Charles the King (38 page)

“Farewell,” he said, and he left the room without kneeling to the King or looking back. When a message reached him that the King had asked for one of his Chaplains to visit him that evening, he refused permission, and told Skippon to dismiss the Anglican clergy from the Palace.

The months of that long year 1647 had passed slowly for the Queen in her exile: long months of frustration, bickering and despair, interspersed by short periods of wild hope followed each other, and these fleeting illusions were the only thing that kept Henrietta from complete retirement from the world. By 1648 the shadows which had darkened England were creeping across France, threatening even that place of refuge and bringing angry mobs of people into the streets of Paris, shouting against the arbitrary rule of the Cardinal Mazarin and demanding their rights. As French internal troubles grew, Mazarin revenged himself upon the little court of unwelcome exiles by suspending the Queen of England's pension. Poverty threatened Henrietta, but the threat came at a time when she was buoyed up once again with hope that Charles might escape his captors and regain his throne. Early in the year she heard the fantastic news that Civil War had broken out again. Wales and Kent were in arms for the King, and Berwick and Carlisle captured by the Royalists. And then a message came from Scotland asking the Prince of Wales to lead an army over the Border and restore King Charles to the English throne. They too had had enough of Parliament's ineptitude.

Part of his mother's frustration was the apathy of the Prince of Wales. Even now, with Scotland in revolt against the power of the English army, with the scattered Royalists in England itself taking up arms again, the Prince only stood with his hands behind his back and hardly said a word. She turned to Rupert, who was with him, hoping that his aggressive spirit would be kindled.

“What chance of success is there? For pity's sake, Rupert, show a little optimism and perhaps my son will stop looking as if he has been defeated even before he sets out!”

“What do you want me to say, Madam?” Rupert asked her. Their old affectionate relationship had vanished, the stigma of his surrender of Bristol had never left him. He was guiltless in his own eyes and in the eyes of everyone who had been with him at the siege but guilty of criminal irresolution in Henrietta's view. On more than one occasion she had said so.

“I want you to tell me whether this counter-revolt can bring the King back to his throne,” she said irritably.

“I could tell you that better if the King were at liberty and if the Scottish army had met Cromwell. Personally I don't hold a high opinion of the Scots. I only hope the Prince isn't making a mistake when he goes out to join with Hamilton.”

“Oh God!” she said, “oh God, what's happened to you, Rupert? Where is that great heart of yours? Not long ago you'd have leapt at the chance to go back and do battle for your uncle. Now you just stand there talking about those cursed Roundheads as if they were invincible. I wanted you to encourage the Prince, not frighten him!”

“The Prince is not frightened,” Rupert retorted. “Nor am I, Madam, whatever people here say to the contrary!”

“If you mean Bristol …” Henrietta began and her voice was growing louder as she became more and more angry.

“I mean the whole of my service,” Rupert shouted suddenly. “I mean everything I did to try and save my uncle, every battle I fought, every wound I received, every friend I lost! I gave up fighting for my brother to fight for the King and for you, and I'm living here in exile with you without a penny in my pockets or a future, and not one genuine friend among you all!”

“I am your friend,” the Prince of Wales said suddenly. “I know what you did for my father and I shall love you and be grateful all my life. Don't trouble about me, mother. I'm not afraid to go to Scotland. I'm not afraid of anything except living out my life in this place …”

“Have you no thought for your father?” his mother said. “What about him, lying in prison without comfort or hope. Don't you think of him?”

“I think of little else,” her son said slowly. The prison his mother mentioned was not Hampton Court; Charles had escaped from there in November 1647, after all hope of a settlement with the army was gone. According to reports reaching them in Paris, Cromwell himself had advised the King that he might be assassinated because the feeling of disappointment and resentment was so high among the soldiers. They had not heard of his escape until they heard that he was in another prison. Charles had fled to the coast and been forced to take refuge in Carisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight. The commander, Colonel Hammond, was a cousin of one of the Royal Chaplains, and without a ship to take him to safety or a place in which to hide, the King had followed the advice of his old friend Ashburnham, and taken refuge in the Castle. But Hammond had another relative besides the clergyman, and that relative was General Cromwell. He had proved himself more sectarian than secular by confining the King he had promised to protect and sending word of his capture to London.

“If only he had come to France,” Henrietta said, as she had said a dozen times a day for the past six months. “If only someone had been there to advise him …”

“There wasn't time,” Rupert said roughly. He was ashamed of his outburst to his aunt. Unfortunately they all lived so close and were so isolated from the general life of the Court, that they rubbed old sores open and flew at each other like starving dogs. This was exile indeed, poisonous, empty, soul-destroying exile. If Henrietta had not been able to think about Charles, write to him, write to others on his behalf and beg and borrow money for one abortive scheme after another, she would probably have died or entered a convent as a Carmelite. He was so sorry for the way he had spoken to her that he came up and put one powerful arm round her shoulders and kissed her contritely on the cheek.

“The King did the only thing he could. He escaped from Hampton Court and no proper arrangements had been made to get him away from England. He went to Carisbrooke because he couldn't wander the countryside until they hunted him down like a dog. At least he's safe and well—his letters are full of good spirits.”

“That's only to try and cheer me,” Henrietta said wretchedly. “Oh, Rupert, if only I were able to assure him that his son was coming to his rescue with an army … If only I dared write and tell him.”

“You dare
not,”
Rupert said quickly. “You know some of your letters have been intercepted because he's written asking why you haven't sent him any word. If his gaolers got the news of this uprising from you, they might well murder him and try and stop it. Aunt, you must promise me that you will never say a word until the thing is known generally!”

“I promise, I promise,” Henrietta said. “Who would have thought those Judas Scots would tire of their English Puritan friends within twelve months—just think how galled they must feel when they remember that they sold my husband for a quarter of a million, and now they've such a need of him to keep their independence that they're mustering an army to set him free. That's irony, if you think of it! Oh, if there's a God in Heaven, He must punish them for what they did at Newcastle!”

She had entirely forgotten that their eldest son was sailing out at the end of the week to join forces with the men she had so bitterly described as Judas Scots. In her utter disregard for anything or anyone but the safety of Charles, she was callous even to her children. And there were three of them with her now. The thirteen-year-old Duke of York had escaped from the enemy's custody and made his way to France through Holland, and the last child of their long love, the poor abandoned baby born at Exeter was reunited with her mother, thank to the Countess of Dalkeith's daring escape with her. And as if the pretty, intelligent little girl were her last link with the man she loved so desperately, Henrietta spoilt and kissed and fussed over her, calling upon her bored attendants to agree that the little Princess was the image of her father. She had very little feeling for her sons at all.

“Just think,” she said, and her anxious, care-worn face flushed with the excitement of her dream. “Just think if we were all sailing for England by the end of the year, and I were landing at Dover with the King waiting there to meet me! Twenty-five years ago I landed there as a bride. And I was so disagreeable with him!”

She turned to her son as if she had never told him the story before.

“He wore a very dusty coat I remember, and poor old Madame de St. George was furious. She thought I hadn't been properly received. I forgot the little speech I'd learnt by heart, and burst into tears; your father was so kind and gallant, he gave me his own handkerchief … I can see him now. He was so handsome I couldn't believe my good fortune.”

Time and the agony of their four-year separation had affected Henrietta's memory of those early years until hardly any painful or disagreeable aspect of them remained. She had once acutely embarrassed the Prince of Wales by describing the day when Charles dismissed her attendants and had struggled furious with her by an open window, as if it were the most charming and romantic incident imaginable.

“When I think back on it”—Henrietta continued, releasing herself from Rupert's arm, “If I had only known what was in the future!”

“Don't distress yourself,” Rupert begged her. “Remember one thing—you made the King the happiest man in the world. Few men have ever had such devotion as you gave him, and go on giving him.”

“I'd give him my life,” she said and her voice shook. “He is the only person in the world who really matters to me.” She turned away from them and began to cry. “Please leave me,” she said. “Please.”

“Come,” Rupert opened the door for his cousin.

“My father should have made terms with Cromwell,” the Prince said. “He'd have been holding Court at Whitehall now, with all of us beside him. For once I agreed with my mother when she wrote and upbraided him for refusing. He wasn't asked to forswear his own Faith by taking the Covenant. They offered him freedom in return for toleration for themselves. Surely to God it would have been better to save something at the cost of a little honour than to keep his honour and lose all else!”

“To you, yes, because you would have kept your bargain, and to me too because I'd have broken it as soon as I felt strong enough. But not to your father. Your father would not have surrendered at Bristol! He will never surrender.”

“If he doesn't,” the Prince of Wales said slowly, “they'll kill him. That's why, whatever the odds against us, I must go back and try to save him … I wish you were coming with me, Rupert; I should feel that at least we had a chance …”

“You've a better chance without me,” Rupert shrugged. “The English people are not over-fond of me; you know their name for me? The Devil's Prince. Go on to Scotland and take heart, Cousin. You are their future King; that's all the fame you need to win them. Who knows,” he added, “if all goes well with you I may return.”

“What will you do if I fail?” the Prince asked.

“I shall stay here and comfort your mother as best I can and train your brother up to take your place. I have no plans, no plans at all.”

The meeting of the army commanders and their men at Windsor on the 6th May, 1648, was like a scene from the Old Testament. Thousands of veterans were gathered for the purpose of prayer and self-examination and a renewal of that faith which had made them the most effective army in Europe. These men, with their dour, fervent faces, were not only representatives of the New Model Army but of the New Model Englishman, so far removed from the rough, unlettered, indulgent commoner of the past, with his liking for women and strong drink and a bawdy joke, that it was impossible to believe that Cromwell's soldiers were the sons and grandsons of the subjects of the great Elizabeth Tudor. There was no swearing, no licence, no camp-followers, no over-indulgence of any kind, and yet the atmosphere was as electric as if a storm were about to burst. The preachers went among them, exhorting them to penance and sacrifice, and every common soldier had the right to stand up and address his brethren. They sang their fierce hymns and exulted in the savage, vengeful God of the Old Testament, a God whom many of them believed had predestined some of his creatures to eternal punishment. Cromwell came among them, and Ireton with him, as penitents whose crime was negotiation with the King. Cromwell's army was not only Puritan but a large section of it were republicans, with a revolutionary view of how their country should be governed. And most of all, the men gathered at that meeting were fanatics of such a dangerous discontent, that had their great General not recanted, mutiny and anarchy would have resulted. Cromwell stood among them and solemnly accused himself.

“In seeking to do what was best for all, I have fallen into grave errors. The considerations of this world blinded mine eyes, and in defiance of my sacred duty, I talked with the unrighteous and kept company with the unclean …”

There was an angry roar at this overt reference to the King. Cromwell's powerful voice rose strongly and there was almost a break in it as he abased himself. “I came among you to confess my fault,” he said at the top of his voice. “Nay, I glory in that confession, for by confessing it with humble sorrow, I am made whole again and party to the Lord's Council. But the victory His watchfulness procured for us is wasted, washed down the endless gutters of talk and lies and broken promises. And now, my brothers, the enemy rise up to smite us and replace Nebuchadnezzar on the throne from which our faith has toppled him!”

He waited and his audience shouted their approval. The sound was full of hate and fury. “We are at war again,” Cromwell roared at them, “the enemy arises in Wales and breaks out in Kent and from over the Border the armies of Scotland are on the march to put the King back in power over us. They fear us, as the weapon of the Lord. They seek refuge with the King, as a cloak for their wickedness and their intent to persecute and regiment the faithful into their abominable form of worship. But I say to you that they and he shall not win victory over us! I say we will gird ourselves and like the Israelites of old, go out and with the Lord's help, smite these Amalekites and when they are smitten—” He took a deep breath—“then we shall call that Man of Blood to a most terrible accounting!”