“I know how you feel. It is hard that you should have been the only one to whom those messages were given.”
Elizabeth put out a hot, imploring hand. Her eyes burned in her small face. “Mary, in case my letter should never reach them I should like you to know what was in it.”
“Why not tell Judith or Master Lovall?”
“He does not know what it is to lose a father, and she might forget.”
“But how could anyone as unimportant as I—”
“I have so much time in which to think, lying here. And I remembered last night that you once said you might one day go to Holland.”
Mary could not deny the possibility. “Richard Osborne asked me to marry him, and he hopes to join your brother, the new King.”
“You mean the man who helped in both my father’s attempts at escape? And whose uncle was our loyal Governor of Guernsey?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Mary, I am so glad for you! Only sad for all the trouble and danger we Stuarts have caused him.”
“Without it Richard and I could never have met.” Although she smiled and spoke lightly, Mary began to pace back and forth between bed and window. “Our walks in life were so different. It is true that now he will be poor—and probably soldiering. Oh, Elizabeth, should I do right to marry him, do you suppose? Though my aunt was married to a knight, I am only a sergeant’s daughter, with so little experience of life. You are younger than I, I know, but you must know more about such things.”
“But what do I know of love?” For the first time Mary heard bitterness in Elizabeth’s sweet voice, and realized more fully all she had lost. “Had life gone on happily as it used, I suppose I should have been betrothed to some important European prince by now.” A smile passed over the patient’s pale face, to be followed by a fleeting sigh. “But I am sure my brother Charles would say that any man would be more than lucky to have you. Your tender heart, your good looks and—ah, how I envy you!—your good health.”
“For all his wild reputation, I think it is Richard who has the tender heart,” boasted Mary, with a happy smile. “But I must not weary you with my own affairs. Tell me about his late Majesty’s messages, and you will feel easier.”
“In case I should not—as Charles used to say—‘last out’? Henry, I am sure, will always remember what our father said to him. Never to let them crown him while his two elder brothers were alive. Young as he is, Henry swore so valiantly that he would not.
“For the rest, listen carefully. My father said I was not to grieve too much because it was a glorious death he would die for the laws and religion of our land. He had forgiven all his enemies, he said, and exhorted all of us his children to do the same. I have tried and tried, but, oh, it is so difficult, Mary! He said he felt sure God would restore the throne to Charles; and then we, and this poor torn country, would all be happy again.”
The steady, childlike voice was growing weaker. “He blessed me,” she went on as softly as if she were at her prayers, “and sent his blessing to all his family and friends. And above all he bade me tell my mother that his thoughts had never strayed from her and that his love for her would be the same to the last. Somehow I feel that it is that, most specially, which I must make sure is sent for her comfort and never forgotten.”
“I will never forget. And I promise you—if I ever get to Holland—” It was Mary’s voice which failed now.
“Specially, I think I want James to know that our father sent him his love and blessing. Poor James! He was so shamed when he first joined me in London because he had given away some code. He is not the sort of person to do that. I shall always think they threatened to torture him. We young Stuarts have had much to put up with. But like St. Peter’s denial, his youthful lapse and remorse may strengthen his extraordinary loyalty to Charles.” Elizabeth gazed across the small quiet room out to the blue sky above the gatehouse as though she were looking into the future. But presently her head turned on the pillows and she closed her eyes. “I cannot talk any more now—”
“Sleep if you can,” said Mary gently.
“Take Rogue now, and give me my Bible,” murmured Elizabeth. “My father gave it to me and—before I fall asleep—I must try to forgive those enemies as he did.”
The next day was Sunday and Judith, who had been sleeping on a truckle bed in the Princess’s room, donned her freshly ironed flowered silk and went to chapel.
“How the green of it suits you, madame!” said Libby, hovering to hand her her book of devotions.
“Except that I am too pale from being kept so much indoors.” And, glad to be released for a little while, Judith called back over her shoulder to Mary. “Doctor Treherne is coming to morning service, too, so you will not forget to give Elizabeth her medicine?”
“No,” said Mary, standing at the door with Libby to watch the lovely creature cross the courtyard escorted by the doctor from London and John Barmiston, both of whom appeared to share Libby’s admiration.
As the Princess was unable to attend chapel she had been reading from her Bible in bed, but when Mary returned with the medicine she appeared to have fallen asleep. “That, surely, is the best medicine of all,” thought Mary; and being tired from all her extra duties, she sat quietly by the open window and let the peace of the summer Sabbath morning flow over her. From where she sat she could see the gatehouse and the white doves fluttering from their cote to settle on the chapel roof. Every now and then the sound of singing drifted up to her, interspersed by the murmuring of prayers, and finally followed by a distant drone of someone, preaching. For the first time for days she had time and solitude in which to wonder where Richard Osborne was and to wish that she might hear from him.
She must have been thinking about him for longer than she should. A shuffling of feet and the scraping back of stools roused her to realization that the long sermon must be over. “I must wake Elizabeth now, or Doctor Treherne will be angry,” she thought reluctantly, reaching out for the little glass phial he had left and crossing to the bed.
All the peace in the world seemed to be gathered in the Princess’s room. The curtains moved lazily in a faint breeze, casting a dancing pattern of sunlight and shadow on the wall, and a bee had buzzed in from the herb garden. Elizabeth’s slight form scarcely moulded the coverlet and her pillowed head lay in the shadow of the half-drawn hangings.
“How tired she must have been to sleep so long!” thought Mary tenderly, standing phial in hand beside the bed.
“Bess, dear, your medicine,” she said softly.
Her patient did not stir. “How frail she looks, and yet so peaceful. It seems cruel to waken her,” thought Mary, pulling back the hangings so that the morning light fell across the pillow. Elizabeth was lying on her side with her chestnut-brown hair straying in tendrils across the open pages of her Bible, which must have fallen from her hand. Mary leaned across to see what she had been reading. “Come unto Me all ye that travail and are heavy laden and I will refresh you,” she read. Refreshed indeed, thought Mary, as the compassionate Christ had promised. Although all the natural joy of her youth had been crushed by men’s hatreds, and she had been so weary that she scarcely seemed to breathe. And now, in the revealing light, looked so alabaster pale!
A sudden terror gripped Mary. She put out a hand, fearfully, and touched the white hand on the coverlet and found it cold as death. “Bess! Bess, dear!” she cried, her voice rising in panic. And in that moment knew that Elizabeth had gone to join her father.
Breaking the stillness of the morning almost simultaneously with her cry came the swell of organ music through the opened chapel door and the voices of the congregation streaming back to their duties across the courtyard below. Mary blessed that human contact.
She ran to the door and caught sight of Brett going about some household chore. “Fetch Master Mildmay and the doctor. Quickly, Brett! Doctor Treherne is coming from chapel now but Master Mildmay may be with those messengers from the mainland. Only hurry!”
For once Brett’s old bones moved quickly, and soon the Stuart’s attendants were all gathering in that modest little room. The doctor leaning over the bed, Lovall and Barmiston standing bareheaded at the foot of it, and Judith, down on her knees and all forgetful of her flowered gown, sobbing in abandonment. Somewhere in the doorway Libby and some of the other frightened servants gathered. In their consternation they had momentarily forgotten young Henry of Gloucester. He pushed past them all and flung his arms about the gentle sister who, burdened beyond her years, had for so long tried to mother him. It was his first sight of death. “Bess! Bess! Why will you not speak to me?” he cried, unable to believe that she had gone beyond his loving importunities.
His tutor tried to calm him as Anthony Mildmay came hurrying into the room. He had an opened letter with a heavy seal dangling in his hand, and stood there stricken.
“She has been dead an hour or more,” the doctor told him.
“And I was on my way to show her this. I thought it would cheer her,” said Mildmay, holding out the official-looking letter. “It is from Parliament granting leave at last for Bess and Henry Stuart to go to their sister, Princess Mary of Orange, in Holland.”
“And after all this time it has come too late!” sobbed Judith Briot.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Princess Elizabeth’s funeral was over, with its sad little cortege wending its way down from the castle to St. Thomas’s Church in Newport Square. Mildmay had had the Princess’s slight body embalmed, and it had been carried in the same coach which had borne her father on that cold winter’s morning to Hurst. People had gathered from all over the island, local women had stood weeping at their doors and even the Mayor, rabid recusant as he was, had ridden out to meet the King’s daughter whose gentle soul had been incapable of harming anyone. Followed by the small company of those who served her, her frail body had been laid to rest before the altar.
A ship bound for Holland had put in at Cowes and Mary was packing the bereft young Duke’s belongings ready for the long-hoped-for journey of which so much of the joy was marred. Henry’s tutor had asked for her help because the boy’s valet had been taken ill. “Though I strongly suspect that his sickness has suddenly become worse because he does not want to go to Holland,” said Lovall, dragging forward a clothes chest in an effort to help.
“Are you glad to be going?” asked Mary, making a neat pile of Henry Stuart’s hose.
“I suppose it is the goal of most of us younger Royalists now. What else is there for us here? And God knows a high-spirited youth will need spiritual guidance in a foreign land!”
“I believe you saw Harry Firebrace before you left London,” said Mary, bending over the half-filled chest. “Does he, too, want to go abroad?”
“I would say that his devotion was more personally directed towards the late King than to the Stuart cause, for he is back serving the Earl of Denbigh again. There is some talk of his going to manage the Earl’s large estates in Warwickshire, and his wife, who is wonderfully recovered, will join him there. Honest Denbigh never lost his hope of bringing King and Parliament to terms, and if you ask me he worked Firebrace into the royal household with that end in view. But, as you know, Firebrace came completely under the King’s spell and when danger threatened, served him with undivided devotion. A most engaging fellow, I thought. Did you not find him so?”
“Yes,” said Mary, sure that the tearing pain she used to experience in speaking of him had grown fainter. She cared little for the worthy Earl’s intentions and had learned all she wanted to know. She went on with her task feeling in an odd, detached sort of way that she was folding away more precious and intangible things than a boy’s hard-worn garments.
Lovall strolled to the hearth and stood looking round the room where Charles had first come as an honoured guest. “I wonder what they will do with all this handsome furniture which you say came from Hampton?” he speculated idly.
Mary straightened up from her packing and looked about her at the familiar pieces. “I suppose really Henry should inherit it,” she said, considering the matter for the first time.
“But I make no doubt they will sell the stuff! Anthony Mildmay was saying only the other night at supper that if they should come under the hammer before he leaves he means to bid for those red and blue tapestries by the door.”
“Oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Mary, marvelling, not for the first time, at how much Mildmay must have known of that year’s activities.
“Why? What is special about them?” asked Lovall.
But Mary did not answer. She was standing stock still in the middle of the room listening to another man’s voice, and there was an expression of horror on her face. “Do you not hear him?” she said.
“I can hear a great deal of commotion, and some blustering fellow making himself felt.”
“It is Major Rolph. He has come back.”
Not understanding her consternation, Lovall went to the door and looked out into the Presence Chamber from which the sounds were coming.
But Mary clung to his arm. “Please—please, Master Lovall, do not leave the door open. Or let him come in here.”
“Why, Mary, what is he to you?” asked the young tutor, looking down amazed into her whitened face. “You are trembling. I will stay with you if you like.”
“No. no. It is not only for myself. But his coming here now could endanger someone—for whom I care. If you would slip out quietly and find out what he has come for—and how long he is going to stay—”
“It is natural enough that he should have been sent to see to the Duke’s departure. After all, Lord Sydenham, your newly appointed Governor, is not in residence. But I will find out.”
Knowing how little time there was before the ship sailed Mary tried, as soon as he was gone, to concentrate on finishing his pupil’s packing. But her thoughts flew wildly from one possible danger to another. What if Richard Osborne should return? Even with Mildmay’s protection, was she herself safe from Rolph’s vengeful lust? Automatically she filled and closed the chest ready for the servants to put upon the baggage cart.
“What have you found out? Have you the key to lock this?” she asked in agitation, when Lovall returned.
He crossed the room heavily and slumped down upon the chest. “We shall not need the key,” he said.
“Not need it? Going all the way to Holland?”
“We are not going there after all. Nor anywhere else. That son of Belial, Rolph, must have put his spoke in somewhere. I do not know the reason why it is we are to stay, He has been arguing with Mildmay for an hour or more, and when I reminded Mildmay that the horses would be round immediately after supper he told me curtly that the Duke would have to wait a while.”
“Then the Army must be trying to override Parliament’s decision. Is Major Rolph staying here?”
“Yes, and he was furious to find that Henry has his room.”
“His room?” Mary looked round the pleasant State Room which had housed a king and various lordly governors before him, involuntarily comparing it with that bare and shabby room where Rolph had slept when Captain of the Guard, every detail of which would always remain crudely clear in her memory.
“He was most offensive, talking about ‘that Stuart brat’ in the Deputy Governor’s bed. But Mildmay stood firm on that score. I would he had stood his ground as firmly on the question of departure! We could have been away to-night.”
“The delay may be only for a few weeks. They cannot go back on their word,” consoled Mary, wrenching her thoughts from her own predicament.
“Well, I shall have to go and break the bad news to Henry,” said Lovall, getting to his feet. “If they do not let him go soon I shall ride to London myself and plead his cause. Or get him to write and badger them as his sister did.” Lovall got up, zealous for his beloved pupil. “Has not the boy been deprived of enough already? Do they want to kill the whole family, one by one?”
Being island bred, Mary looked instinctively to
wards the chapel weather vane. Both wind and tide would serve. “The chance of a ship bound for The Hague may not come again for months,” she said. “Could you not leave all this baggage and slip away now and board her?”
But Lovall, though shrewd and conscientious, was no Osborne or Firebrace. He had served the Stuart cause as priest and scholar, not by amateur soldiering.
“Rolph has brought a detachment of his own men with him and must have been in an uncommon hurry to see that Henry—or somebody—does not get off the island. Their poor mounts are wet with sweat. And now he is bawling for his supper. The audacity of that man! As though the castle belongs to him. Mildmay had to remind him that his own appointment from Parliament still holds and that he is in charge so long as either of the late King’s children remains there.” Striving to subdue his personal loathing to a charity more befitting to his priesthood, Lovall remembered the other part of his errand. “Master Mildmay wants you to go and see him. About the arrangements of the rooms, I imagine.”
“To go to the officers’ quarters?”
Lovall was man of the world enough to guess at the cause of her reluctance. “I heard Rolph shouting for hot water so probably he is at his ablutions,” he said, and without being asked walked along with her before going to find his pupil who had just come in with Barmiston from Nunwell, whither he had gone to bid good-bye to the Oglanders.
In the room that had been Colonel Hammond’s, Mary found Anthony Mildmay writing a letter at his desk, with his personal servant waiting for him to seal it.
“The Deputy Governor has arrived,” he said, glancing up briefly at Mary. “I would like you to have the late Princess’s room made ready for him.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mary, hoping that Elizabeth’s gentle ghost would haunt a man whose ferocious activities had helped to hound her to her lonely end.
“And there is no need to go on packing the Duke’s possessions. He will not be leaving us just yet.” He handed the letter to his man with directions to have it despatched immediately to Westminster. Although his manner was calm, Mary could see that he was still white from recent anger. And as soon as the door had closed behind the man he got up and walked over to the window.
Mary of Carisbrooke Page 33
