Charles the King (20 page)

They were embracing silently, when the Comptroller of his Household rapped at the ante-room door.

“Your Majesty, a Courier from York!”

“We have not dressed or breakfasted,” Charles called out irritably, “tell him to wait. It's another letter from Strafford asking me to, hurry,” he explained to Henrietta.

“He says it is most urgent, Sire.”

“Receive him, Charles,” she begged. “It must be important or they would never dare disturb you—I'll go to my ladies.” She went into her retiring room, and the King told the Comptroller to send up the messenger. Then he rang for his gentlemen of the Chamber. He was washing his hands in scented water out of a silver basin when Strafford's messenger came into the room and fell on his knees. He was dusty and red-eyed, and he carried a letter rolled in oiled silk and sealed with Strafford's personal seal. Charles wiped his hands and thanked the courier, and broke the seal open. His attendants took the water away and began laying out his shirt and stockings and breeches; the King read the letter slowly, and then handed it to his valet.

“Parry, lock that in my cabinet if you please.” He slipped his arms into the white lawn shirt, which was fastened by the Lord Pembroke who had the privilege of helping the King into his under-linen. Each member of his personal household had special duties; a different nobleman handed him his shirt and breeches, a third dressed him in his coat and stockings, and a fourth gave him his Orders and put on his shoes. He said nothing, except to remark on the fine weather, and he never once looked at Parry or the cabinet where the letter had been locked away.

When he put on his rings his hands were steady; he took some time inspecting himself before his mirror, not from vanity but because a King must always look immaculate in every detail of his dress. He was deliberately silent because his voice always betrayed him. In any crisis, he betrayed himself by stammering. With an effort he turned to Lord Pembroke.

“Send for the Queen. And l—l—leave me.” The peers and the valet bowed and withdrew to their ante-room, and after a few moments which seemed like years, he heard Henrietta come into the room.

“Henrietta …” He stumbled painfully over her name and she ran to him.

“Charles, what is it? It's the letter … Don't try and speak till you're calm, give it to me, where is it…?”

He shook his head and with an effort composed himself.

“Sweetheart—sweetheart … be patient with me. L-listen quietly and don't be agitated. The Scots crossed into England on August 20th.”

“Sacrebleu!” The half-forgotten French oath escaped her before she could stop herself. She stared at Charles, seeing the handsome face contort in the agony of his impediment and the incredulous despair in his eyes, more eloquent than the words he was unable to speak.

“They've invaded us! Charles, it's not possible. For the love of God show me the letter.”

He unlocked the cabinet and gave it to her and went to stand by the dressing table, breathing deeply to restore his power of speech.

“You waited too long!” she exclaimed, and it was not in his nature to remind her of her responsibility for the delay.

“Strafford says they met with no resistance; they crossed the Tyne in daylight and marched into England without a shot being fired at them!”

“They haven't met Strafford yet,” he said at last. “I must go to York at once, as soon as we've breakfasted.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Her voice was sharp. “You cannot possibly waste time being served on bended knee and losing hours over a meal you can eat on the road! You must leave now, Charles, within the hour!”

She ran to her bell rope and pulled it; the sound echoed loudly all over the outside corridors.

She cried to the Countess of Newport when she came to the door. “Send for the Comptroller! Tell him to come immediately, the King is leaving for York at once!”

“I told no one,” Charles said. “There must be no panic … Strafford will beat them …”

“Strafford is a dying man,” Henrietta said fiercely. “You are the King, go out and meet them with your armies. And stop trying to pretend that nothing is the matter when the whole of England will know we're invaded in a few days! Charles, Charles,” she said urgently. “This is not the time to think of trifles. Get down from your pinnacle for the love of God before you're knocked down! I'm going to change into my riding clothes; I'm coming part of the way with you.”

Chapter 8

Strafford had been speaking for nearly an hour. He made no concessions to his health by sitting down as the King suggested, but stood supporting himself on the arms of his chair, facing the hostile faces of the Council of Peers which had been called at York. His army had met the Scots at Newbourne and been defeated, and the rebels had occupied Newcastle and were marching further into England without opposition. Strafford had got out of his bed after a terrible attack of stone and tried to rally his troops. But from that moment the war was lost and so was he; the King alone would not admit it, and he had sat through a week of bitter arguments surrounded by the nobles summoned from London, none of whom would support Strafford in his plea for a further attempt to drive the rebels out of England. The Earls of Essex, Bedford, Warwick and Bristol were sitting round the Council table, stubborn and hostile, their hatred directed against the sick and desperate man who was pleading passionately for the honour of his country and his King. But it was hopeless. England had been invaded and instead of springing forward to repel the enemy, the people were selling them supplies and the army was refusing to fight them.

Strafford looked round him. He was sick with shame and disgust, and sicker still with fear for the silent King sitting at the head of the table.

“We can still win,” he protested. “I tell you, my Lords, that if a few of you will come forward and put heart into our people and support His Majesty, we can drive these Covenanters back and beat them yet: I have a loyal army across the Irish Sea which is only waiting to land here and subdue this kingdom with their help the war could be won and Scotland pacified in a few months.”

He paused, and the Secretary Vane wrote down his words in an almost illegible scribble. He was not a quick writer and, after some of the more noisy meetings, he had difficulty reading his own writing and putting it into a sensible form.

“We will never sanction Irish troops landing in this country for any purpose whatsoever,” Lord Warwick said coldly. “There is only one solution to this wretched situation—brought about by your ill advice to the King and your incompetence with his army, and that is to call Parliament and do what they advise.”

Charles interrupted quietly and without taking his eyes away from Strafford.

“No—there will be no Parliament. Think of something else, my Lord.”

“There must be,” Warwick turned to him angrily. “How much longer can this illegality continue, ignoring the will of the people and bringing our trade to ruin? You cannot govern without them, Sire, and speaking for myself and the other Lords, we will not help you try! So long as you listen to Lord Strafford, our presence here is a waste of time.”

“If you cannot contain your abuse of Lord Strafford, you may leave the Council,” Charles remarked. “I summoned all of you because I hoped for loyalty from my nobles and I have spent the last week listening while you attack the only minister who has shown me devotion and never spared his health or his money in my service.”

“Your Majesty,” Strafford turned towards him, “my reputation is of no importance. You are the judge of my services and your approval is all that counts with me. I know the feelings of Lord Warwick and I am not dismayed by them—or surprised,” he added contemptuously.

“But I am not so prejudiced that I cannot agree with him when he happens to be right. And now he is right. Nothing can be gained from him or anyone here. I have tried with the army and the gentry and I have failed utterly, I admit that. There is still a chance that you may find your friends in Parliament. There's still a chance that the people of England will elect loyal Englishmen to the Commons and that they will see what these surrounding you do not. You will have to call them, Sire.”

Warwick and Essex exchanged a look of surprise. If Strafford advised a Parliament he must be mad. If he imagined that the body which would meet at Westminster would support him or the King, he had lost all sense of the temper of the people, and all sense of the extent to which he was hated by every section of the nation.

“I see what you are thinking,” Strafford said, “and believe me, I am not thinking of myself. I'm only thinking of the King. He cannot face this invasion alone, and I cannot believe that the Commons will abandon him as you have done. I sat there for many years and there were good men among them. I beg of you to call them, Sire.”

He sat down slowly and leant back, exhausted and wincing with pain.

“My answer,” Charles said quietly, “is still no. The meeting is at an end, my Lords. You may withdraw. Lord Strafford, be good enough to come to my apartments, I want to speak to you privately.”

He went back to his rooms and waited for Strafford. He felt cold and strangely calm; he had not lost his temper once in the last few weeks. He had been courteous and controlled and absolutely immovable in his refusal to give up the war or remove Strafford from his command. There was no alternative open to him except dishonour and retreat and he would not submit to either. He had not thought beyond it because he knew perfectly well that there was no solution.

“Thomas,” he said gently, “Thomas, don't try and kneel. Sit down, my poor friend. We are quite alone.”

Strafford lowered himself into a chair, and the King went to the door and closed it himself.

“Now,” he said. “What is this madness you were saying in the Council?”

“It is not madness, Sire. It is the right advice. I meant what I said. You cannot go on alone, and I cannot give you the support you need. I am a sick man and I'm at the end of my strength. And of my uses,” he added slowly. “I can do no more, Sire, except tell you how to save your throne.”

“I couldn't believe what I heard in there and I cannot believe it now,” Charles said. “You were the most insistent of all my advisers in abolishing Parliament; you've said over and over again that I must never call them. Now, when I am weaker than at any time in my reign, you change completely. I tell you I am not going to call them. What puzzles me is why you suggest that I should.”

Strafford looked at him; his face was grey and his eyes were red and sunken in his face with pain.

“Because the Covenant armies will march on London if you don't, and there will be nothing left for you but abdication. They will put the Prince of Wales on the throne and imprison you. And you will not live a year after that happens.”

“You are not frightening me, Thomas,” Charles answered. “I know that is the alternative, and I see nothing to stop it. I would rather die than give way. I would not be the first of my race or possibly the last to meet a violent death. It has no terrors for me. I have also thought what would happen to you if I take your advice. Have you any doubt what Parliament's price would be for allowing me to keep my throne? Your life, Thomas. Your life and most likely Laud's as well. The murder of my friends and the destruction of my Church and everything that's good and wise I've tried to give my country. No, Thomas, I will not do it.”

“And what will be done when you are no longer King?” Strafford countered. “How will your son protect us and protect the Church when he is only a child and the whole power of government lies with the Puritans? You talk of my life—it's ending anyway. As for Laud, no one would dare to kill him while you remain the King. And against that, have you thought what the Queen's fate would be?” He hesitated and saw Charles change colour. “What would your enemies do to her when you were gone? Would they spare her? Come, Sire, you know they would kill her for being a Papist; they'd call her a traitor and an idolatress and remove her children from her and put her to death. If you're ready to risk yourself, will you bring such a fate upon her?”

Charles faced him; he was terribly pale. That thought had been thrust upon him when it was the one fear he dared not entertain.

He was not afraid for himself; it would be easier for him to take a small company and ride out against the rebels and hope to be killed in battle than to imagine Henrietta falling into the hands of the people who had cursed and vilified her for over fifteen years, people who screamed for the blood of their fellow Englishmen and dragged them to a hideous death because they were Catholic priests.

“You should not say that,” he said bitterly, and for a moment he was almost angry. “It is unfair to put such a monstrous choice before me. I will not listen to you.”

“As long as you are King, there is some safeguard for the people and the things you love,” Strafford said quietly. “That is your strength, Sire, and it is greater than armies. You are the Lord's anointed and no government can exist without you. No law can be passed which anyone will obey. The Puritans cannot go beyond a certain limit and then only as far as you agree to let them. And you will have time as an ally; time to restore your power and weaken your enemies. What's done is done, there is nothing more to be got from fighting everyone alone. Parliament is not all Puritans; seek out the moderates and make them your friends. For myself, I have no fear of Parliament. I beg of you don't think of me. Think only of your duty as a King. And your duty to the Queen who loves you. She is in greater danger every moment you are out of London. Go back to her and summon Parliament.”

Charles saw him leave his chair and slowly fall upon his knees.

“I beg you, with all my heart. Do it before it is too late.”