if it was ethical or not. He was the kind of man that would tear down a bridge he had just used to cross a stream if it benefitted him.

  To celebrate their victory in the Thirty Years War, which was apparent in all but name, Louis took with him hundreds of servants, nobles, advisors and soldiers on a grand Hunting trip at Versailles, a small town about 20 miles from Paris. I was among the invited.

  Versailles was a small, green town, very hot at noon and surrounded by streams and vast forests. The first few days of the hunt were full of simple, cavalier fun. We chased and slew hundreds of critters, ranging from field mice to foxes. Bands of horsemen would chase the inhabitants of the forest into a constricted position, such as near a ledge, or in a valley. Then more hunters would jump out from both sides, and with vicious hounds they would pounce upon the poor animals.

  The royal hunt was extremely unpopular with the locals, who were used to poaching from the king’s forest to put meet on their tables. The few animals that survived the sweeping hunts would likely leave the area all together and never come back, leaving the forests empty of its original masters.

  One day, several locals informed us of a great boar that has hidden in the woods lately. The boar was apparently so clever, that it only attacked men traveling through the woods alone and always hid when near large groups of men.

  Louis’ eyes glinted when he heard that, the prospect of hunting down the clever beast already clenching his heart. The very next day, he departed from Versailles with me and 2 servants, as well as several hounds. He carried a large musket in his hands, while his servants carried a second musket and a pike, respectively. I carried with me a sword.

  We rode through the woods for several hours before one of the hounds picked up scent of the boar and started barking. The rest of the pack, (6 hounds total) all began to yelp and began to pick up speed. After about 3 minutes of chasing the boar came abruptly into sight. It was huge. The beast’s fur was pitch black, and an ugly scar ran across its braod shoulders. Its tusks were wickedly long and curved, and also extremely yellow in color. The first hound made a flying leap at the boar, but was stopped in midair by the boar’s cruel tusks. The rest of the hounds, not intimidated, leapt upon the beast, and they all rolled in a big heap. Louis leveled his gun for a shot, but with the hounds rolling around with the boar he couldn’t risk firing. Suddenly, the boar broke free of the hounds and lunged right for king! Louis was caught completely by surprise and fried a wild shot, which missed by a foot and sank into a nearby tree with a thud.

  With a grunt the boar ran under the king’s horse and gored the horse’s stomach open, which shrieked and knelt down on the ground. Louis let loose a terrified scream and grabbed on as tightly as he could to the neck of his dying horse, hacking at the maddened boar with the butt of his wooden musket. The servant with the spear quickly rode by and stabbed at the boar, but the tip sank into the beast’s broad shoulders and only served to anger the boar more. In a flash I drew my sword, and, jumping off my horse began to hack at the boar, the bright flashes of steel causing red valleys to erupt all over the boar’s back. Eventually, with the help of the hounds, we managed to slay the great beast.

  When we helped the king off the horse, he was shaken, pale as an onion, and drenched in blood. He was quickly rushed back to Versailles, where the royal physician inspected and dressed his mounds. We found out later that only his leg had been seriously gored, and the rest of the blood must have came from the disemboweled horse. When I visited the king 2 hours later, he was being bandaged by royal surgeons, and his face was as pale as an onion. A brief wave of disgust stuffed into my throat as father’s face paraded in my head. Had he been as pale with fear when he had been captured?

  “Thank you, brother, for saving my life. Now I will be able to defend keeping you here in Paris to Mazarin.” Louis said, putting up a weak attempt to smile. “If only I could hold a spear in one hand and shoot a musket with the other. Then, had I missed I would have been in no trouble.

  My face lit up for a moment. What if…..With permission I grabbed the musket of a nearby Swiss guard, and, grabbing my knife, I inserted it by the hilt into the muzzle of the gun.

  “Now you have a spear, with which you could have killed the boar!” I proudly proclaimed, handing my invention to him.

  Louis’s eyes opened wide as he took the musket in his hands. “Why, it’s a spear!” He made a little stabbing motion. “If I had this when the boar fell upon me, it would have been in very big trouble.” He gave a small laugh. “Why, this could possibly be used in warfare! If it could stop a boar, could it also not stop a charging horse?” Louis said rapidly, speaking to himself more than anyone else. “If we equip all my infantry with this, they would no longer need to fear cavalry on the battle fields. When a troop of horsemen comes near all they have to do is to plug knives into their guns and they’d be pike men! Brilliant!” He exclaimed.

  I smiled, and shrugged off his congratulatory with humble bows and laughs. Little did I know my little invention would soon be implemented in Louis’s armies, and would revolutionize warfare in Europe, as well as contribute to the eventual, century long dominance of the French Royal Army.

  A few weeks later we arrived back in Paris. I looked for Cardinal Mazarin to tell him about my father’s capture. I found him praying in his small garden Chapel. I waited politely until he was done praying, looking around in wonder at how different churches of France are from England. This chapel was decorated with beautiful glass, marble seats and gold ornaments hanging everywhere.

  When he was done praying I told him father had been captured and his life was in danger. Mazarin showed no emotion, but I could somehow tell he was pleased, as if father was like a throne to his side. I approached Louis later with the same news, and the boy was obviously troubled and promised to do all he can to save father, who was his kin.

  A few days later I overheard a few cooks talking as they baked sugared bread.

  “Ay, I’ve heard of it too. They say they are going to become allies with the rebels.”

  “Allies? How could we be allies with Cromwell?” The other cook asked. “Are we not allies with the King, even though he is imprisoned? Do we not harbor the crown prince of England?”

  “Hurmpgh, it may change soon. You know how Mazarin is.” The other grunted.

  “Ay….slippery serpent.” The other agreed.

  I was curious to hear more, and pressed my ear against the wall to catch their conversation. Unfortunately, however, the two cooks were too busy cleaning and fell silent, and I left after a minute of pointless waiting, sulking back to my room.

  When I told mother what I heard, she sighed and said “ay, it is likely. But you cannot blame the cardinal. He is our host and he can choose when to make us leave, yet he has continued to provide for our daily needs. At the same time, the welfare of Europe depended on him. The war with the emperor may be coming to a close and there are talks of peace. I suppose people are discussing, even now, where to hold the peace conference. If England is allied with France when the delegations sit, then France would have a better position to haggle.” Mother sighed. “Very well, we will not let our host kick us out. We will leave at our own consent.” She sighed.

  That night we packed our belongings, and the next day, after a brief meeting with Louis, all of us, Mother, my siblings, Hyde, Wilmot, Anthony and scores of family servants, ministers and loyal captains left the French palace, traveling for the Hague, Dutch Netherlands!

  The War of the Continent had barely touche
d the Netherlands. Even though the Habsburg Spanish have been at war with the dutch for the past eighty years, much Habsburg attention has been diverted from the Dutch and into the Holy Roman Empire, where France’s catholic armies have penetrated deeply and linked up with protestant armies of Sweden and various German Princes. Thus, despite being at war, the Duthc lived in relative peace and safety, shielded by the much larger conflict going on south of its borders.

  The city was beautiful. Estuaries flooded all across the city like vein around a heart. We would have found a nice place to reside for ourselves, but several soldiers led us to a minister, who helped us find a place to live. The Dutch government didn’t give us any official recognition, but they made sure we were well treated. The minister found us a nice English district in the city, which were filled with royalists, ranging from exiles, to foreign supporters of father, to past rebels who have switched sides after realizing Parliament cannot manage the Kingdom without the King.

  Our house was obviously much smaller and less grand than anything I have ever lived in. There are only two floors, and the entire area covered by the first floor was roughly the size of St. James’ garden. The house was also barely furnished, and mother had to use our already dwindling funds to buy what she could, and as a result, many things in the house were put in strange places. The sword of Henry the XIII was staked into the floor, while the ancient tapestry of the Battle of Hasting was laid out onto the floor like a carpet. Our money was running so low that even our meals would have deteriorated had nearby royalists not cooked our meals for us.

  Our community was a beautiful little place, almost like its own little village in the big city of The Hague. I began to go onto the streets more, always greeted and cheered wherever I went. One day, while shopping in the markets for nails, I encountered a familiar figure among the many people. It was Lucy.

  When I left Oxford with my older Siblings, Lucy and the younger ones were left behind. I knew the fate of my younger siblings, (under house arrest in London,) but I didn’t know what happened to anyone else. Now that I saw her again after so many years, I lost all of my regal manners and acted like I was a little boy again, running up to her and giving her a big hug, forgetting for a moment that I was 6 feet 4. She stumbled under my embrace, and around us people stared in surprise. Embarrassed, I let go of her, and she turned around and looked me in the face.

  “Charles?” She asked, her voice full of surprise, and, to my relief, joy.

  “Yes, it’s me! How did you end up here?” I said, catching hold of her arm and pulled her out of the throng of people. I will lead her to my house, I decided.

  “How did you end up here?” She asked. She had become emotional now, almost crying. “Oh, I’m so surprised.” She said. She looked like she needed to sit down. “Oxford fell, and, I don’t know what happened to anybody!” She cried out.

  Gently I sat her down on a watermelon next to a man’s fruit stand.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” I said, stroking her long, golden hair. “Everything’s going to be fine!” I told her. “I’m here, I’m safe. Cardinal Mazarin in France sighed a treaty with Cromwell’s England, and the Royal Family had to regroup here.” I told her.

  She sniffed up her tears. “Mazarin…always so heartless. He betrayed his fellow Catholics because he feared they were getting too strong, and now he betrays the first cousin of his liege so he could have a treaty with the anti-monarchist England.” She said bitterly. “But enough of that. Here’s my story. I’ll tell you on the way to my house.” She said, standing up shakily and leading me on.

  “When Oxford fell, I was in the palace with the King. Many of the other nobles had also gathered there, seeking the safety of the hall, hoping for the last ditch effort at defense to be successful. Parliamentarian soldiers broke inside and made us kneel down, all of us, as they checked us for any weapons. Then they lead us, single file, outside to where the rest of the rebel army lay. There we were separated, and all of us escorted to London.” She paused for a second and looked down. “Several soldiers, they___”

  “Did they touch you?” I asked angrily.

  “Its…..it was quick, and I was lucky to not get pregnant.” She said, avoiding my gaze. “At London we were tried, one by one. Most of the nobles were presented a choice. Remain in England and swear allegiance to Parliament, or be exiled to the mainland. Most of us chose the latter option. That’s how I ended up here.” She said, shrugging.

  “Oh, Poor you!” I said, almost crying. If only I had been there, to see the “disciplined” New Model Army break down to loot and rape!

  “It’s fine.” She said quietly. “At least it’s easier to live here than it was at Oxford that last year.” She sighed. “I hope the King will be safe.” She told me.

  “He’s fine. Elizabeth, Henry and Henrietta are all under house arrest. I heard from Elizabeth that they were being treated rather well, and that Parliament even sends over Tutors to educate Henry.” I told her. “Father….he’s safe, I guess. He is likewise under house arrest, while Parliament decides what to do with him.” I told her. I felt terrible, weak, knowing my family is imprisoned in England, but not able to do anything about it.

  “That is….better than I imagined.” Lucy told me. “Oh look, we’re here.” She said, pointing to her house. I gasped in surprise. They lived in a small, rundown apartment in with low roofs and only 1 paper covered window. What a drastic step down from Roche Castle in Wales!

  When we entered I was even more shocked by the horrible state of Lucy’s home. The apartment, though dirty, had several rooms, but since it was shared by several families, each family was given one room. How ironic that the former nobles of England are limited to single roomed residences?

  Lucy’s mother lay sick on one of the beds. She is only in her late thirties, yet she looked like an old woman, her fair skin wrinkled from the dirty, coarse material of the bed. Dried tears hung around her eyes, and I can see fading scars on her face. I shuddered upon thinking what made them. Mrs. Walter’s eyes lit up at seeing me, and she insisted on getting out of her bed to bow to me, as if I was still her majesty.

  “My liege, our residence may not be much, but if you can visit us now and then, we would be deeply thankful.” She said, her hands clasped together as she knelt my feet. I promised her I would, and just my words seemed to relax her tight muscles, and she sighed, satisfied. Over the next few months I became a frequent visitor to Lucy’s house, and we soon became even closer than we had been at Oxford. She is now one of the most beautiful women in all Europe, radiating warmness like the sun, and attracted the eye of quite a few young men. The competition drove me on, perhaps too rashly, adding to my passion for Lucy, and I began to think more and more about her. I began to visit her, almost on a daily basis. Those visits soon turned from visits into stress relievers as the duties at home were become more and more stressing. Our dwindling funds were first stored in several chests, then in one large chest, than a small one that sat in the corner of the house, and then a box, followed by a smaller box until it all fit into mother’s purse, yet mother was too used to spending lavishly to stop, and by 1649, we were in debt. We constantly wrote to nobles throughout England, attempting to garner their support, as well as keep in touch with Father, my siblings, and the situation in London.

  By 1647, Parliament’s indecision at everything was leading to serious conflicts. No issue satisfied all members of the house, and day after day was wasted away debating in hope of a utopian solution to the problem. Meanwhile daily administration required from the government was neglected, as there was no king, and England’s economy suffered greatly. Many took this as signs of Parliament’s inability and many flocked back to father’s banners, including a few that had fought against father in the first war. In middle 1647, father escaped from London with the help of royalists, and the civil war was on again.

  I followed the war with interest. If it began to look like father could win, I will sail back to England and join him in the war.
Alas, however, the second war was much more of a massacre than the first. Father’s supporters may be many, and they may be motivated, but they are unorganized and fought amongst themselves. Parliament, while not able to run the country, was nevertheless still effective militarily. Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army easily crushed several small, isolated royalist uprisings, and by late 164eight, father was once again captured and sent back to London.

  Frantic progress now seized the royal household. I wrote letters to all men I knew in England, urging them to help father. There was still debate going on in the house, but most now deemed it necessary to bring father to trial.

  In another show of cowardice and treachery, Parliament changed its laws, making it possible to try the King like a normal citizen. For the next month 7 judges brought father to trial and the House of Commons acted as the jury. I was able to gain knowledge of how the trial goes from my sister, Elizabeth, who was imprisoned in London along with my brother Henry and my sister Henrietta. Father refused to comply with the court, citing that, according to all the ancient laws and traditions of England, the court has no authority to try him. Without father arguing for his own defense, hotheads in parliament, led by Cromwell began the offensive against father, condemning him in daily speeches in front of the members of Parliament. Luckily for us, many members of the House, even those that fought against father and led rebel armies in the war, sympathized with the King and refused to agree to his execution. We thought father was safe, and it would only be a matter of days before father gets released and shipped over the channel to join us in the Hague. Cromwell, who single handedly masterminded father’s defeat in the war, was not ready to give up so easily.

  One fateful day, Cromwell finally lost all his patience with the House and, mimicking father’s march on parliament in 1642; he led hundreds of soldiers of the New Model Army into Westminster. Parliament was outraged, but there were nothing they could do about it. They know best how effective the New Model Army is and they also know of the army’s unwavering loyalty to Cromwell. One by one, the members of Parliament were questioned on whether they will support the King’s execution or vote against it. All that said they will vote against the execution of the King, (a good half of the House of Commons, including several important men like Fairfax) were stripped of their position and kicked out of the house. What’s left of Parliament is a small, Cromwell controlled body ready to do whatever the mad man wanted.

  The very next day they attacked father with vigor. Father, again, refused to comply, and by the end of the month the Rump Parliament have agreed to the execution of father, their king!

  I was struck dumb. I would do anything to save father, and I wasn’t the only one! Those regions that declared for father during the civil war rose in rebellion at the sentence. The Irish likewise protested. Even the Scots, instrumental in the Parliamentarian victory, were shaken by the sentence and begged the House to reconsider.

  Upon hearing of the news I sprang into action, doing everything I possibly could to save father’s life. I even sent a letter to that hated man, Cromwell, in an attempt to dissuade him from the path he is currently taking.

  Dear Sir Oliver Cromwell;

  I write to you, in great desperation, after hearing the unfortunate news that you have decided to execute my innocent father, His Majesty Charles I of England. While I do understand if you see him as a bad king, please recognize that he is a loving, God fearing man! Do not bring down the wrath of God by executing him! Have a heart, exile my father and let him live here in France with his family. You have a family, you son was killed in the Civil War. Surely you know best how painful it is to lose a loved one to a premature death. If you avert his execution, I will be forever in your debt, and will do anything. You can demand that I return to London and sentenced to death, so the King loses his crown prince, but please, do not slay my father!

  If you do execute my father, I will do my best to throw you into hell. I will never forget, never forgive you. The pope, the Kings of France, of Spain, of Netherlands, of Sweden, many German states, the Irish, and the Scots will all declare war upon you!

  I hope you see the same picture that I see, and make you next moves logically and accordingly.

  Sincerely, Charles Stuart, Prince of Wales.”

  I added that last part as a warning, hoping it would get on the man’s nerves. He is a general, a man of war. Surly he will recognize the peril that he is in and reconsider in light of the odds!

  I had expected to receive at least to receive a reply from Cromwell, heedless of whether he will execute father or not, but I got no such thing. Instead the news were broken to me a week after I sent the letter, coming not from Cromwell but from my own little sister Elizabeth. It was a letter in scarlet, and as I tore through the envelope I had a chilling thought that the twisted and torn paper looked like flowing blood.

  “Dear Charles.

  How fortunate you are to be free in France! You are free to go as you please and do what you please! I would do anything to join you, so our family can be reunited in light of the terrible calamity that has happened! We are not mistreated by Parliament. Henry and I have lives like those of any normal citizen, and the rebels even provide for our education. Henry is much luckier than I am, actually, for he had never enjoyed peace and life as the royal children of England. He had less to lose, but lose he did. Our father, King Charles, has been beheaded, on the order of Cromwell! We were allowed to meet with him once before he is rushed to the executioner’s block. Here is everything that happened.

  He bid us to tell mother, when we do see her again, that his thoughts had never strayed from her, and that his love would be the same to the last. He commanded we always be obedient to mother, and bid me to send his blessings to all of you. Then he put little Henry on his lap, (the first time he has seen Henry in weeks) and said very gently to him “Sweetheart, now they will cut off your father's head. Heed, my child, what I say: they will cut off my head and perhaps make you a king. But you must not be a king as long as your brothers Charles and James still live; for they will cut off your brothers' heads when they can catch them, and cut off your head too at the last, and therefore I charge you, do not be made a king by them.” Surprisingly, Henry put on a serious face and replied defiantly “I will be torn in pieces first!” Father was greatly pleased by this, and ended our meeting by telling us to forgive the people behind his execution, but never to trust them; for they had been false to him and those that gave them power. As guards dragged him away he asked for a thick black coat, for he did not wish to shiver in the cold, as his enemies would assume his shivering was from fear. He told me not to grieve, and that he is a martyr and that god will one day put you, my dear brother, on the throne. He left bravely, striding in big steps. I have never seen a braver man in facing his death.

  I do not know what to think. I wish time would just freeze, and we can wait and think of ways to save him and only unfreeze time when father will be safe. Alas, that did not happen. He was buried like a common man in an unnamed graveyard of London. I have marked down its location though, and when Restoration come, as I am sure it will come, we can find where he is buried and give him the burial he deserves! Elizabeth Stuart”

  I glanced at the letter for a long time, not believing what I saw. It seemed like a message from the devil, and its pages seemed yellow and frayed. Surely what I read is but a cruel trick. Father cannot be dead! He is larger than life. Perhaps Parliament pretended to kill father but instead exiled him to France. How is it possible for them to kill him? What right do they have to take away his life with such a fast, cruel blow?

  As I reread the letter, stumbling over every little detail, imagining everything father did in my head, I realized my trouble had only just begun. Mother had not yet received the news. If I am saddened by father’s death, then mother would be hysterical! To inform her of father’s death would be like handing her a loaded pistol with which to shoot herself!

  Instead of taking the dreaded
path to mother’s room, I found myself praying. I would do anything, I pleaded, anything, if he would only tell me that father is actually alive. The King doesn’t even have to be well. All I need is for him to be alive! After praying for several minutes, I waited for a change, a sign. I received nothing. God has given us no help. Perhaps he meant for what has happened to happen. Perhaps he hates the Royal family and purposely caused misfortune after misfortune to fall upon us. Now the Royal cause is effectively doomed. Father had been its hope, its symbol, the banner to which all the royalists of the continent would flock under. With him gone, the royalists that remain in the world would become divided and drift away like thieves in the night.

  As I pondered over how to share this devastating letter with the rest of the family, I remembered what father had told Elizabeth; that a Stuart will once again sit on the throne of England. I pondered the unlikeliness of this idea. Oliver Cromwell and his biased Parliament now have a firm control over the running of the country. His army is now veteran and powerful, and unless God himself personally intervene, I cannot even dream how restoration will come about.

  The next few days anger and frustration continued to build in me. I was now the de facto head of the Stuart Royal House. I was the King of England, yet I felt little change except for the enormous weight of responsibility. When I was young I had imagined some magical power/strength will seep through my veins and help me tackle the immense tasks Kings must perform, yet I only felt hopeless as all the problems the Royal House was facing became my problems.

  I had promised Cromwell that all hell would break lose should he kill my father, and he did. Now I had to think of ways to make good my threat. The Scottish Covenanters had been deeply troubled by the execution of father. It was thanks to them that father was captured in the first place, but they absolutely forbid the execution of their King. I would have expected them to become my ally, but they seemed just as likely to suck up father’s death and bend down to Cromwell.

  Meanwhile, Montrose was organizing Royalist clans throughout Scotland into a Royalist faction, which he will hopefully use to combat the Covenanters. Royalists in Scotland had gained much influence after father’s execution turned public opinion against the covenanters, but they are still but a grain of sand in the vast mud pit the British Isles had become, and I knew no real hope could be rested on them. Things were now looking very grim. Everywhere I looked I only saw the enemies of the king growing stronger, and my allies dwindling and drifting away.

  Things took a turn for the worse mid-July. The day was hot and my temper was hotter. While writing an angry letter to Prince Bruin of Bavaria, in which I gave him a scalding tirade for not supporting my cause, James approached from behind, the scarlet letter in his hand. Right away I knew a storm was coming.

  “How could you hide this from me? From mother? How could you hide this from the family?” He demanded angrily, his still childish voice an awkward squeak compared to the seriousness of what he was saying.

  I took the letter from his hand and didn’t look up.

  “Who do you think you are? You are part of this family. News like this is for the whole family, not just you! We deserve to know of everything that is going on to our cause just as much as you.”

  “You don’t understand. You’re still too young.” I snapped. “I don’t want to break the news to mother.”

  “I’m too young? And you? You have jeopardized your new found position as head of the clan. You don’t even deserve to kiss father’s dead feet!” James hissed with venom. His words struck deep.

  “James. You think my job is easy? You think I want to be the head of this clan?”

  James drew back a slight bit. He was surprised.

  “You can be the head of the clan. I’m done. I’m out. Try sitting your little bottom on father’s empty throne.” I snapped, got up from my study, and left.

  James shouted defiantly “At least I would incorporate the rest of the clan in my decisions!”

  I ignored him. Sneaking quietly past mother’s small room, I can hear here crying. So James had already passed to news to her. I do not know what she thought about me, especially after James told her about how I had hidden this terrible secret from the rest of them. Perhaps she will always associate my name with bad news from now on. Quietly I left the house and moved into Lucy’s. Let James see what trouble I had faced, and bear the enormous mountain of responsibility I had borne. As for me, I will be more content living as a commoner.

  Indeed I would come closer and closer to becoming a commoner. Lucy and I grew steadily more intimate until we gave in and made love one night. I planted my royal seeds as deep inside her stomach as I can, only to regret it a little later. I knew that night had been a mistake. I am the King. I was supposed to keep loyal to my future wife until our marriage, for political purposes. Furthermore any women I bed with would be a mistress, and if she does give birth to a son there would simply be more responsibility piled on me. However, I had become so frustrated that it would seem like I had contacted the Cavalier madness. I did not care about what happened later, only what lay in broad view in the present. Soon I had begun living openly with Lucy as if we were husband and wife, and completely neglected all my duties as king, refusing even to read my letters. I am steadily becoming a commoner.