The Wondering Prince

by Jean Plaidy

  Henrietta Maria could not follow him as far as that, but she was at least satisfied that her young daughter would be safe from heresy and now she could turn her thoughts to the marriages of her children. There was one whose marriage was of the utmost importance: Charles, Prince of Wales.

  He was a boy of sixteen, very young to marry; yet Princes married young. Henrietta Maria’s illogical mind darted hither and thither, taking up one idea, rejecting it for another, and then returning to the first. If young Charles were to remain an exile, he would need a very rich wife; if he were to be King, he would need a royal wife. But riches were always useful; she had not thought of that until she found herself an exile from her adopted country. What would have happened to her, she wondered, if, instead of being the daughter of the fourth Henri of beloved memory, she had been the daughter of the despised third Henri. Who could say?

  Now she studied the young woman before her, for she had decided on Mademoiselle as the most fitting bride for her son Charles, and she had received reports that Charles was on his way to Paris.

  Mademoiselle de Montpensier, known throughout France as the Mademoiselle of the French Court, was Henrietta Maria’s own niece, being the daughter of her brother, Gaston, Duke of Orléans. Mademoiselle unfortunately had a great opinion of herself. She was the richest heiress in Europe; she was a cousin of the young King Louis XIV; she believed herself to be peerless in charm and beauty and, although she was willing to be wooed by the Prince of Wales through his mother, she would give no assurance that she would even consider his suit.

  Now she smoothed the folds of her rich brocade gown about her beautiful figure, and Henrietta Maria knew that she was thinking what a charming picture she made with her pink and white complexion and her abundant fair hair; the Queen knew that she considered herself not only the wealthiest heiress but the most beautiful young woman in France. Henrietta Maria’s fingers itched to box her ears; Henrietta Maria’s small foot tapped impatiently; there was a great deal of hot temper bottled up in the diminutive body of the Queen of England.

  “My son will soon be with us,” said the Queen. “I live for the day.”

  “Ah, my dearest Aunt, it must be wonderful for you—an exile from your country in a foreign land—to have your family escape from those villains.”

  “A foreign land!” cried the Queen. “Mademoiselle, I was born in this country. I am my father’s beloved daughter.”

  “A pity he died before he could know you,” said the malicious Mademoiselle.

  “Aye! His death was the greatest tragedy this country ever suffered. I burn with indignation every time I pass through the Rue de la Ferronnérie where that mad monk pierced him to the heart.”

  “My dearest Aunt, you upset yourself for something that happened years ago … when you have so many present troubles with which to concern yourself.”

  Henrietta Maria flashed a look of irritation at her niece. Mademoiselle was clever; she granted her that; she knew how to make those little thrusts in the spots where they hurt most. There she was, the arrogant young beauty, reminding her aunt that she, Mademoiselle, cousin to the King, daughter of Monsieur de France, was really being rather gracious by spending so much of her precious time with her poor exiled aunt.

  Henrietta Maria could subdue her anger when great issues were at stake.

  “My son is of great height, already a man. They say he bears a striking resemblance to my father.”

  “In looks only, I trust, Your Majesty. Your father, our great King, Henri Quatre, was France’s greatest King, we all know, but he was also France’s greatest lover.”

  “My son will love deeply also. There is that charm in him which tells me so.”

  “Let us hope, for the sake of the wife he will marry, that in one respect he will not resemble your great father whose mistresses were legion.”

  “Ah! He has his father’s blood in him as well as that of my father. There never was a more noble man, nor a more faithful, than my Charles. I, his wife, tell you that, and I know it.”

  “Then, dear Aunt, you were indeed fortunate in your husband. When I choose mine, fidelity is one of the qualities I shall look for.”

  “Beauty such as yours would keep any man faithful.”

  “Such as your father, Madame, would never be faithful to Venus herself. And as your son is so like him …”

  “Tush! He is but a boy!”

  “So very young that he need not think of marriage yet.”

  “A Prince is never too young to think of marriage.”

  “Mayhap while his affairs are in a state of flux, it would be wise to wait. A great heiress would more readily accept a King whose crown is safe than one who may live through his life with only the hope of regaining it.”

  Mademoiselle was smiling absently to herself. Her thoughts were of marriage, but not of one between herself and the young Prince of England. Henrietta Maria fumed silently. She knew what was in the minx’s mind. Marriage, yes! And with her royal cousin, the King of France. And Henrietta Maria had already decided that Louis XIV was for her own Henrietta.

  The Princess Henriette—she had been Henriette from the moment she passed into her mother’s care—loved her brother immediately she set eyes on him. He came into the nursery where she was with her governess, poor pale Lady Dalkeith, who had just risen from her sickbed to find herself fêted as the heroine of the year. Lady Dalkeith, serious-minded and conscientious, found little pleasure in the eulogies which came her way; she had discovered the Queen’s determination to bring up the child in the Catholic faith, which was against the wishes of the King of England and his people; and this disturbed her so much that she could feel only apprehension in contemplating the fact that she, having successfully conducted the child to her mother, was indirectly responsible.

  But the little Henriette was unaware of the storms about her; all she knew was that she had a brother, and that as soon as she saw him, and he held her in his arms and told her that he had known her when she was a very tiny baby, she loved him.

  “Charles!” she would cry in her high-pitched baby voice. “Dear Charles!”

  And he would call her his baby sister. “But,” he said, “Henriette is such a long name for such a small person, and now I hear they are to add Anne to it out of respect for King Louis’ mother. It is far too long. My little puss … my little love, you shall be my Minette.”

  “Minette?” she said wonderingly.

  “It shall be my name for you. It is something we share, you and I, dear little sister.”

  She was pleased. “Minette!” she said. “I am Minette, Charles’ Minette.”

  He kissed her and let her pull his long dark curly hair.

  “I wondered when I should see you again, Minette,” he told her. “I thought mayhap I never should.”

  “You are so big to be a brother,” she said.

  “That’s because I’m the eldest of the family. I was fourteen years old when you were born.”

  She did not fully understand, so she laughed and clasped his arm to her little body to show how much she loved him.

  He held her tightly. It was wonderful to be with one of his own flesh and blood. He wondered whether all his family would ever be together again. He was only a boy but he had been with his father in battle, and he knew that events were moving against his family. He was quiet and shy; he enjoyed the company of women, but they must not be haughty ladies like his cousin Mademoiselle de Montpensier; he liked humbler girls, girls who liked him because he was young and, although not handsome, had a way with him. He was particularly shy here in France because he knew that they laughed at his French accent; and although he himself was ready to laugh at it—for he knew it to be atrocious, and he never tried to see himself other than the way he was—he was too young, too unsure of himself, to be able to endure the ironic laughter of others. He remembered continually that he was a Prince whose future was in jeopardy, and that made him cautious.

  So it was wonderful to be with this affe
ctionate little sister; she was so frail but pretty, and she had the Stuart eyes and the promise of Stuart gaiety. It was good, Charles decided, to have a family.

  He had escaped from his companion, his cousin Prince Rupert, who spoke French perfectly and was considered to be a fine soldier in spite of his defeat at Marston Moor. He had escaped from his mother and her continual prodding, her many instructions as to how he must set about wooing his cousin, Mademoiselle of France.

  “I love you, little sister,” he whispered, “oh, so much more than haughty Mademoiselle.”

  “Charles,” murmured the little girl, as she pulled his black hair and watched the curls spring back into place, “will you stay with me, Charles?”

  “I shall have to go away soon, Minette.”

  “No! Minette says no!”

  He touched her cheek. “And Minette’s commands should be obeyed.”

  Lady Dalkeith left them together; she was very fond of the Prince and rejoiced to see the signs of affection between the brother and sister. She thought: Perhaps I could speak to him about her religious instruction. He knows the wish of his father. But how could I go against the Queen? How could I carry tales of his mother to the Prince? The child is too young to absorb very much at this stage. I will wait. Who knows what will happen?

  “Were you little once?” Henriette asked her brother when they were alone.

  “Yes, I was little, and so ugly that our mother was ashamed of me; I was very solemn, so they thought that I was wise. Dear sister, when in ignorance remain silent and look wise. You will then be judged profound.”

  Henriette could not understand what he meant, but she laughed with him; her laughter came of contentment.

  He talked to her as he could not talk to others. He talked wistfully of his youth. He talked of England, where he had once been the most important of little boys; he told of playing in the gardens of palaces with his brother James and his sister Mary; they had played hide-and-seek on wet days through the great rooms of Hampton Court and Whitehall, and on fine days in the gardens, hiding among the trees, stalking each other through alleys of neatly trimmed yews. Best of all he loved to watch the ships on the river; so he told her how he used to lie in the grass for hours at Greenwich, watching the ships pass by.

  “But, Minette, you do not know of these things, and I am a fool to talk to you, for in talking to you I am really talking to myself, and that is a foolhardy thing to do when such talk brings self-pity; for self-pity is a terrible thing, dear Minette; it is the sword which is thrust against oneself; one turns the blade in the wound; one revels in one’s own pain, and that way lies folly.” He stopped, smiling at her.

  “More! More!” cried Henriette.

  “Ah, my little Minette, what will become of us … what will our end be, I wonder?” But it was not in his nature to be sad for long. He did not believe that his father could be victorious, but he still could turn a nonchalant face to the future. He could live in the moment, and at this moment he was discovering what a delightful sister was his; he was discovering the pleasures of family life. “Dearest Minette, you do not tell me I must go and court the haughty Mademoiselle, do you! You laugh at my maudlin talk as though it were precious wit. Small wonder that I love you, sweet Minette.”

  “Minette loves Charles,” she said, putting her arms about his neck.

  Then he told her of Mr. Fawcett who had instructed him and his brother James in archery. His mind raced on; he thought of his French master and his writing master, and the tutor who had made him read from his horn-book; he remembered, too, his mother, who had smothered him with her affection, and had impressed on him the importance of his position. “Never forget, Charles, that one day you will be King of England. You must be as great and good a King as your father.” He smiled wryly. Would the people of England now say that his father was a great and good King when they were doing their utmost—at least thousands of them were—to rid themselves of him? Would they ever welcome young Charles Stuart as their King?

  “Poor Mam,” he said softly, “I have a feeling that she will never be satisfied. She is one of the unlucky ones of this world. It is a comfort to talk to you, sweet sister, because you are too young to understand all I say.” He put his lips against her hair. “You are lovely, and I love you. Do you know, I would rather be with you than with all the fine ladies of the Court—or with the King and Queen, and Mam … all of them.”

  Then to amuse her he told her of the piece of wood which he always took to bed with him when he was a boy of her age. “In vain did they try to take it from me, for I would not let them. I loved my wooden billet, and I confess I kept it until it had to be taken from me by very force—and I knew then that I had long outgrown it. One day, Minette, I will tell you more. I will tell you of the fun we had—my brother and sister and I—and I’ll tell you how we thought we should go on forever and ever, laughing, playing our games; and then, suddenly, we grew up, all of us on the same day. It was worse for them, as they were younger than I; Mary only a year younger, James four years younger, and little Elizabeth five years younger. I was the big brother. Henry was the baby then, and there was no little Minette in our family, for she had not yet put in an appearance.”

  “No Minette!”

  “You cannot imagine a world without her, can you? Come, Minette, let us play a game together. I weary you with my talk.”

  “No. Stay like this!” she said.

  And thus it was that Mademoiselle, accompanied by his cousin Prince Rupert, found them.

  “Your mother would not be pleased that you should spend your time playing with a baby in the nursery,” said Mademoiselle coquettishly. She told herself that she had little time to spare for this boy whose fortunes were in the balance, but she was never averse to a light flirtation, and there was something about him—in spite of his youth and inexperience—which interested her more than his cousin Rupert did.

  “You must forgive me, Mademoiselle,” said Charles. “My French is not good enough to answer you in that language.”

  She tapped his arm with her fan. “Are you not ashamed, cousin? You cannot speak French!”

  “It is remiss of me. I fear I occupied myself riding and shooting at the butts when I should have been studying French, just as you, Mademoiselle, doubtless indulged in some pastime when you should have been studying English.”

  Rupert translated, and Mademoiselle pouted.

  “What would you say if I said you might wear my colors, Charles?”

  “I should say you are very gracious,” he answered through Rupert.

  “I might allow you to hand me into my coach.”

  “Mademoiselle is most kind.”

  “And perhaps to hold the flambeau while I am at my toilette.”

  “Pray tell Mademoiselle that I am overwhelmed by her generosity.”

  Mademoiselle turned to Rupert. “Do not translate this I only do these things because I am sorry for the poor boy. I would never marry him, as his mother hopes I will. I have set my aim higher … much higher.”

  “I am sure,” said Charles, “that Mademoiselle is talking sound sense.”

  Rupert smiled. He knew that the Prince of Wales understood every word, and that it was only his shyness which prevented his speaking French with Mademoiselle.

  “Tell him,” said Mademoiselle, “that he may come to my apartment and sit at my feet while I am with my women.”

  When Rupert translated this, Charles replied: “Mademoiselle is overwhelmingly generous, but I have a previous engagement with a lady.”

  “A lady!” cried Mademoiselle.

  “My little sister, Mademoiselle. My friend Minette.”

  Henriette guessed that the beautiful Mademoiselle was being unkind to her brother. “Go away!” she said. “Minette does not like you.”

  Mademoiselle answered: “I know she is young, but she should be taught how to conduct herself. She should be beaten for that.”

  Henriette, recognizing the word “beaten,” put her arms
about her brother and buried her face against him.

  “No one shall hurt you, Minette,” he told her. “No one shall hurt you while your brother Charles is here.”

  Mademoiselle laughed, and rising, commanded Rupert to lead her away.

  “We will leave the boy to play with his sister,” she said; “for after all, he is but a boy and still concerned, I doubt not, with childish things.”

  And when they were alone, Minette and her brother were soon gay again, and she loved him dearly.

  Each day they were together; each day he talked to her, and although she did not always understand what he said, she knew that he loved her as she loved him.

  It had not occurred to her that life could change, until one day he came to her and sadly kissed her. “Minette,” he said, “we shall always love one an-other—you and I.” And the next day he did not come.

  Angrily she demanded to know where he was. He had gone away, they told her.

  She fretted; she would not eat; she so much longed for him.

  Her mother warmly embraced her. “My dearest child, you are very young, but there are things you have to learn. Your father is fighting wicked men, and your brother must go to help him. Then, when they have beaten those wicked men, we shall all go home, and you will not only have one brother, but three—as well as a dear sister.”

  “Don’t want three brothers,” sobbed Henriette. “Minette wants Charles.”

  And all through the days which followed she was a sad little figure in the palace of Saint-Germain.

  If any asked her what ailed her she would say: “Want Charles.” And each day she knelt on the window seat watching for him to come again; she waited, so it seemed to her, for years; but she never forgot him.

  In the palace of the Louvre, the Princess Henriette lay in her bed. Her mother sat beside the bed, and about her shoulders were three cloaks, and her hands were protected by thick gloves. It was bitter January weather, and outside the Louvre, in the narrow streets of Paris, Frenchmen were fighting Frenchmen in that civil war which had been called the War of the Fronde.