The Wondering Prince

by Jean Plaidy

  “Take care of my boy, Lucy,” he admonished, “and remember me when I am gone.”

  “I will never forget you, Charles,” she told him.

  “Nor I you, Lucy.”

  He did not promise that he would be faithful; although he broke so many promises, he did not make them callously. He doubted that he would be faithful, though he had heard that the Scottish women were as cold as their climate. There were always exceptions, as he well knew, and if there was one warmhearted woman in Scotland, he doubted not that he would find her.

  So Lucy stood on the shore watching the ship sail away from Holland; then she returned to her apartments where she had so often entertained her royal lover, and declared to Ann Hill that no gentleman should enter her bedroom until her royal lover returned.

  “You could not tolerate another after him,” said Ann.

  “Indeed I could not!” declared Lucy.

  She believed this for two whole days. Then she began to feel lonely. Her big brown eyes would rest wistfully on several handsome men who still remained at The Hague; but always little Ann Hill would be there to remind her of Jemmy’s father.

  Lucy would sigh, and she and Ann would talk of Charles; and Lucy tried to be contented with that.

  There was great excitement at The Hague because the Duke of York had arrived. The Duke lacked the gay charm of his brother; he was not unhandsome—and Charles was far from handsome—yet James seemed unattractive when compared with the King. He was solemn and rather obstinate; but in one respect he did resemble his brother—his love of the opposite sex. He did not enjoy his brother’s success with women, but he was determined to do so as soon as possible.

  Lucy met Sir Henry Bennett soon after the arrival of the Duke. Sir Henry had come to Holland with James, and like James was looking for amusement at the quiet Court. As soon as he set eyes on Lucy he decided she could provide this, and when he learned something of her history, he could not believe—in spite of her association with the King—that she would be unwilling to become his mistress.

  He called at her apartments, pretending to bring a message from his master. Ann Hill brought him to her mistress whose big brown eyes were wistful as they rested on his handsome figure, for if he had noticed Lucy, Lucy had also noticed him, and although they had not spoken at their first meeting, their glances told each other a good deal.

  “Mistress Water!” said Sir Henry, bowing over her hand.

  “Welcome to Holland, Sir Henry.”

  “I was loath to leave France for Holland,” he said, his warm eyes full of suggestions, “but had I known I should find you here, Mistress Lucy, my reluctance would have immediately changed to delight.”

  “Men’s tongues become sugar-coated at the French Court, I’ve heard.”

  “Nay, Lucy. They learn to appreciate beauty and are not chary of expressing that appreciation.”

  Lucy signed to Ann to leave them. Ann was hovering, and Lucy knew that she was trying to remind her of her royal lover. Lucy did not want to remember Charles just now; she had remembered him for four months—an age for Lucy—and none but Charles could have kept her faithful so long.

  As soon as they were alone Sir Henry was beside her, taking her hands and covering them with kisses.

  “You … you move too quickly, sir.”

  “Madame, in this world of change, one must move quickly.” “I would have you know of my position here.”

  “Do you think I do not know it? Do you think I did not make it my first business to know it, as soon as I set eyes on you?”

  “There is a child in the next room who is the King’s child.”

  “Poor Lucy! You have been long alone, for indeed it is long since His Majesty left for Scotland.”

  “I have been faithful to Charles …”

  “Dear Lucy! What hardship for you! Come, I will show you that a knight in your arms is a better man than a king across the water.”

  “That sounds like treason, sir.”

  “Who’d not commit treason for you, Lucy!”

  Lucy ran from him and made for the door, hoping he would catch her before she reached it, which he did very neatly. He kissed her with passion.

  “How dare you, sir!” cried Lucy.

  “Because you are so fair and it is a sin that all these charms should be wasted.”

  “You shall pay for this, sir.”

  “I’ll pay with pleasure, Lucy.”

  “You will go at once and not dare come here again.” Lucy’s voice faded away; she gasped; she sighed; and she pretended to struggle as she was carried into the bedchamber.

  So Lucy was no longer alone. Lucy had a lover.

  The little Court, amused, looked on. What was Charles doing in Scotland? They wondered; they had heard rumors. Was he thinking wistfully of his exiled Court? From all accounts the Covenanters were keeping a stern eye upon him. He must listen to prayers and sermons each day; he must not walk abroad on Sundays; he must spend long hours on his knees. It was a big price, all decided, to ask of a man such as Charles, even for a kingdom. And what of the women of Scotland? How could he elude his jailors—for it seemed they were no less—to enjoy that company in which he so delighted? It was said that he was not permitted even to play cards, and that he had been seen by a pious lady sitting at an open window doing so, and that she had immediately complained to the Commissioners of the Kirk. The King was sternly reprimanded. Cards on the Sabbath! The Scots would not allow that. One of the Commissioners had come in person to rebuke him and had read a long sermon on the evils of card-playing at all times, assuring him that it was a double sin to play on the Sabbath. But this Commissioner had seemed to be aware of the strain the Scots were imposing on the gay young King, for it was said that he whispered before he left: “And if Your Majesty must play cards, I beg of you to shut the window before commencing.” From which it might be deduced that Charles had found some in Scotland to understand him a little.

  He had not been crowned, and the Duke of Hamilton and the Earl of Lauderdale had been warned that he was not to mingle with the people on the streets, for that easy charm would, it was understood, win them to his side; and because he was such a feckless young man no one could tell what effect this might have. The Scots wished to keep Charles Stuart under their control; he was to be the figurehead they would use when they marched against Cromwell’s England.

  But, said the exiled Court, if there was an opportunity Charles Stuart would have found a mistress, and there were always women in any country; so it was certain that the warmth of Charles Stuart’s charm would have dispersed even the frigid mists of Scotland.

  In any case Charles might be hurt when he came back to find Lucy unfaithful, but he would understand. He could always understand. Warm and passionate himself, he would be ready to make allowances for Lucy’s warm and passionate nature. It was true, Lucy assured herself, that no one of her temperament—or Charles’—could remain faithful to an absent lover for so long. So, after the first reluctant submission which Lucy liked to imagine had taken place by force, she would make assignations with her lover; she would deck herself with finery; she gave herself up to the arts of loving which she practiced so well, and in a month after the day when Sir Henry Bennett called at her apartments she found that she was to have his child.

  A small and solemn party was riding slowly towards Carisbrooke Castle. There were guards before and behind; there were a few servants and a tutor, and in the center of the party rode two children, the elder a girl of fifteen, the younger a boy of eleven.

  As they rode along the boy would take surreptitious glances at the girl down whose cheeks the tears were quietly falling. The pale face of his sister frightened him; her tears worried him, for he knew that she was now even more unhappy than she had been before.

  He had always been afraid of his sister, afraid of her passionate courage as well as her frequent tears. She could not be reconciled to their way of living as he could have been. He could have forgotten that he was a prisoner
if she would do so.

  “But no!” she cried passionately. “You must not forget. You always remember who we are, and above all you must remember Papa.”

  At the mention of his father’s name the little boy was always moved to tears. When he was in bed at night he would make a pact with himself: “I will not think of Papa!” And to his prayers he added “Please God guard me this night and do not let me dream of Papa.”

  He was Prince Henry, but no one but his sister Elizabeth ever referred to his rank. To the servants and his tutor he was Master Harry, and his sister, instead of being Princess Elizabeth, was Mistress Elizabeth. It was said that they were to be made to forget that they were Royal Stuarts. Elizabeth was to be taught button-making and Henry shoe-making, that they might eventually become useful members of the Protector’s Commonwealth.

  “I would rather die!” cried Elizabeth, and indeed it seemed that if grief and melancholy could kill, Elizabeth would soon be dead.

  Mr. Lovel, the little boy’s tutor, whispered to him when they were alone that he was not to be afraid. The Protector’s bark was worse than his bite, and he uttered these threats in order to humiliate the little boy’s mother and brothers.

  So, with Mr. Lovel to teach him and to give him comfort in secret, Henry could have borne his lot; but his sister was always there to remind him of what they had lost.

  She, who was older than he was, remembered so much more of the glorious days. He scarcely remembered his mother; his father he remembered too well. Charles, James and Mary he had scarcely known, and his youngest sister, Henriette, he had never seen at all. Moreover he was physically stronger than Elizabeth, who had broken her leg when she was eight years old and had remained in delicate health thereafter; she grew paler and thinner, but her spirit of resentment against her family’s enemies burned more fiercely every day.

  “Elizabeth,” he whispered to her now, “Elizabeth, do not weep so. Perhaps we shall be happy at Carisbrooke.”

  “Happy in prison!”

  “Perhaps we shall like it better than Penshurst.”

  “Shall we enjoy living in that very place where he lived just before … just before …”

  Henry’s lips trembled. It would be impossible to forget Papa in the castle where he too had been a prisoner.

  Elizabeth said: “They took Papa there before they murdered him, and now they take us there.”

  Henry was remembering it all so clearly as they rode along. He was sure that he would have more vivid dreams in Carisbrooke Castle. Perhaps he would ask Mr. Lovel to sleep in his room. Elizabeth would be angry with him if he did so. “You are afraid to dream of Papa!” she had cried scornfully, when he had told her of his fears. “I wish I could dream of him all through the days and nights! That would be almost like having him with us again.”

  Now the little boy was crying. He remembered it all so vividly, for it had happened only a year ago when he had been ten years old. One day—a bitterly cold January day—men had come to Syon House, which was the prison of his sister and himself at that time, and they said that the children were to pay a visit to their father.

  When Elizabeth had heard this she had burst into bitter weeping, and Henry had asked: “But why do you cry? Do you not want to see Papa?”

  “You are too young to understand,” Elizabeth had sobbed. “Oh, lucky Henry, to be too young!”

  But he was no longer young; he had ceased to be young that very day.

  He could remember the sharp frosty air, the ice on the water; he remembered riding beside the frozen river and wondering why Elizabeth was crying since they were going to see their father.

  And when they had arrived at the Palace of Whitehall, Henry had felt his father to be a different man from the one he had known before, and in his dreams it was the father he saw on that day who always appeared. Henry remembered vividly every detail of that last meeting. He could see his father’s face, lined, sad, yet trying to smile as he took Henry on his knee while the weeping Elizabeth clung to his arm. He could see the velvet doublet, the pointed lace collar, the long hair which hung about his father’s shoulders.

  “So you have come to see me, my children.” He had kissed them in turn. “Do not weep, beloved daughter. Come, dry your eyes … to please me.”

  So Elizabeth had dried her eyes and tried to smile; their father had held her tightly to him and kissed the top of her head. Then he had said: “I must have a little talk with your brother, Elizabeth. See, he is wondering what all this is about. He says, ‘Why do you weep, when we are together thus? Is it not a time for rejoicing when we are together?’ That’s what Henry thinks; is it not, my little son?” Henry nodded gravely. “We wish to be with you more than anything,” he had said. “Papa, let us be together now … and always.”

  His father had not answered that, but Henry remembered how his arms had tightened about him.

  “My little son,” he had said, “grave events are afoot. In these times we cannot say where we shall be from one day to another. I am going to ask you to remember this meeting of ours in the years ahead. I want you to remember what I say to you. Will you try to do that?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Then listen carefully. These are two things I have to say to you, and although you are but ten years old, you are the son of a King, which means that you have to remember much more than other boys. These are the two things I wish you to remember, and if you are ever tempted to forget them, think of this moment when you sit on my knee and your sister stands there trying not to weep, because she is older than you are. The first: You have two brothers. Never allow any to put you on the throne of England while either of them lives. The second is this: Never renounce the Faith of the Church of England in which Mr. Lovel has instructed you. There! That is what your father asks of you. Will you do these things for me, and if any should try to turn you from the wish to obey me, remember this day?”

  Henry put his arms about his father’s neck. “Yes, Papa. I will remember.”

  And shortly after that time he had grown up. He had begun to understand. He knew that the day after he had sat on his father’s knee and made his solemn promise, men had taken the King outside the banqueting hall at Whitehall and there, before the eyes of many people, had cut off his head.

  That was the specter which haunted his dreams—his beloved father, a father no more, but a headless corpse, those kind eyes glassy, staring and smiling no more.

  If he could only forget his father’s death, if he and Elizabeth could only escape from his father’s enemies and join their mother, how happy he might be! He did not mean that he would forget his promise to his father; that he would never do. But he would be happy in his love for his mother and his brothers and sisters, and he would then be able to forget that last interview, those brooding eyes, so kind and tender and so heartbreakingly sad.

  Perhaps one day Elizabeth would help him to escape as she had helped James. She had reproached James for not escaping before. She had mocked him for his cowardice. “Were I a boy and strong, I’d not long remain the captive of that beast Cromwell!” she had declared. And at last James had escaped and gone across the sea to their mother and brother Charles, who was the King of England now.

  After they had been taken back to Syon House following that last interview, Elizabeth had changed. Then young Henry had seen his sister devoid of all hope.

  Then to Penshurst where they had lived with the Earl and Countess of Leicester, who had been kind to them but forced to obey the instructions of the Parliament and treat the two children, not as the son and daughter of a King, but as other children of the household. Henry had not cared; it was Elizabeth who had suffered so cruelly.

  And then, when she had heard she was to go to Carisbrooke, she had been stricken with horror. Henry had tried to comfort her. “It is near the sea, Elizabeth. It is very beautiful, they tell me.”

  “Near the sea!” she had cried. “Very beautiful! He was there. There he lived and suffered before they took him away t
o murder him. Every room is a room in which he has lived … and waited for them to come for him. He will have watched from the ramparts … walked in the courtyards. Are you blind, Henry? Are you quite callous? Are you completely without sensibility? We are going to our father’s prison. One of the last places he was in before he was murdered. I would rather die … than go to Carisbrooke.”

  And so she grew paler every day. She begged that she might not be sent to Carisbrooke, but all her entreaties were in vain. “Send them to Carisbrooke!” said the Protector, and the Protector ruled England.

  “Perhaps we shall escape as James did … as Henriette did,” Henry whispered to her as they rode along.

  “You may, Henry. You must!”

  She knew she herself never would. She looked to Carisbrooke Castle as the place whither she would go to die.

  If she died, pondered Henry, what of one poor little boy, fatherless and alone, cut off from his family?

  Mr. Lovel rode up to him and tried to banish his melancholy. Did he not think this island was beautiful? He doubted not that the little boy would enjoy more freedom than he had in Kent. “For, Master Harry, this is an island and the water separates us from England.” Henry was ready to be beguiled; but Elizabeth just stared straight ahead, seeming unaware of the tears which ran down her face.

  Then Mr. Lovel began to talk of Carisbrooke, which he said was a British camp at the time when the Romans came to Britain. The land surrounding the castle was then covered with thick yew trees, for the Celtic word “Caerbroc” meant “the town of yew trees.”

  Mr. Lovel discoursed pleasantly of the Castle of Carisbrooke, which had faced the winds and storms of the Channel for so many hundreds of years; he told of Fitz-Osborne, the Norman who held the castle on condition that he defended it and the surrounding lands against all enemies, so that it was called The Honor of Carisbrooke. He told of Montacute, Earl of Salisbury, who had left his mark upon it in the reign of the second Richard, and of Lord Woodville who, years later, had enlarged the place. But Mr. Lovel could not continue with the Castle’s history for the simple reason that it had played a part in the tragedy of Henry’s father. So he came to an abrupt stop and spoke of other things.