The Wondering Prince

by Jean Plaidy

  Oatlands, that royal pleasure house built by Henry VIII, had proved a refuge as pleasant as could be hoped for in the circumstances. But, since the day civil war had broken out in England, there had been no lasting peace for any member of the royal family; and there came that day when, leaving the garden and coming through the courtyard to the quadrangle with the machicolated gateway, Anne had met a messenger who brought her a letter from the House of Commons telling her that the Princess must be made ready to leave for London; there she was to join her sister, the Princess Elizabeth, and her brothers, Prince James and Prince Henry, in St. James Palace, where they would be placed in the care of the Earl and Countess of Northumberland.

  Then Anne had made her decision. She would not again incur the anger of her mistress. She had long determined that she would never give up the child to any but the Queen or her family. The wild plan had come to her then. Henrietta Maria had fled to France; why should she not follow her? Surely she could disguise herself more successfully than the Queen had done. A woman with a child … a beggar woman? No! For beggars were sometimes set upon and treated badly. A humble servant and her child would be better; and for company she would take with her French Gaston, who would pretend to be her valet husband; and Elinor Dykes and Thomas Lambert, servants of the household, should come with her.

  They would slip out of Oatlands Palace and none should know that they had gone. She would write a letter which should be sent back to the palace by another of her servants whom she would take with her for this purpose, informing certain members of her household whom she believed she could trust; she would give them permission to share the Princess’s clothes and some of her possessions among themselves, and warn them that they must give her three clear days before informing the Parliament that she and the Princess were missing. If they obeyed her, none would know of her flight until the fourth day; and by that time she should be safely on the water on her way to France.

  It had not seemed so difficult; but how could she have foreseen the weariness of a gently nurtured lady after tramping the roads for three days; how could she have guessed that the little Princess herself, not understanding the danger, would insist on telling those whom she met on the road that the clothes she wore were not the fine garments to which she was accustomed, that her name was not Pierre nor Peter; but that she was the Princess?

  Another day, thought Anne feverishly, and we shall be at sea. Only another day … but here we are in this attic, and the attic walls are like prison walls, for suspicion has been born in the mind of a groom.

  They were awakened by a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard. It was dark in the attic; but Anne, starting up, saw a patch of starry sky through the window.

  “Tom … Nell! Are you awake?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Hush, Tom!”

  “Yes, Nan; we’re awake,” said Nell.

  “What was that noise?”

  “Only newcomers arriving, I doubt not.”

  “It’s late … very late.”

  “Can you not sleep?”

  “I am thinking of that groom.”

  “But he said he was loyal to His Majesty.”

  “How can we know whether he was speaking the truth?”

  “Do you think he suspected who the child is?”

  “I am not sure. But if she had awakened and called herself ‘Princess’ we should certainly have been betrayed.”

  They were silent for a while. Then Anne started up again. “Listen! Steps on the stairs!”

  “’Tis new arrivals at the inn,” said Tom.

  “But they are on the attic staircase. It leads only to us. I am sure they are there. It is the groom. He has betrayed us.”

  The next seconds seemed like minutes. Anne held the Princess close against her. Little Henrietta began to whimper in her sleep. Tom was on his feet; the footsteps had stopped and they knew that someone was standing on the other side of the door.

  Then there was a sudden nerve-shattering hammering against the wood.

  Tom threw his weight against it. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  “It is your landlord.”

  “What do you want of us at this hour?”

  “Soldiers are here. They demand quarters. I have no room for them all.”

  “Open the door to him,” said Anne, and Tom obeyed.

  “Listen here,” said the landlord. “I’ve got to find room for the soldiers. I told them that the inn was full, but they wouldn’t have it. They demand shelter. Some of them have been drinking. Now there’s an outhouse you can have for the rest of the night. I often let it to passengers from the wagon. It would serve you well.”

  “Cannot the soldiers use the outhouse?” asked Tom.

  “I don’t want trouble at my inn. There’s a war raging in this country. In wartime we’re in the hands of the soldiery.”

  Anne said quickly: “Let us go to this outhouse. I doubt not that it will suit us well.”

  “Thank you. You are a wise woman. Come quickly. The soldiers are drinking in the parlor.”

  He held his candle aloft and, gathering the sleeping child in her arms Anne, with Tom leading and Nell and Gaston taking up the rear, followed the man down the staircase. When they were on the lower landing, a door opened, and there stood the elegant man who had made such a commotion earlier that night.

  “By God’s body!” he cried. “Cannot a gentleman be allowed to sleep? Comings and goings the whole night through! What is happening now, man?”

  “Your pardon, your honor. It’s the soldiers. They’ve just come in. That’s how it is these days, sir. There’s nothing a poor innkeeper can do.”

  He quizzed the party. “These hardly look like soldiers.”

  “Nay, sir. Some poor travellers I took in, sir, and let them have the attic. Now the soldiers want it and …”

  “So you’re turning them out into the night, eh?”

  “No … no, your honor. They’ve paid for shelter and they shall have it. I am giving them an outhouse. ’Tis warm and comfortable and will seem cozy to such as they are, I’ll swear.”

  With an oath the man shut his door and the party continued their descent. The landlord took them through the kitchens where, setting down his candle, he took up a lantern, and conducted them to the outhouse.

  “You’ll pass the rest of the night in peace and comfort here,” he said. “You could not be more snug. See, there’s straw for you all and ’tis a warm night.”

  “Can the door be barred?” asked Tom.

  “Aye. You can lock it from the inside if you wish to.”

  “This will suit us for the rest of the night,” said Anne quickly.

  The landlord left them; and as soon as he had gone Tom turned the heavy key in the lock.

  “I feel a little safer here,” said Anne; but she was still trembling.

  They left early next morning as soon as the first sign of dawn was in the sky. All through the morning they walked, and in the afternoon they came into the town of Dover. Anne felt great relief as, looking out to sea, she caught sight of the Dover Packet-boat lying at anchor; the weather was undoubtedly favorable. Very soon her ordeal must be ended.

  Henrietta was lively; she had ridden all the morning on Anne’s back, and if Anne was tired, she was not.

  “Water!” she cried.

  “It is the sea, my precious one,” Anne told her.

  “Nan … want my own gown …”

  “Soon you shall have it, little Pierre.”

  “No Pierre! No Pierre!”

  “Just a little while longer, dearest.”

  “No Pierre!” chanted Henrietta. “Me … Princess. No Pierre! No Peter!”

  “Let’s pretend for a little longer. Let it be our secret, eh?”

  Tom said: “I wish the Princess would sleep.”

  “She cannot sleep all the time.”

  “No sleep! No sleep!” chanted the Princess.

  “’Twould please me better if she slept as we passed through t
he town,” persisted Tom.

  A man passed them. He gave no sign of having recognized them, but he was the elegant gentleman whom they had seen at the inn and who had opened his door as they had passed along the corridor.

  None of them spoke, but each was aware of him. He turned slowly and followed them. At the water’s edge he called to a boatman in his arrogant manner. “Is that the Dover Packet lying there, fellow?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Then row me out to her, will you? These people will go with us.”

  “Milord …?” began Tom.

  The man shook his head impatiently.

  When they were in the boat the baby Princess showed clearly her appreciation of the elegant gentleman, but he did not glance at her as he gave orders to the boatman in his cool arrogant manner.

  “How’s the wind?”

  “Set fair for France, milord.”

  “Then the Packet will be leaving soon, I’ll swear.”

  “Waiting but for the turn of the tide, milord.”

  Now they were alongside and the party stepped aboard, obediently following the man who led the way.

  He signed to Anne and led her and the child into a cabin. When they were alone, he bowed to her, taking her hand and kissing it. “You have done a marvelous thing, Anne,” he said. “The Queen will love you forever.”

  “It was a great comfort to know that you were with us … though not of the party.”

  “There were some uneasy moments. The worst was last night when I opened my door and saw you being marched down the stairs. Well, that is over. Stay in your cabin during the crossing, and remain disguised until you are safely on French soil. I must go now. Assure Her Majesty of my untiring devotion.”

  “I will, John.”

  “Tell her the Berkeleys will hold the West against any number of Roundhead oafs.”

  “I’ll tell her, John.”

  “Goodbye and good luck.”

  Sir John Berkeley kissed her hand and that of the Princess. Then he quickly returned to the boat and was rowed ashore.

  Not long after, the Packet slipped away from the white cliffs on its way to Calais.

  TWO

  The Princess was happy. No sooner had she and her faithful little party set foot on French soil at Calais than her dear Nan discarded her hump, kissed her rapturously and called her Beloved Princess. The indignity she had suffered was now over; there was no need to remind people now that she was a princess. There were fine clothes to be worn, there were many to kiss her hand and pay her the homage she had missed when dressed as the child of a servant. The crowds welcomed her. They called to her that she was the granddaughter of great Henri, and therefore France was her home and all French men and women were ready to love her.

  How she crowed and waved her little hands! How she smiled as she smoothed down the folds of her dress! Occasionally she would turn to Nan and look with happy pleasure at the tall and beautiful governess whom it seemed she had sought in vain to revive from those dirty rags. Henrietta was happy; she did not know that she came to France as a suppliant; that she was a beggar far more than she had appeared to be on the road to Dover.

  “You are going to see your mother, the Queen,” Anne told her.

  The child was wide-eyed with wonder. Her mother, the Queen, was just a name to her. Nan, during the Princess’s two years of life, had been the only mother she had known.

  “You must love her very dearly,” Anne explained. “She will be so happy to see you, and you will be the only one of all your brothers and sisters who may be with her to make her happy.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because the others cannot be with her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your brothers, James and Henry, must stay with your sister Elizabeth; and your big brother, Charles, cannot stay with his mother in France because he has other matters to which he must attend. Your big sister, Mary, is the Princess of Holland, so she cannot be with your mother either.”

  But Henrietta did not understand. She only knew that she was happy again, that she had bright clothes to wear and that people called her Princess.

  So she was escorted from Calais to Saint-Germain.

  The news had spread that her infant daughter was about to be restored to the poor sad Queen. There was a romantic story of a brave governess who had brought the child out of a war-torn country under the very eyes of the King’s enemies. The story was one to delight the warmhearted French. They wanted to see the little Princess; they wanted to cheer the brave governess. So they gathered along the route from Calais that they might cry “Good Luck” to the little girl, and let her know that as granddaughter of their greatest King, they were ready to welcome her to their country.

  The people cheered her. “Long live the little Princess from England! Long live the granddaughter of our great Henri! Long live the brave governess!”

  And the Princess smiled and took this ovation as her right; she had already forgotten her uncomfortable journey. Anne was worn out with fatigue, and now that her anxiety had lifted, she felt light-headed; she could not believe that the people of France were cheering her; and while she smiled she felt as though she were not really there in France but sitting on a bank while the Princess betrayed their secret, or that she was in an attic, terrified while a groom told her that her hump was slipping.

  When they came to the château on the edge of the forest, Henrietta Maria was waiting to greet them. She had been granted the use of the château at Saint-Germain-en-Laye and she had her own apartments in the Louvre; she had been given a pension by her royal relatives of France, and at the time of Henrietta’s arrival she lived at Court with all the state of a visiting Queen.

  She was waiting in her salon—surrounded by her attendants and some of the exiles from England who visited her from time to time—magnificently dressed in blue brocade decorated with frills of fine lace and pearls; her black eyes were filled with tears, and her usually sallow cheeks were aflame. This was the happiest moment of her life since she had left England, she declared.

  When the Princess was brought to her she gave a great cry of joy; she dispensed with all ceremony and swooped on the child, pressing her against her pearl-decorated gown while tears gushed from her eyes. She began to talk in French, which the little girl could not understand.

  “So at last, my little one, I have you here with me. Oh, how I have suffered! You, my little one, my baby, whom I had to leave when I fled from those wicked men! But now you are back with me. Now you are here and we shall never be parted as long as we live. Oh see, this is my daughter, my youngest and my most precious. She is returned to me and it is such a miracle that I must give great thanks to God and all the saints. And I do so here in this happy moment.” She turned her tearful yet radiant face to Cyprien de Gamaches, her priest, who stood beside her. “Père Cyprien shall instruct this child of mine. She shall be brought up in the true faith of Rome. Rejoice, for she is not only snatched from her enemies—those round-headed villains who would destroy her father—she is saved from a subtler enemy; she is saved for Holy Church!”

  Henrietta wriggled; the pearls on her mother’s gown were hurting her; she turned and held out her hand to Anne who was standing close by.

  The Queen’s brilliant eyes were now on the governess.

  “And here is my dearest Lady Anne … my dear faithful servant! We shall never forget what you have done. All Paris, all France talks of the wonderful deed. You have behaved with great courage and I shall never forget you.”

  The Queen put down the child and would have embraced Anne, but as she was about to do so, Anne, worn out by the terrible fatigue of her long tramp and by all the anxieties of the previous days, sank fainting to the floor.

  It seemed that her determination to hand over the Princess to none but the child’s mother had kept her going; now that her task was completed she must pay the price of the mental strain and physical hardship she had suffered.

  Henrietta Maria
sat with her niece Mademoiselle de Montpensier in her apartments in Saint-Germain. Henrietta Maria was a schemer; when she decided she wanted something, she could be very single-minded. There were several things she wanted very badly; the first was to see an end to the war in England, with her husband victorious; the second was to bring her children up in the Roman Catholic faith; and the third was to arrange suitable marriages for her children.

  All of these seemed to her not only natural but virtuous desires. It was a fact that in their marriage contract, the King, her husband, had promised that their children should be instructed in the Catholic faith. In this he had not kept his word; the whole of England would have been against his keeping his word; England still remembered the reign of Bloody Mary, and the people had decided to run no risk of a recurrence of those terrible days.

  Henrietta Maria loved her husband and was devoted to her family; but, she told herself, as a staunch Catholic, she loved her religion more. Fate had played into her hands by delivering to her the Princess Henrietta; here was one child who should not be contaminated by wrong teaching; Père Cyprien was already taking matters in hand. He had had a clear run so far, because the Protestant governess, Anne Dalkeith, had been seriously ill since her arrival at Saint-Germain, and had been unable to take a hand in the Princess’s upbringing or to remind the Queen of the King’s wishes which were those of the majority of the people of England. And she would have reminded her, thought Henrietta Maria grimly; even though her ears would have been boxed for it, even though she would have to protest to the Queen and the mother of the child, Anne would do what she considered her duty. It would have been a pity to quarrel with Anne so soon after her glorious adventure. Perhaps, as Père Cyprien said, the hand of God was in this; first, in bringing her daughter to France at an early age before the contamination of a hostile Church could be begun, and secondly, by striking the Protestant governess with a fever and so preventing her interference. Père Cyprien would go even further; he would say that the Great Rebellion and Civil War in England had doubtless been an act of God calculated to save the soul of the young Princess.