The Wondering Prince

by Jean Plaidy

  “I understand, of course,” answered Louis. “But, Mama, I cannot marry Henriette. Do not ask that of me.”

  “Why are you so much against her?”

  “I think it is because I am sorry for her. I do not like to be sorry for girls. I like to admire, not to pity. And she is too learned. She spends too much time in study. No! It must not be Henriette.”

  “How vehement you are against this poor child, Louis. One would think you hated her.”

  Louis shook his head. He did not understand his feelings for his cousin. He protected her when he could from slights and insults; but he was determined on one thing; he would not marry her.

  Sorrowfully he left his mother and went to the riding school, where he forgot his problems temporarily as he galloped round the school, picking up rings on his lance and holding them suspended during the gallop.

  He was an expert at such feats, but as the cheering of his attendants filled his ears that day he began to think of what he would tell Marie; yet he found that it was the tall figure of Henriette which troubled his mind.

  Shortly after that interview with her son, Anne, in panic, invited to the Court of France the Dowager Duchess of Savoy, a daughter of Henri Quatre. The Dowager Duchess had a daughter. This was the Princess Marguerite, a small, dark-skinned girl, very plain, and, knowing the purpose of her visit to the French Court, very nervous.

  Louis received her with all the courtesy he could muster, but it was impossible to hide his feelings of distaste. It seemed to him that, the more he saw of other women, the more he was in love with Marie.

  “I shall not marry my cousin Marguerite,” he told his mother. “I could not entertain the idea.”

  “You need see very little of her,” said Anne. “And you would soon grow accustomed to her.”

  “Dear Mother, that is not my idea of marriage.”

  “You will have neither Marguerite nor Henriette then!”

  “Neither,” he said firmly.

  The Cardinal would have liked to see a marriage between his niece and the King, but he realized that such an alliance was inadvisable. He knew that if the royal tradition of the house of France was so flouted, not only the nobility but the people would rise against him. They would blame him, as they were always ready to blame him for France’s troubles. He remembered the wars of the Fronde, and the unpopularity he had suffered at that time; and he could see that such a marriage would do him more harm than good.

  “Sire,” he said, “if you should persist in making this marriage against my advice, I should have no alternative but to give up my office as your minister.”

  Louis was morose; he felt inadequate to deal with the situation. He thought continually of Henriette, because he knew that if he declared he would marry her, there would be no objection.

  He wished that he had studied more assiduously; he wished he was more learned. It was all very well to be able to leap and vault to perfection, to outstrip all others in the hunt. But there was more to life than that. If he had had more book-learning, he might have been able to confute the Cardinal’s arguments; he would certainly have been able to state his feelings with more clarity; he realized that well-chosen words were weapons which he had never before appreciated.

  His cousin Marguerite returned to Savoy, and the Cardinal decided to send his niece away from Court.

  Louis did not protest; he knew that what had been done was right for the King of France, no matter how disappointing it was to Louis the man.

  He declared himself heartbroken, and then he found a lady of his mother’s bedchamber who comforted him with great skill, and he was soon feeling as grateful to her as he had, during a previous period, been to Madame de Beauvais.

  Court gossip reached Henriette at Colombes. Her attendants chattered about the King’s passion for the Cardinal’s niece and the arrival of his cousin Marguerite.

  “She was small and plain … and Louis would have none of her.”

  “It would have been such a suitable match,” murmured Henriette.

  “Ah yes, but he could not find it in his heart to love her. And he is so handsome … so romantic … so made for love.”

  Henriette pictured that poor plain Marguerite who had failed to charm the King. She was very sorry for her; she knew how the poor child must have suffered.

  Henriette wept silently for Marguerite … and for herself.

  Lucy was tired, but she still walked through the streets of Paris. She was frequently ill now; she knew that she had changed, all in a few short months. She grew breathless at the least effort, and worse, she was suffering from an illness which she knew would not allow her many more months of life.

  There were times when her mind wandered a little, when she thought she was back in the past, when men and women whom she had known would seem to walk beside her and talk to her.

  Her father was often there. He said: “We shall have to marry that girl quickly.” And her mother nodded and understood.

  I was born that way, Lucy told herself. ’Twas no fault of mine. It was something which had to be. It was as natural to me as breathing. If I had been born ill favored like poor good Ann Hill, I should have been different. So who should blame such as I? Is it our fault that some of us are born with bodies which demand the satisfaction of physical love with such an intensity that we are not strong enough to deny it? Some have a love of mental exercise, and they become wise and are applauded; others have great skill in the art of war, and they win honors; but those who love—and love is all taking and giving pleasure, for the two go hand in hand—come to this sad end.

  She would wander past the new houses in the Place Royale and the Place Dauphine; she did not notice the fruit trees and the flowers which grew in the gardens and nearby meadows. She was looking at the men who passed her by. They scarcely threw her a look nowadays—they who had once sought her so eagerly. She had sauntered through Paris; she had wandered along the north and south banks; she had strolled from the Place de Carrousel to the Porte St. Antoine, from the Porte du Temple to the Porte Marceau, and she found not one man who was ready to be her lover even for an hour.

  To this had she sunk.

  The roundness had left her face, and her cheeks hung in flabby folds; there were dark shadows under her still beautiful, large brown eyes. Her hair had lost its luster, and she had no money to buy colored ribands with which to adorn it.

  Her good health had begun to desert her during her stay in the Tower; but her troubles had been slight then. When she had arrived in Holland she had still been a comely girl. There were lovers in Holland, but it seemed to her that one followed another in too rapid succession; they grew a little less courtly, less of the gentleman.

  “I dislike this country,” she had declared to the faithful Ann. “I hate the flatness and the wind.”

  By degrees they had made their way to Paris, going from town to town. Ann worked in some of the big houses, sometimes in gardens, often in the fields. Lucy plied the only trade for which she had any aptitude. And eventually they had come to Paris. But how changed was everything! She had hoped to find the King there, for she heard little news during her wanderings. She thought: He will not desert me. He will want to help me, if only for Jemmy’s sake.

  But there were rumors in Paris. The King of England never came there now. The French were friendly with his enemies. The Queen of England and the Princess Henriette were rarely seen in the capital; they attended few state functions; they lived in obscurity.

  And so here was Lucy in Paris, trying to find lovers who would support her and her children, feeling too old and too ill to struggle any longer.

  She sat on the bank and stared at the river.

  It would have been better, she thought, if I had stayed in London. Jenny, the brothel keeper, was right. I should have been better off had I followed her advice, for what is there for such as I when we grow old and ill and are no longer desirable!

  She sat dreaming of her lovers. There were two whom she remembered best. Th
e first because he was the first: she recalled the copse at twilight, the light in the sky, the shouts of Roundhead soldiers, and the sudden understanding of herself. She would never forget her first lover, and she would never forget Charles Stuart.

  “Charles,” she murmured, “where are you now? Yes, the most exalted of them all, would be the one above all others to help me now.”

  She thought of the children. What would become of them when she died?

  Panic seized her, for she knew that she must soon die. She had known others who had contracted this disease which now threatened her life. She had seen how death came. It was the result of promiscuous pleasure. It was inevitable, mayhap, when one took lovers indiscriminately.

  She must get back to her lodgings—the miserable room in a narrow cobbled street; she must get there quickly and talk to Ann. Ann was a good woman—a practical woman who loved the children. When Lucy died Ann must take them to their fathers and make sure that they were well cared for.

  She struggled to her feet, and began to walk away from the river. As she neared that part of the town where she had her lodging, a fishwife, from whom now and then Ann bought scraps, called to her: “Have you heard the news then?”

  “What news?”

  “You’ll be interested … since you are English. Cromwell is dead.”

  “Cromwell … dead!”

  “Aye! Dead and buried. This will mean changes in your country.”

  “That may be so,” said Lucy in her slow, laborious French, “but I’ll not be there to see them.”

  She mounted the stairs to her garret and lay exhausted on the straw.

  “This will mean changes for him,” she murmured.

  When Ann came in with the children she was still lying there.

  Ann’s face fell into the lines of anxiety habitual to it now. She had been excited when she came in, and Jemmy was shouting: “Cromwell’s dead … dead. Cromwell is dead!”

  “Yes,” said Lucy, “Cromwell is dead. Ann, there is something I want you to do without delay. I want you to leave at once … with the children. Find out where the King now holds his Court. Go to him. Tell him what has befallen me.”

  “We’ll all go,” said Ann.

  “Where shall we go?” demanded Jemmy.

  “We are going to the King’s Court,” Ann told him.

  “To the King’s Court?” cried Jemmy. He seized his sister’s hand and began to dance round the garret. He was so strong and healthy that the life of poverty had scarcely had any effect upon him.

  “Ann,” said Lucy quietly, “mayhap the King will be going to England now. Who knows? You must find him quickly. You must not rest until you have found him and taken the children to him. He will do what has to be done.”

  “Yes,” said Ann, “he will do what has to be done. Would to God we had never left him.”

  “Ann … leave soon. Leave … now.”

  “And you?”

  “I think I can fend for myself.”

  “I’ll not leave you. I’ll never leave you.”

  Lucy heard Jemmy’s shouts. “Cromwell is dead. We are going to see the King. You are Cromwell, Mary. I am the King. I kill you. You’re dead.”

  “You have a fever,” said Ann to Lucy.

  “Leave tomorrow, please, Ann. It is what I wish … for the children.”

  “I’ll never leave you,” said Ann, and the tears started to run down her cheeks.

  Lucy turned away. She said: “It has to end. All things have to end. It was a happy life, and all will be well for Jemmy and Mary. He will see to that. He is a good man, Ann, a good gay man … for a gay man can be as good as a somber one.”

  “There is none to equal him,” said Ann.

  “No,” agreed Lucy. “None to equal him.”

  She lay still for a long time; and she fancied he was beside her, holding her hand, telling her not to be afraid. Life had been gay and merry; let there be no regrets that it had come to its end.

  She whispered as she lay there: “In the morning, Charles, Ann will set out to bring the children to you … Jemmy who is yours, and Mary … who ought to have been yours. Look after Jemmy and see that Mary is well cared for. You will do it, Charles, because … because you are Charles … and there is none to equal you. In the morning, Charles …”

  All night she lay there, her throat hot and parched, her mind wandering.

  She fancied she heard the voices of people in the streets; they seemed to shout: “Cromwell is dead! Long live the King! God bless him!”

  “God … bless … him!” murmured Lucy.

  And in the morning Ann, with the two children, set out for the King’s Court, for poor Lucy no longer had need of her.

  SEVEN

  It was almost two years since the death of Cromwell, yet the people of England showed no sign of recalling Charles Stuart to his throne, having installed Oliver’s son Richard as Protector.

  The excitement at the news of Oliver’s death had still thrilled the King and his Court, who were then in Brussels, when Ann had arrived with the children.

  Charles was silent for a few moments when he heard of Lucy’s death. He embraced Jemmy warmly and, when the little girl, Mary, waited with such expectancy, there was nothing he could do but embrace her also.

  He laid his hand on Ann Hill’s shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Ann. Lucy was fortunate in you … more fortunate than in some others. Have no fear. We will do our best to see you settled.”

  Ann fell on her knees before him and kissed his hand; she wept a little, and he turned away because the tears of all women distressed him.

  Later he sent for Lord Crofts—a man whom he admired—and said to him: “My lord, you have this day acquired a son. I command you to take him into your household and bring him up as one of your own. I refer to my son James.”

  Lord Crofts bowed his head.

  “I thank you with all my heart,” said the King. “I know I cannot leave Jemmy in safer hands. Henceforth it would be better for him to be known as James Crofts.”

  “I shall obey Your Majesty’s commands to the best of my ability,” said Lord Crofts.

  And so Jemmy was handed over to Lord Crofts to be brought up as a member of his family and to be taught all that a gentleman of high quality should know.

  There still remained Mary.

  “God’s Body!” cried the King. “That child is no responsibility of mine.”

  He sent for Henry Bennet.

  “Your daughter is at Court. What do you propose to do about her?” he demanded.

  “Alas, Sire, I know of no such daughter.”

  “Come,” said the King, “she is Lucy’s girl. You knew Lucy well, did you not?”

  “Even as did Your Majesty.”

  “I have placed my son in a household where he will be brought up in accordance with his rank. You should do the same for your daughter.”

  “Ah, the boy is lucky. It is a simple matter for a King to command others to care for his bastard. It is not so simple for a humble knight.”

  “It should not be a task beyond the strength of such as you, Henry.”

  “Poor little Mary! They have been brought up together, those two. It is a sad thing that one should have a future of bright promise and the other …”

  “What do you mean, Henry? They’re both bastards.”

  “But one is known to be the King’s bastard. The other, bastard of a humble knight. A King’s bastard is equal to any man’s son born in wedlock. It is not such a bad fate to be a King’s bastard. Poor Mary! And, for all we know, she might have been … she might have been …”

  “She could not have been! I have a good alibi, Henry. I know I am far from impotent, but I am not omnipotent. My children are as the children of other parents. They grow as other children … before and after birth.”

  “Many have thought her to be your child, Sire. You can be sure Jemmy boasted that he had a King for a father.”

  “Are you suggesting that I should take upon myself the
responsibility of fathering the child?”

  “Sire, you have had children already, and there will be many more, I doubt not. Can one little girl make such a difference?”

  “You’re insolent, fellow! You would shift your responsibilities on to me, when it is a King’s privilege to shift his responsibilities on to others. Did you not know that?”

  “’Tis so, Sire!” sighed Henry. “Alas, poor Mary! The poppet has set her heart on having a King for a father. Your Majesty has charmed her as you charm all others. She is, after all, a woman.”

  Charles said: “Oh … put the girl with a good family then. Give her a chance such as Jemmy will have.”

  “In Your Majesty’s name, Sire? Mary will bless you all her days. She’s Jemmy’s sister, remember. You know how you love to please the ladies, and this little lady will be but one more.”

  “You may get you gone from my presence,” said the King with a laugh. “First you steal my mistress when my back is turned; and not content with that you cajole me into fathering your daughter!”

  He strode away laughing. He had been enchanted with little Mary; he wished she were in truth his child. But as Henry said: What did one more matter? The children would be well cared for, well nurtured; and Lucy—poor Lucy—could rest in peace.

  He had thought at that time that his chances of regaining his throne had improved; alas, he had hoped too soon.

  He went to Holland, where, on the strength of his hopes, the Dowager Princess of Holland smiled on his betrothal to Henriette of Orange. She was a charming girl, and Charles found it easy to fall lightly in love with her. But the romance was upset for two reasons: Most important, the Dowager Princess realized that Charles was not to be recalled and would doubtless remain an exile; and secondly, even while courting Henriette he had become involved in a scandal with Beatrix de Cantecroix, a very beautiful and experienced woman who was the mistress of the Duke of Lorraine.

  Charles left Holland for Boulogne where he planned to journey to Wales and Cornwall, there to gather an army and fight for his throne.

  But his plans were discovered by the enemy, and once again they came to nothing.