The Wondering Prince

by Jean Plaidy

  One of them said: “Mistress, prepare yourself to leave this place at once.” He turned to Ann. “You also. We are taking you all to another lodging.”

  Trembling, Ann prepared herself and the children, who were making eager inquiries.

  “Where are we going?” said little Mary. “Are we going for a walk?”

  “You must wait to see where we are taken,” Lucy told her.

  “Mama,” cried Jemmy, “do you want to go? If you don’t, I’ll run them through with my sword.”

  The men looked at Jemmy without a smile. Jemmy hated them. He was used to caresses and admiration. He drew his sword from his belt, but Ann was beside him; she caught his arm.

  “Now, Master Jemmy, do as you’re told. That is what is best for your mother … and for us all. It is what your father would wish.”

  Jemmy fell silent. There was something in Ann’s face which made him pause to think; he saw that his mother was in earnest too. This was not a game.

  In a very short time they had left the barber’s shop and were being taken towards the water’s edge, to where a barge was waiting for them.

  Slowly they slipped down the river, and soon Jemmy was pointing out the great gray fortress on its banks. “There’s the Tower!” he cried.

  “That’s so,” said one of the men. “Take a good look at it from the outside, my boy. Mayhap you’ll be seeing nothing but the inside for a long time.”

  “What do you mean?” cried Lucy.

  “Just that we are taking you to your new lodging, Mistress, your lodging in the Tower … the rightful place for friends of Charles Stuart who come to London to spy for him.”

  Lucy was ailing. The rigorous life of a prisoner did not suit her. She had been accustomed to too much comfort. She had grown thinner since her incarceration; she would sit listlessly at her barred window, looking out on the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and every time she heard the bell toll she would be seized with a fit of shivering.

  Ann looked after her as well as she could, but Ann too was frightened. She remembered the day, over six years ago, when the Parliament had beheaded the King. She wondered if the same fate was in store for them.

  Their jailer would tell them nothing. He would bring their not very palatable fare each day, and they would eat it in their cell. There were no sweetmeats for Lucy now; worse still, there were no lovers.

  Jemmy often flew into a rage. He was a bold boy and a spoiled one. He demanded that they be set free.

  He told the jailor: “One day you will suffer for this. My father will see that you do. I will kill you dead with my sword, and when my father is King again …”

  The jailor listened in horror. He had not heard such words since the close of the war, and to think that he had under his care the son of Charles Stuart—bastard though he might be—overwhelmed him with astonishment at the importance and responsibility of his task in guarding these prisoners.

  The jailor had a son who helped him in his work—a youth in his teens. Lucy’s interest was slightly stirred at the sight of him, for he was a good-looking boy; but her attempts to fascinate him were half-hearted; she missed her ribands and laces, her sweetmeats and her comfortable lodgings. She was almost always tired and listless; there was about her an air of bewilderment. She, who had always been so healthy as to be unconscious of her health, was now made uncomfortably aware of many minor ailments.

  All the same she made the young man conscious of her fascination, and when his father was not present he would smile shyly at his pretty prisoner and exchange a few words with her. He even brought in some sweetmeats for her, and a blue riband to tie about her hair.

  Ann thought: One night I shall doubtless find him sneaking in to lie on the straw with her. Will she sink so low?

  But that did not happen, for it was quickly realized that Lucy was no subtle spy. She was merely one of Charles Stuart’s mistresses and, said those in authority, if we are going to keep all such women under lock and key, we shall soon have no room in the Tower for others. What harm can this woman do? She is nothing but a stupid, wanton creature. Why should we waste good victuals on Charles Stuart’s mistress and his bastards? Send them back whence they came, and warn them not to come to England again.

  So it was arranged, and a few months after Lucy’s arrival in England she found herself, with Ann and the children, on the way back to Holland.

  Henrietta Maria and her daughter had once more retired to the country and only made very brief appearances at state functions.

  It was clear that the fortunes of the Stuarts were at their lowest. Cromwell, determined to fight the “Lord’s battles,” had sent his Ironsides to join with Marshall Turenne against the Spaniards who, he declared, were “the underpropper of the Romish Babylon” which meant that the Protector was fighting with France. How could the royal family of France honor the enemies of their ally, the Protector? All Henrietta Maria and her daughter could do was remain in obscurity, while it was impossible for any of the Stuart men to set foot in France. In desperation Charles, James and Henry joined forces with the Spaniards. Charles had been reported wounded when fighting in Spain, but this rumor had proved to be false. A few months later James and Henry were actually in Dunkirk, which was in the hands of the Spaniards, and was taken after a siege by the French.

  During this period Henrietta Maria could do little but lie on her bed and weep bitterly. In vain did Henriette try to comfort her mother. The Queen saw the dissolution of all her high and mighty schemes.

  When an invitation came for the Princess to attend the fête given by the Chancellor Seguier, Henriette was loath to go, but her mother insisted.

  “My child,” she said, “I grow sick and ill, but you must go. What will become of us, I wonder. And, my dearest, whatever has happened, you are still a princess. You have your position to uphold, and the King and Queen will never forget what is due to you; I am sure of that.”

  But afterwards Henrietta Maria wished with her daughter that Henriette had never gone to the Chancellor’s fête, for Mademoiselle was present and she was determined on this occasion to assert her rights.

  As the party left the ballroom for the banqueting hall, very deliberately she stepped in front of Henriette.

  This was noticed by many, and the next day the whole Court was buzzing with the news. Etiquette was one of the most serious topics of the day—Queen Anne would have it so; and this seemed a matter of major importance.

  Mazarin and the Queen called Mademoiselle to their presence and demanded an explanation.

  Mademoiselle was haughty. She was sure, she said, that she had the right to enter a room before the Princess of England.

  “She is the daughter of a king, Mademoiselle,” said Anne sternly.

  “Your Majesty, the Kings of Scotland always stood aside for the Kings of France, and Charles Stuart is not even a king of Scotland. He is King in nothing but in name.”

  “This is most distressing,” said the Queen. “I am annoyed with you.”

  “Your Majesty, I did not wish to make too much of the matter. To tell the truth, I caught her hand as we passed in, and to many it would seem that we walked together.”

  Philippe, who had been listening while studying the rings on his fingers, cried out suddenly: “And if Mademoiselle did step before the Princess of England, she was perfectly right to do so. Things have come to a fine pass if we are to allow people who depend on us for bread and butter to pass before us. For my part, I think they had better take themselves elsewhere.”

  Louis, who had been giving only half his attention to the dispute, was startled by his mother’s sharp cry of protest.

  Louis was not really interested in the question as to which of his cousins stepped aside for the other. Greater matters concerned him. Since Madame de Beauvais had initiated him into the doux scavoir he found no pastime to equal it. He would be grateful to Madame de Beauvais for the rest of his days; he would always feel tender towards her, but his desires strayed elsewhere. There were
three beautiful nieces of Cardinal Mazarin: Olympia, Marie and Hortense. Louis, who had been violently in love with Olympia—quickly married off to the Count of Soissons—had now transferred his affections to Marie. He was eager to marry her. She was after all the niece of the Cardinal and she bewitched him. Louis could not think very much about his thin little cousin, who was only a child, when his thoughts and feelings were so deeply involved with the fascinating Marie.

  All the same, he was sorry for the little Henriette. She and her mother were out of favor now because of foreign affairs, and it was certainly not the fault of the Princess. Philippe was wrong to speak of her so slightingly, for what he had said would surely be carried hither and thither until it reached the ears of the desolate Queen and her little daughter.

  So Louis joined his mother in reprimanding Philippe, who slunk off in some annoyance to go and find his favorite de Guiche and tell him what had happened, to complain that Louis and his mother conspired together to humiliate him, and to receive de Guiche’s assurance that he was the most charming and clever of princes even though he had had the misfortune to be born two years later than his brother.

  Louis went on dreaming of the beauty of Marie Mancini.

  Love! What a pastime! What a pleasure! He would not of course wallow in it as did his cousin, Charles of England. Louis must have more dignity; he had so much to remember, so much to live up to. He was no wandering exile. That was why he would try to persuade his mother and the Cardinal to agree to his marriage with Marie. Then he could enjoy legitimate love, which would be so much more gratifying since it would not involve a lack of dignity.

  Marie! Beautiful, charming, voluptuous Marie! But if the occasion arose, and he remembered, he would be kind to poor little Henriette.

  In his bedchamber at Versailles, Louis awoke to a new day. His first thoughts were of Marie. He intended to plead with his mother to allow him to marry her; he would do so this very day, without delay. Marie was urging him. Marie loved him, but she was also very eager to be Queen of France.

  Louis’ morning in Versailles involved a ritual. As soon as he awoke he said his prayers and rosary in bed, and when his voice was heard, his attendants would come to his bedside; among them would be the Abbé de Péréfixe whose duty it was to read to him from the Scriptures. Sometimes the Abbé substituted a part of the book he was writing—a history of Louis’ grandfather.

  When the Abbé had finished his reading, the valets, La Porte and Dubois, would come forward; they would put his dressing gown about him and lead him to his commode, on which he made a habit of sitting for half an hour. On rising, he went back to his bedroom where the officials of state would be waiting for him; he would chat with them in that charming and easy way which made them all so delighted to be with him. He continued to chat while he washed his face and hands and rinsed his mouth; then prayers began. After that his beautiful hair was brushed and combed amid expressions of admiration, and he was helped into the light breeches and cambric shirt which he wore for his morning physical exercises. At these he excelled, but on this morning he showed less than his usual skill, so that it was clear to those about him that something was on his mind. He did not land on the seat of the wooden horse with his habitual agility, although the usher, seeing his mood, had taken the precaution of not winding it quite so high as usual. It was the same during the bout of fencing; Louis was not displaying his customary good judgement. Even during the drill with pike and musket he was absentminded. But no one reproached him. Even when he made a fault there came a chorus of admiration. Then followed the ballet dancing to which he usually looked forward with such pleasure. Now he imagined himself to be dancing with Marie; and although he ignored the instructions of Beauchamp, the foremost master of the ballet in the country, he danced with inspiration that morning.

  Sweating from the dance, he returned to his chamber, there to change his clothes before eating breakfast.

  After that he went to the apartments of Cardinal Mazarin to discuss state matters.

  Cardinal Mazarin! He was quite excited to be with him, for the Cardinal had a special importance at this time, being Marie’s uncle.

  He wondered whether to approach the Cardinal on the matter of his marriage; surely the great man would be on the King’s side and would wish to see his niece Queen of France. All the same, Louis did not entirely trust Mazarin, and dared not speak to him until he had laid his plans before his mother.

  He went to her as soon as he had left the Cardinal. It was now eleven o’clock and she was still in bed, for Anne never rose early.

  Her face lighted at the sight of her son. Each morning it seemed to her that he had grown in beauty; he was like one of those romantic heroes of whom Mademoiselle de Scudéry wrote so entertainingly; and indeed this was not to be wondered at, for all writers of the day saw in Louis the romantic ideal, and no man could be a hero—even in fiction—unless he bore some resemblance to the King.

  This was one of the hours of the day which Anne enjoyed most. To lie in bed and receive the filial duties of her beloved boy; to watch him as he gracefully handed her her chemise; to chat with him while she consumed the enormous breakfast which was brought to her bed; these were indeed great pleasures. She almost wished that he were a small boy again, that she might pop titbits into that pretty mouth.

  She was glad he was so physically perfect. What did it matter if he were not a bookworm or if, after he left her, he indulged in sports and devoted but an hour or so a day to books?

  “I have something to say to you, dear Mama,” he said.

  “You would wish us to be alone?”

  He nodded. She waved her hand, and in a few moments her chamber was deserted.

  “Now, my beloved?”

  “Madame, it is this: “I am no longer a boy, and it is time I thought of marriage.”

  “Dearest, that is true. I have thought of your marriage ever since you were in your cradle.”

  “I have now found one whom I would wish to make Queen of France. I love her, chère Maman. I cannot live without Marie.”

  “Marie?”

  “Marie Mancini.”

  “My son! But you joke!”

  “It is not a joke. I love her, I tell you.”

  “Oh yes, you love her. That is understandable. It is not the first time you have loved. But marriage … the marriage of the greatest King in the world, my boy, is not a matter to be undertaken lightly.”

  “I am not a boy. I am twenty and a man.”

  “Yes, you are a man, and marry you shall. But you shall have a wife worthy of you.”

  “I love Marie.”

  “Then love Marie. She will be honored to become your mistress.”

  “This is a different love, Mama. Marie is too good, and I love her too deeply …”

  “Fortunate Marie! Now, my son, there is nothing with which to distress yourself. Have your Marie. She is yours … in all ways but that of marriage. Why, you demean yourself, Louis! You … the King of France … and such a King as never before sat on any throne! Why, none but a royal bride would do for you.”

  “If I married Marie I should make her royal.”

  Anne was so distressed she could not do justice to the delicious cutlets which she so enjoyed.

  “Dearest, you love Marie, but you have a duty to your country. Think about this, and, with your good sense, you will see that a marriage between you and Marie Mancini is out of the question. You must have a royal bride. I thought you were going to tell me that you wished to marry your cousin Henriette.”

  “Henriette!” Louis’ eyes were wide with distaste.

  “Do you not like Henriette?”

  “She is but a little girl.”

  “She is fourteen now …”

  “She is quiet and oh … I think of her as a little girl. I do not like little girls. I wish for a woman … a woman like Marie.”

  “Then we will find you a woman like Marie … a royal woman. But if you had wished to marry Henriette, if you had been in
love with Henriette, in spite of her brother’s exile, we should have been ready to consider the match. For you see, dearest, you are the son of a line of Kings and you must continue that line. Your children must be royal. You understand that, beloved. Henriette is royal. She is a princess, and her grandfather was your own grandfather, great Henri. The people would not be displeased to see you united to his granddaughter, pitiable though the state of her country’s affairs may be. But … I would not say that was the best marriage you could make. There are other royal houses in Europe which are not in eclipse. If we could make peace with Spain you might marry the daughter of the Spanish King.”

  In the King’s mind, love battled with his sense of duty. He never forgot for a moment the responsibilities of his position. He was fully aware that he must not make a mésalliance. He wished to be perfect in all things; he must not fail in this matter.

  “But I love Marie,” he persisted. “It is Marie whom I wish to marry.”

  “But, dearest, you will do your duty, I know. And in a little while you will forget Marie. There will be so many women to love you. Believe me, dearest, the one you marry need not necessarily come between you and your pleasures. Give France royal sons; and give as many sons as you wish to others. You will enjoy the begetting, and there is no woman in France who would not be proud to bear the King’s sons, even though they be bastards.”

  “Such behavior seems wrong.”

  “What is wrong for ordinary men is right for kings. Never forget, my loved one, your brilliant destiny. You are not to be judged as ordinary men. Oh, my beloved, do not turn from your mother because she cannot give you what you want. How willingly would I give my consent if I could! My one wish is to give you all you ask. There! See how I love you! I have been unable to eat my breakfast.”

  He stooped and kissed his mother’s cheek.

  “Then you do not blame me, dearest?” she said anxiously.