Charles the King (26 page)

“What is the time?” she asked suddenly, and Lady Newport put down three pairs of green and yellow shoes and looked at the little watch hanging from her waist.

“It is almost three o'clock, Madam.”

“How slowly the time goes!” The Queen moved impatiently and Lucy Carlisle came round to her and pulled out the skirt of her dress so that it hung in straight folds to the ground.

“If you are going to walk in the grounds, Madam, you should wear stronger shoes than these. It rained early today and the grass is still damp.” Something was terribly wrong. The King was plotting and he had told his wife the secret; her work might be useless unless she could persuade the Queen to betray it to her. She stepped back and gave Henrietta a smile which was warm with friendliness and admiration.

“You look magnificent,” she said. “I've never seen any gown that suited you better.”

“It isn't the gown, Lucy,” the Queen said. “What you see is a happy woman, happy for the first time in months—no, years! Those shoes will do, Newport, I've changed my mind. I shan't go out today. We'll stay here and wait.”

“Wait for what, Madam?” Lady Newport asked innocently.

“I can't tell you, but you will see …”

She loved Lady Newport, who attended Mass with her and had been cast off by her Puritan husband. She was a gentle, faithful creature and Charles's favourite among her women. It was a pity that she was not as gay and quick-witted as Lucy. She was glad to see her old friend sharing her happiness. The compliment had touched her and she felt as if the slight strain which had grown up between them in the past year were entirely her fault. She held out her hand to the Countess and walked with her to the window where she sat down, turning to look into the gardens below. Lucy saw her start, and the natural colour left her face, emphasizing the bright patch of rouge on both cheeks. The Queen painted very heavily to hide her sallow skin and the unsightly blotches caused by intense nervous strain. Under the make-up, she was grey and the hand holding Lucy's was trembling. The Countess leaned forward and looked down from the window and there she saw the King with a gathering of armed Cavaliers leaving the gates of Whitehall.

This was the moment; she tightened her fingers round Henrietta's hand and squeezed them hard.

“Madam, what is it?” she spoke in a whisper, “You're as white as death. Where is the King going with an escort of that size.… For God's sake trust me and tell me what's happening!”

“I cannot, I cannot say a word,” Henrietta whispered back. “Oh, Lucy, pray for him! You don't know what this means …”

“Is he in danger?” the Countess asked quickly. She could have taken Henrietta by the shoulders and shaken her.

“No,” Henrietta turned from the window and leant back. For a moment she closed her eyes. Charles had gone, taking his company of two hundred courtiers with him. When she opened them again and looked into Lucy Carlisle's face she saw nothing in it but anxiety for his safety. “No, he's not in danger. But his enemies are. I promised to say nothing, but I know I can tell you. The King has gone down to Westminster to arrest them!”

“Arrest whom?” There was not a flicker on the beautiful face, not a shadow in the bright blue eyes.

“Pym,” Henrietta said, “And Hampden, Mandeville, Holles and Strode. They're accused of Treason and he's gone to seize them himself. He only told me this afternoon.”

“Thank God,” the Countess said piously. “Thank God, Madam. You will be rid of all your enemies with those five men under guard.”

“The King will serve them as they served Strafford,” Henrietta stood up and the Countess followed, still holding her hand. They came back into the centre of the room.

“What is the time, Newport?”

“Close to four, Madam.”

The Queen sat down again, releasing the Countess and looked up at her.

“They will be there very soon now. Dear God, what an eternity it seems …”

“I have a book in my room, Madam,” Lucy Carlisle said quickly. “It's a collection of French poetry, I know you'd like it. I'll read it aloud and it'll help to pass the time.”

She almost ran to the door and was gone without waiting for the Queen's permission. Outside she did run, holding her long skirt in one hand till she reached the apartments of the ladies-in-waiting. They were empty, everyone was on duty with the Queen or outside in the winter sunshine. She found paper and pen and ink in her private cabinet and wrote a few words. ‘Fly at once. The King is coming to arrest you.' She scrawled the other four names the Queen had mentioned and then rang the bell for her personal page. While she waited she swore. Her hands were trembling as she folded the message into a tidy square, small enough to be hidden in the palm of the boy's hand. He had been dozing in the pages' room down the corridor, he came into the room rubbing his eyes and the Countess sprang forward and gave vent to her terror and anxiety by shaking him violently.

“How dare you dally when I ring for you! Come to your senses you fool or I'll have you whipped for idleness. Take this to the House of Commons. Give it to John Pym and no one else. Go down to the stables and take one of my horses, and may God help you if you arrive too late!”

“Yes, my Lady,” the boy stuttered. He was afraid of his mistress who bullied him and boxed his ears and had had him beaten several times.

“Go!” The Countess pushed him. “Don't lose a moment. If you find Pym in time I'll give you a gold piece!”

She listened, hearing him run down the corridor and down the back stairs and then she composed herself. She smoothed her dress and arranged her hair in the mirror. Five minutes later she was back in the Queen's room, serenely reading aloud to her.

At five that afternoon the King returned. He dismissed his Cavaliers and walked slowly up the main staircase of the Palace, his eyes fixed on the figure of the Queen who was waiting at the head of them, her yellow dress shining in the dim light, surrounded by a crowd of her ladies. They drew back, curtseying as he approached, and the Queen ran forward holding out her hands. She stopped, gazing into his face—it was pale and distracted, and without asking a question, she knew that he had failed.

“Charles,” she said uncertainly, “Oh, Charles …”

“They had gone,” he said slowly. “Someone warned them and when I reached the Commons they were leaving on the tide for the City of London. The City gave them refuge and has refused to deliver them.”

“Oh, God,” Henrietta whispered. “What did you do?”

“Saved what was left of my dignity and came home,” he said, wearily. “God knows how they were warned.”

Henrietta swung round suddenly—the Countess of Carlisle was standing just behind her.

“I told
you
!” she exclaimed. “I told you where the King was going! Come here, come here and get down on your knees and swear that you spoke to no one when you left my room!”

Lucy Carlisle knelt. She saw the King looking at her, hatred and suspicion in his eyes and for a moment she was terribly afraid. But her exultation was greater than her fear. Pym had received her message. He and the rest were safe and now the King was really lost. She faced them both without flinching and said clearly—“Before God, I swear to Your Majesties that I am no traitor.”

Charles put his arm round Henrietta; he did not believe the woman, but he doubted if the charge could be proved without a scandal which would apportion the blame on his wife. She had suffered enough.

He looked down at the Countess with disgust. “Get up,” he said. “No false oaths are required of you. The Queen relieves you of your duties. If you have betrayed her confidence, I am content to leave you to the judgment of God.” With his arm still round the Queen who was weeping and leaning on him, he walked past them all and went into their private apartments. For some moments there was silence. No one moved, and the Countess rose from her knees and looked round at the women who had lived in daily contact with her for nearly fifteen years. The first to speak was Lady Newport.

“You sent the warning,” she accused. “You left the Queen for more than ten minutes … fetching that book. May God forgive you!”

Lucy Carlisle looked at her contemptuously.

“I should guard your tongue if I were you. Nothing is proved against me. Nothing will ever be proved. If the Queen blabbed to me, no doubt she blabbed to others. She is the guilty one, not I.” She turned her back on them all and walked away to the waiting women's quarters. Late that night her carriage and a wagon full of luggage left Whitehall for ever.

On February 23rd, 1642, Charles said good-bye to his wife at Dover. They stayed in the same bleak Castle where they had first met seventeen years ago, and now she was leaving for Holland with her daughter Mary, ostensibly bringing the child to her husband, but carrying the Crown jewels in her baggage with a commission to pawn them and raise money for her husband's war with his people. They had left Whitehall on January 10th, driven out by crowds of rioters, who were screaming for revenge on the persecutor of their hero Pym, still safely hidden behind the walls of the City of London. Catholics were being hunted through the streets and the embassy Churches in London were invaded and desecrated and the priests dragged out and thrown into prison. Henrietta was in hourly danger, and the King fled with her as if they were fugitives, followed by his Courtiers for whom there was no longer any place in the hostile capital. From Windsor they travelled to Dover, and on a cold day with a sharp wind blowing in from the sea, they gathered at the quayside, the King and the Queen and the little Princess, with the young Prince of Wales and the Duke of York beside them.

A fleet of fifteen Dutch ships were anchored outside the harbour to escort the Queen's ship, the
Lion
.

Henrietta was wrapped in a velvet cloak lined with sables, and she reminded Charles so much of the tiny childish bride who had greeted him in Dover Castle all those years ago. In his eyes she was as pretty as she had ever been, the lines of fatigue and worry, the streaks of grey in her hair seemed to vanish. He gathered her in his arms and his cheeks were wet with tears.

“Farewell my love, my darling. God give you a safe journey and bring you safely back to me.”

For a moment she clung to him and hiding her face she wept. Her tears were bitter with grief for him and fear for the uncertain future she was forced to let him face alone. In the shadow of war, with their security gone and their lives in danger, nothing remained but the durability of their love for one another, and it was deeper and more selfless than at any time in their lives.

At last she raised her wet and drawn face to his and wiped her eyes. Out of the tears a little spark of spirit shone at him.

“Have courage, my darling,” she said. “I am going where I can be of the best use to you. I'll raise all the money you need and I'll send you arms and ammunition and men too, if I can recruit them. I shall be thinking of you and praying for you every moment. And I'll come back to you the moment you send word. Say good-bye to Mary, now.”

Charles turned to his daughter and bending down, embraced the solemn little girl, who would one day be Queen of Holland.

“Farewell, my child. Take care of your mother and remember me. God bless you.”

“I must go,” Henrietta said desperately. “I must go now or I shall never have the courage … Farewell my son …”

She kissed the Prince of Wales, and then the little Duke of York.

“Obey your father in all things. Pray to God we will soon be re-united.”

For the last time Charles embraced her, and then she walked slowly down towards the ship, holding the Princess Mary by the hand. He waited in the biting wind until they reached the decks and then he saw Henrietta turn and wave. The ship began to move out on the tide.

“Come, Sire. It's freezing and you will catch cold.” The Duke of Newcastle had approached him.

“I think I can still see them,” Charles answered. “If I were higher up … Newcastle, order my horse. I'll ride along the cliff.”

In the years to come, when he had spent his great fortune and risked his life a dozen times in defence of the King and was living in unhappy exile, Newcastle spoke of that ride along the towering cliffs of Dover, following the King who galloped for miles to keep the ship in view. The following day, looking as if he had not slept at all, Charles left Dover and turned his train northwards towards the old city of York.

In London the city militia were drilling, and in the King's absence, Pym and his four friends left their hiding-place and made a triumphal return to Westminster, surrounded by cheering crowds. They found a depleted Commons and a House of Lords from which three-quarters of the peers had fled and joined the King. War had not yet been formally declared but fighting was breaking out in parts of England as far apart as Cornwall and the Midlands, and both sides were recruiting men and seizing supplies. The last of the King's powers were claimed by Parliament, including Cromwell's Bill for control of the armed forces of the Kingdom. The farce of negotiation between the King and his rebellious subjects broke down finally in July, and on August 22nd, 1642, Charles raised the Royal Standard at Nottingham and called his people to arms.

That night he was writing to Henrietta with the news, that war had broken out, and Hull, the vitally important port and Arsenal, had shut its gates on him and declared for Parliament when Lord Digby came into his room.

“Your pardon, Sire! Forgive me for intruding but you have a visitor!” Charles looked up irritably, he was not yet used to being disturbed. He was surprised to see Digby's excited face.

“What visitor? I'm not expecting anyone tonight.”

“He forbade me to tell you, Sire. He wants to surprise you himself. He's outside.” A man was standing in the shadows beyond the open door and as Digby spoke he walked into the room.