by Jean Plaidy
He said that he really liked me the way I was, which was very comforting and true lovers’ talk.
The only trouble between us was, of course, my religion. I often thought that if I could convert Charles to the Catholic Faith and with him the whole of England, I should be completely happy.
But that was asking too much, and even I was wise enough to realize that I had a great deal.
And now…my child was to be born.
I kept reminding Charles of Lady Davys’s prophecy and although he pretended to be skeptical, because it was a happy one, he was not really so.
I knew I had a great many enemies in the country. Some people even refused to rejoice at the prospect of an heir to the throne. They called me an idolatress—some even had the temerity to shout after me when I rode out. It was rather disconcerting, but I had always known that it might be necessary to suffer for the Faith. But there were plenty of people to rejoice in the birth and there were prayers all the time for my safe delivery and that the child should be a boy.
Well, we were not disappointed, for on the morning of May the twenty-ninth in that year 1630 I was brought to bed in the Palace of St. James’s and within a comparatively short time my son made his appearance. This time he was strong, lusty and clearly healthy—just as Lady Davys had said he would be.
I shall never forget the moment when they laid him in my arms. He was the ugliest child I ever saw. He was big and very dark and looked much older than one day.
“Why,” I said, “he is a little monster.”
Charles came in and looked at him. He said: “He is a perfect child. The doctors say he is in excellent health.”
“He is so dark…almost like a blackamoor.”
“Babies get lighter as they grow.”
“But,” I said, “you are handsome. I am not considered ill-looking. Why should we get the ugliest baby in the world?”
But we were not really concerned with his ugliness. He had arrived and he was by no means sickly. Doubtless he would grow prettier with age.
The King was most excited. He held the baby and marveled at him. “Perfect in every way,” he kept saying. Everything which ought to be there was there; he made his presence felt with lusty yells and showed from the first his determination to survive.
We were all delighted with him—better a strong ugly child than a frail pretty one.
On the very morning of the child’s birth Charles rode to St. Paul’s Cathedral to give thanks for the birth of his son and heir. The people cheered wildly; they liked him far better than they did me.
According to the custom my baby was baptized within a few days of his birth. I knew there would be some controversy about this because of the difference in the King’s religion and mine. I had been promised that I should supervise the religious upbringing of my children until their thirteenth year and that meant of course that I could educate them as Catholics.
However, I did see that the ceremony could not take place in my private chapel because it was fitted as a Catholic sanctuary. The King said firmly that the baby must be baptized in the chapel of St. James’s and I was too tired and too happy to argue.
The Bishop of London, William Laud, conducted the service with the help of the Bishop of Norwich and the sponsors were my brother, the King of France, and my mother; they could not, of course, be present, and the Duchess of Richmond and the Marquis of Hamilton were their proxies.
My baby went through the ceremony without too much protest and was christened Charles.
The next thing we had to concern ourselves with was his wet nurse. She must be from Wales, Charles told me, for it was a tradition that the first words the Prince of Wales spoke must be in the Welsh language. After that he could speak his own tongue.
How I enjoyed those days. Sometimes I try to live them again through my memories. It was such a joy to have a child and a devoted husband. Charles could scarcely tear himself away from us. He tried to please me in every way and I was very happy to accept his attention and feel proud of myself because I had given my husband and the country this ugly boy.
Young Charles grew apace but his looks did not improve. His wet nurse said he was the liveliest and hungriest child she had ever known and was going to be tall; he was already big for his age. He was so forward and was more like a three-month-old child than one of a few weeks. I used to look at him in his cradle and he would return my gaze steadily. His nose was too big for a baby, I thought; but his lively eyes were darting here, there and everywhere.
“You are going to be a remarkable man,” I said to him; and he looked at me so intelligently that I could delude myself into thinking that he understood.
I had to write and tell Mamie all about him. She had a child of her own so she would fully understand the pleasures of motherhood. Writing to her was like talking to her and our letters had been a great solace to me since she left.
“Mamie,” I wrote.
“The husband of my baby’s nurse is going to France and I am writing this letter believing that you will be very glad to ask him news of my son…. He is so ugly that I am ashamed of him, but his size and fatness supply the want of beauty. I wish you could see the gentleman, for he has no ordinary mien; he is so serious in all that he does, that I cannot help deeming him far wiser than I am myself….
“I assure you that if I do not write to you as often as I might it is not because I have left off loving you but because—I must confess it—I am very idle. Also I am ashamed to admit that I am on the increase again; nevertheless I am not yet certain.
“Adieu. The man must have this letter.
“Your affectionate friend,
“Henriette Marie R.”
Yes, I was indeed pregnant again. I was not displeased about this as my wise little Charles had made me long for another child.
The King was delighted too. It was well for us to have several children, for although little Charles already looked as though he would be able to give a good account of himself, with plagues and other troubles one could never be sure.
Kings and Queens should have large families. Well, it seemed as if, now I had started, I might live up to what was expected of me.
Being a mother and a contented wife did not change my nature. I still loved to dance and although being pregnant did restrict me in many ways I did enjoy entertainments, ballets and banquets. I was very fond of dwarfs. The little people fascinated me and I was delighted when the two I possessed decided to marry. I declared we should have a celebration for them, which we did, and I took great pleasure in arranging the wedding. I had a masque written for it, a musical entertainment. Our great poet Edmund Waller wrote lyrics for it which were set to music. I sang some of the songs but not those, naturally, which were written in praise of my beauty. There were many of those sung at Court and I was vain enough to enjoy them.
How the dwarfs amused us as they tumbled about the room and when they danced on the table, I thought I should laugh so much that it would be bad for the child I was carrying.
Charles and I made a short journey soon after that and were entertained at the house of the old Countess of Buckingham. It was amazing how, since the death of the Duke, I had become quite fond of his family.
This was an occasion I shall always remember. I was seated beside the King in the place of honor and dinner proceeded in the usual manner with the musicians playing all the time, for the Countess knew how much I enjoyed music.
During a short pause in the playing a great pie was carried in and placed in the center of the table. All eyes were on it as slowly the pastry began to crack from within, until there was a great hole in it and it was scattered over the table. Then out of the enormous dish there stepped a man. He was eighteen inches high, beautifully dressed in miniature garments and with a face which was quite handsome. He advanced along the table taking mincing steps between the dishes. When he came to me he bowed low and said in a very pleasant voice that he trusted I liked him well enough to appoint him my devoted servant.
Everyone was laughing and clapping. Even the King was smiling benignly. I think they were all aware of what was going to happen. For me, of course, it was to be a surprise.
I begged the little man to come and stand beside me. He did so, delicately brushing scraps of pastry from his elegant coat. I said I should be delighted to take him into my service for I liked well his looks and, as he would have heard, two of my little people had married. Oh, they were still in my service but married people were apt to be more devoted to each other than those they served.
He nodded knowingly and said he would dedicate himself completely to his Queen.
I kept him by me and thanked the Countess for giving me so much pleasure.
My little man told me his name was Geoffrey Hudson and that it had long been his ambition to serve me.
So he came into my service. He was extremely intelligent and capable of performing all sorts of errands for he was quite a little statesman; and I became very fond of him and was so pleased that he had come to serve me.
That November, a year and five months after the birth of my swarthy gentleman, I produced a daughter. We decided to call her Mary and like her brother she was baptized in St. James’s Chapel by Bishop Laud.
A few weeks after her birth my daughter became very ill, and Charles and I spent an anxious time during the days which followed. I had been so happy to have a pretty baby and now reproached myself that I had ever complained about my son’s lack of good looks. Healthy children were what we wanted; beauty could take second place.
The Countess of Roxburgh had been chosen as little Mary’s governess and Mrs. Bennet was her nurse; the child had the usual dry nurse, watchers, rockers, a gentleman usher, two grooms of the backstairs as well as a seamstress and a laundress and other menial servants which were the requisites of a royal infant. I greatly feared during those first days of her life that she was not going to need them.
Prayers were said in my private chapel but not all over the country because we did not want the people to know that we feared for the baby’s life.
But in a week or two Mrs. Bennet came to me beaming with delight. “My lady Princess is demanding nourishment, Your Majesty. It is a good sign. She is coming through this.”
And she did.
Charles and I were so happy then. We went to the nurseries and he held young Charles, and I my frail little Mary, and Charles said with that faint stammer which was there when he was overemotional or very shy that he would be the happiest man in Christendom if this little girl lived and I continued to love him.
Dr. Mayerne, the Court physician, was soon declaring in his rather somber way that Mary would live, and I expressed my overwhelming gratitude to him, and Charles did so more quietly but nonetheless sincerely.
It was not long after when, one night, as Charles was disrobed in our bedchamber that I noticed some spots on his chest. I was not alarmed at the time, but in the morning I remembered and looking at them again I saw that they had multiplied and were spreading up to his neck.
Dr. Mayerne was sent for and diagnosed small pox, which threw us into a panic. He told me to remove myself at once while he looked at everyone in the palace to make sure none was suffering from the dreaded disease.
“But,” I said, “it is my place to look after my husband.”
Dr. Mayerne gave me one of his withering looks. I often laughed with Lucy about him for he was no respecter of persons and always treated me as though I were not only a child but a somewhat stupid one. Strangely enough he was French, having been born at Mayerne near Geneva of Protestant parents, and his real name was Sir Theodore Turquet de Mayerne. Ever since he had practiced he had been a pioneer and had invented several cures, and he considered his work more important than anything else on Earth and did not care whom he offended in practicing it. Charles’s father, King James, had thought so highly of him that he had made him Court physician and Mayerne had looked after Charles ever since he was a boy.
“Anyone who goes into the sick chamber is liable to risk his or her life,” he said.
“He is my husband,” I replied, “and I shall allow no one else to look after him.”
“You are too fond of drama,” he told me. “This is not to be confused with playacting.”
“I assure you I do not think of it as playacting,” I cried indignantly. “I am deeply concerned for my husband and I shall be with him in case he needs me.”
Mayerne shook his head but I did see a gleam of something in his eyes which I could not exactly construe. It might have been a faint glimmer of approval.
Charles did not feel very ill, which was unusual in such cases, and tried to persuade me to leave him, but I stood firmly and refused.
He said: “You are a stubborn woman.”
“I am…where I love, and I can tell you, Charles Stuart, that no one is going to tear me from this room while you need me.”
He was deeply moved and turned away so that I might not see the tears in his eyes. All the same, he kept urging me to go.
I would not and I was the only one who nursed him through those days. Fortunately it was only a mild attack that he suffered; we spent the time playing games together, and but for my anxiety about him I could have been completely contented for within a few weeks he was well again. I suffered nothing, although all through his illness I had been in his bedchamber and had even slept in the same bed.
Mayerne said it was a miracle and implied that I did not deserve such good fortune since I was capable of such folly. But I think he admired me, although he considered me foolish. As for Charles, he loved me more than ever. He said he was the luckiest of men and no matter what happened to him in the future everything would be worthwhile because life had brought me to him. For a man who was not inclined to talk extravagantly that was saying a good deal and I told Lucy that I was happier than I had ever been in my life.
Alas, there was one of whom I was fond who was less fortunate. Poor Lucy retired to her rooms in great distress. The dreaded plague had struck her and for a woman like her, one of the beauties of the Court, it was the greatest blow which could befall a woman, for even if she survived, the chances of her being disfigured far outdistanced those of her immunity.
Lucy was not only one of the beauties of the Court, she was chief of them all. Edmund Waller and the poets said I was, but I think some of the beauty attributed to me was homage to royalty. To be honest, I had never been classically beautiful; my nose was too large, so was my mouth; of course I did have magnificent dark eyes and because of my nature, which so many thought frivolous, they sparkled with more vitality than most people’s. My features were rarely ever in repose long enough for people to notice the length of my nose; so I gave the impression of charm, which may have been mistaken for beauty. But Lucy Hay was beautiful by any standards. Poets wrote verses to her, and she was lively and intelligent and liked to dabble in politics. She was rightly considered to be the most attractive woman at Court.
The thought of all that beauty being dimmed by the aftermath of the small pox cast a shadow over the Court. I was delighted when I heard that she was recovering, but she refused to admit anyone to her chamber; and only her closest attendants were allowed to see her, so I feared the worst.
For some time she would not emerge from her bedchamber and we all waited in trepidation for her to appear. Some of the poets were disconsolate. I believe they thought they had lost their main source of inspiration.
Then she sent word to me that that night she intended to join the company in the great hall for the evening’s entertainment. I was planning some special celebration to give thanks for Charles’s recovery. I was not sure whether Lucy’s was going to be a cause for rejoicing or not.
I remember that occasion so well. I was wearing a dress of white satin with a large collar trimmed with points. It is strange that when I remember certain occasions I see my clothes clearly. I suppose it is because in those days I paid great attention to them. I had a slight curvature of the spine which
had to be disguised by clever dressmaking. I hated anyone to know of this and often had large collars made which hung over my dresses like shawls. Because my dresses were like that it became one of the highest fashions. This was a charming dress and I remember it in detail because it was one of my favorites and that was such an outstanding evening. I often wonder whether it is good to remember so clearly. Such memories come back and back again and I can project myself into those times and relive them. Whether it is a clever thing to do I cannot say. Sometimes the sorrow such recollections bring is greater than the joy.
There was a hushed silence when Lucy appeared. She was magnificently dressed and she had a superb figure, and that was certainly unaltered except perhaps she was a little thinner, which only made her look more elegant.
She was masked and we feared the worst. The mask was black velvet and it covered the whole of her face; through the slits, her eyes glittered. She walked up to Charles and me and bowed low.
I put my arms about her. I knew it was indecorous but I couldn’t help it. I was so distressed. My beautiful Lucy, the shining light of our Court and forced to wear a mask!
I fancied I sensed despair in her. I tried words of comfort. I kept saying: “Lucy …dear Lucy” again and again.
Then she stepped back and said in a voice which everyone could hear because there was such silence: “Your Majesties, have I your permission to unmask?”
“Only if you wish, Lucy,” I said.
She replied: “I do. It is well for all to see.”
Then dramatically she threw off the mask. There was a gasp. Lucy was revealed, her skin dazzling pink and white, completely unmarred.
There was a rustling throughout the room and then everyone was rushing up to look at her and congratulate her.
That scene was typical of Lucy Hay.
I said that we must celebrate the King’s recovery—and Lucy’s—and the manner in which we should do so would be by having a play or a masque performed. I wanted one written specially for the occasion so I summoned a writer whose work we liked. This was Ben Jonson, an aging man but one who had a light touch, and I had engaged him on several occasions to write a masque for me; and the best of our designers of scenery could work with him; this was an architect called Inigo Jones. Before I came to England the banqueting hall in Whitehall Palace had been destroyed by fire, and it was Inigo Jones who had designed the new one. He was the only son of a cloth-maker but he had done very well and there was evidence of the fine quality of his work throughout the capital. Unfortunately he and Ben Jonson did not like each other and were constantly quarreling. Jonson had once said that if he wanted to name a villain in one of his plays he thought it would be a good idea to call him Inigo. I should have known better than to engage the two of them to work on the same production. It was not long before they were refusing to work with each other because Jonson had put his own name before that of Inigo Jones on the title page of the work.
