The Loves of Charles II (12 page)

Robert announced that Lucy was to be presented to the Prince.

“He has heard much of you,” said Robert. “The talk of Algy’s paying his fifty crowns and then being recalled before you arrived seems amusing to Charles. He says he must see the heroine of the story. So put on the dress I gave you and prepare yourself. You’ll have to go to Court some day. In a place like this … all huddled together … exiles must necessarily mingle.”

While Ann helped Lucy to dress they were both thinking of the tall dark man.

“Do you think he’ll come back, mistress?” asked Ann.

“How can I know? He was too quick, was he not? He had the manners of a practiced philanderer.”

“But of a gentleman too,” murmured Ann.

“They often go together, I believe. Come, girl, my kerchief and my fan.”

Even when she reached the palace in which the Prince had his apartments Lucy was still thinking of the tall dark man. She entered the palace with its wheel windows and gothic towers at either end; she walked up the staircase into the hall where the Prince was waiting to receive her.

She thought she was dreaming as he smiled at her, and kneeling before him she could not help lifting her eyes to look into that dark face with the glowing brown eyes which were now shining with mischief. She felt bewildered and, in that moment when she had knelt, she had not believed that he could really be the Prince. She thought it was some hoax, the sort of game he and his friends would like to play.

All about him were men—some young, some old—but he towered above them all, not only because of his height, but because of that overwhelming charm, that easy grace. It seemed incredible, but it must be true: the young man who had climbed through her window was Charles, Prince of Wales, and no other.

He was laughing merrily. “So, pretty Lucy,” he said. “I stand exposed in all my perfidy.”

“Sir …” she began.

He turned to those about him and said easily: “Lucy and I have already met, we find. We also find that we have a fondness for each other.”

“Your Grace, I do not understand,” said Robert.

“Then we must acquaint you with the facts, and as a good soldier, Colonel, I am sure you will know when the moment has come to retreat.”

All those about the Prince began to laugh. Only Robert looked dismayed.

He bowed with dignity. Then he said: “I understand Your Grace’s meaning and realize that I am in a position from which the only possible action is retreat.”

“Wise Robert!” cried Charles. “And speaking of retreat, that is an order I give to the rest of you gentlemen.”

Much laughter followed, and one by one the gentlemen left the apartment, pausing only to throw appreciative glances at Lucy.

So Lucy was alone with Charles.

And thus she became the willing mistress of the exiled Prince of Wales.

She loved him truly; he was more to her than any other lover had been, for he was more than mere lover. It was that tender quality in him which moved Lucy. He was easygoing, full of wit, and if he did not always keep his promises, it was due to sheer kindness of heart which would not allow him to refuse anything which was asked of him.

As Prince’s mistress her life changed yet again. It was true that he was a Prince in exile, but he was England’s heir for all that. Although his eyes would never fail to light up when they rested on a pretty woman, he became devoted to Lucy; she was his chief love, and was content that this should be so. These weeks, she decided, were the happiest of her life.

She made the acquaintance of men whose names she had heard mentioned with awe; she heard the plots and intrigues which were in motion to win this second civil war, begun this year, and which one of these men—George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham—had helped to bring about. Buckingham had recently joined the Prince and was his closest companion. Charles told her that he and Buckingham had been brought up together, and when the elder Villiers died, King Charles I took his children into the royal household and Lord Francis and Lord George—as this Buckingham was then—had played with the royal children.

Lord Francis had been killed recently, as many people were killed in England; and the young Duke had escaped to join the Prince.

Charles enjoyed unburdening his mind to Lucy. He felt it was unimportant what he said to her, for Lucy only half-listened. He would smile on seeing the vague look which would come into her eyes at times, when she would nod and express surprise even when she had little notion about what he was talking.

“Why, Lucy,” he said, “you’d never betray my secrets to others, would
you, for the simple reason that you have never heard me betray them to you.”

That amused him. Some might have been angry at her obtuseness; Charles was rarely angry. If he was inclined to be, some spirit of mischief would seem to rise within him and make him see himself partly in the wrong.

“Lucy,” he would say, “I am like a man with an affliction of the eyes. They don’t focus together; consequently I have two pictures of every scene—two views, you see, and of the same affair. That’s very disturbing. Then I begin to wonder whether there are not many versions of the same picture, and whether the man with whom I have been so fiercely arguing has not as true a picture as mine. Lucy, you are not listening. You are wise, my love, for I am sure I talk much nonsense.”

She wanted to please him; she wanted to show her gratitude. She would not look at other men—or hardly ever. He noticed this; he had a quick appreciation of such things, and he thanked her gravely.

He introduced her to his brother James who was not quite fifteen years old.

James liked to talk to Lucy; he talked often of his recent escape. To Lucy he would talk of it again and again, for she did not mind, and would appear to be interested on every occasion. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him and he was so very proud of himself.

“To tell the truth, Lucy,” he told her on one occasion, “I escaped because I dared stay no longer. There were messages from our mother, and she was ashamed of me for not managing to get away. Elizabeth—that is my sister—was also ashamed. She used to say: ‘If I were a boy I should have found some means to escape.’ But it was not easy, Lucy. We were at St. James’ Palace where old Noll Cromwell had set guards to watch everything we did. They said they were going to make apprentices of Elizabeth and me, so that we could earn our living with our hands.”

“So you ran away,” said Lucy.

“Yes, I ran away. How I wish the others could have come with me! It was not possible, though, for the three of us to escape. Elizabeth was not strong enough. She was never strong after she fell and broke her leg. And Harry was not really old enough. He’s only nine now. We made plans, but only one of us could get away in safety. So we planned a game of hide-and-seek. I was to run and hide, and so was Henry. Elizabeth would look for us. I ran back to the guard and pretended to hide; then Harry came running out and asked a guard to lift him to the top of one of the porches where Elizabeth would not easily find him. While they were doing this I managed
to slip away to where my valet was waiting for me with horses. I changed my clothes and dressed up as a woman, Lucy. I nearly betrayed myself by raising my leg and plucking at my stocking as no woman would. But we got to Gravesend and so I went to Middleburgh and Dort and finally here.”

“It was a wonderful escape,” murmured Lucy.

“I’m glad you think so, Lucy.”

His eyes were admiring; he was almost as fond of the ladies as his brother was; and perhaps, thought Lucy, when he was older he would be quite as fond. But, she decided, although she liked him very much, he would never have his brother’s charm.

Yes, she was happy during those warm days of summer, and before September she knew that she was going to have a child.

Lucy grew large and there was speculation throughout the Court of exiles. Men and women made bets with one another. Whose child is this, they asked—Charles’ or Robert’s? Who could be sure of Lucy?

Lucy heard the gossip; so did Charles.

“It is your child,” she told him. “It could not possibly be that of another man.”

He nodded gravely; whether or not he believed it she was not entirely sure. He would never
say
that he doubted her word. He would consider that most ungallant. Moreover she might weep, and there was nothing which distressed Charles more than the tears of women. They could upset him more, it was said, than bad news from England. And what did it matter whose child Lucy carried? The Prince would acknowledge it as his, for, considering his relationship with the mother, he would feel it to be most unchivalrous not to do so.

There were some who remembered his grandfather, Henri Quatre; and they declared that the resemblance between these two—in character, not in appearance, of course—was great. Both were great lovers of women and treasured conquests in love more than those of war; both were blessed, or tormented, by the ability to see many sides to all questions and disputes; both were easygoing and good-natured almost to a fault. Henri Quatre had been a great soldier and an even greater King. Those who wished the Royal House of Stuart well, hoped that Charles had inherited more from his maternal grandfather than these qualities.

There were times during those summer months when a deep melancholy would show itself in the Prince’s face. The news from England was disastrous. Charles shut himself up with the letters his father sent from England.

He thought of the kindly man who had not, to his cost, possessed that gift of tolerance towards the opinions of others, but who had nevertheless been a loving father. He read the words Charles I had written.

“An advantage of wisdom you have above most Princes, Charles, for you have begun and now spent some years of discretion in the experience of trouble and the exercise of patience. You have already tasted the cup whereof I have liberally drunk, which I look upon as God’s physic, having that in healthfulness which it lacks in pleasure …”

Charles had to face the truth. He knew that his father was the captive of his enemies. He feared greatly that he would never see his face again.

He thought of his family: little Henry and Elizabeth, prisoners of the Parliament in St. James Palace; James here with him after a miraculous escape; little Henriette—his dear Minette—after an equally miraculous escape, in Paris with his mother; and lastly, Mary, his eldest sister, whose hospitality he now enjoyed.

War was raging in England; war was raging in France; and both these wars were civil wars, the rising of the common people against their royal rulers.

What did the future hold for him—the penniless, exiled Prince? He could not say; and, because he was never one to trick himself with false beliefs, he dared not think.

He would go to Lucy; they would sport and play together. He thanked God for love, which could always enchant him, always make him forget his troubles. Lucy was a delight; he must be thankful for the gifts he had, for though he was a Prince without a kingdom and heir to a throne which would be denied him, he had certain gifts which would always bring him favor with women. So he would plunge into pleasure and try to forget his melancholy state.