The Loves of Charles II (15 page)

Lucy, who had been lonely, was lonely no longer.

She had left Paris for The Hague—with her was the King and his little Court—for Charles had returned from Jersey and there were new plans afoot with the Scots. The Marquis of Montrose was awaiting him at The Hague with new propositions to lay before him. England would have none of her King; but Jersey had accepted him, and Scotland was prepared to do so—on terms. All Charles need do was sign the Oath of the Covenant, and he could be crowned at Scone.

Lucy did not understand why the King should be so perplexed. If he could not be King of England he could at least be King of Scotland. To be King of any land was surely better than to be King of none; and even Lucy could see that Charles was King in name only.

“You don’t understand, Lucy,” her lover tried to explain. “The Covenanters of Scotland are Presbyterian, and the Church of Scotland is the enemy of the Church of England, of which my father was head. There was trouble when my father sought to force them to accept the English liturgy. To sign the Covenant is, in a measure, to betray England. But what is the use of explaining, Lucy? You do not care for these matters, and perhaps in that you are wise. Lucy, I often think that if all the world were as careless of so-called great matters, and so absorbed in the pleasure of love, this Earth would be a happier place.”

Lucy smiled; she knew how to turn him from his worries; and he was only too ready to be turned. He hated trouble; when it presented itself he always seemed to be looking for the easiest way out of it.

His friend George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham, was at his elbow now. “Why not sign the Covenant?” he asked. “Better to have a country to rule over—even if it is that bleak and puritanical one—than remain an exile here!”

And so eventually he decided to sign. He knew that his mother would throw up her hands in despair, for the Covenanters’ aim was to destroy Popery; he knew that there would be many to say that had he been a nobler man he would have preferred exile to siding with the Covenanters. He explained to Buckingham: “I am not a man who is so devoted to religion that he cannot set it aside for the sake of peace. My grandfather changed his religion that the wars of France might cease. There are times when I feel that I am my grandfather reborn.”

“It is true you are as careless of religion,” agreed George. “You are devoted to women. There is certainly a resemblance. But, Sire, you will have to work harder with the latter if you are to compete with your noble grandsire.”

“Give me time,” murmured the King. “Give me time.”

The two young men could not be serious for long, and even the prospect of a sojourn in a land of Puritans could not curb their levity.

So Charles left for Scotland, whither obviously he could not take his mistress and little Jemmy. The Scots, said the King, so assiduously loved God that it gave them little time for loving others—even their wives; but he had little doubt that they took time off from their devotions to make love to their wives now and then, though it would be under cover of darkness and, as he had heard, for the sole purpose that more Puritans might be procreated.

Before he left he embraced Lucy and spent as long as he could playing with Jemmy.

“Take care of my boy, Lucy,” he admonished, “and remember me when I am gone.”

“I will never forget you, Charles,” she told him.

“Nor I you, Lucy.”

He did not promise that he would be faithful; although he broke so many promises, he did not make them callously. He doubted that he would be faithful, though he had heard that the Scottish women were as cold as their climate. There were always exceptions, as he well knew, and if there was one warmhearted woman in Scotland, he doubted not that he would find her.

So Lucy stood on the shore watching the ship sail away from Holland; then she returned to her apartments where she had so often entertained her royal lover, and declared to Ann Hill that no gentleman should enter her bedroom until her royal lover returned.

“You could not tolerate another after him,” said Ann.

“Indeed I could not!” declared Lucy.

She believed this for two whole days. Then she began to feel lonely. Her big brown eyes would rest wistfully on several handsome men who still remained at The Hague; but always little Ann Hill would be there to remind her of Jemmy’s father.

Lucy would sigh, and she and Ann would talk of Charles; and Lucy tried to be contented with that.

There was great excitement at The Hague because the Duke of York had arrived. The Duke lacked the gay charm of his brother; he was not unhandsome—and Charles was far from handsome—yet James seemed unattractive when compared with the King. He was solemn and rather obstinate; but in one respect he did resemble his brother—his love of the opposite sex. He did not enjoy his brother’s success with women, but he was determined to do so as soon as possible.

Lucy met Sir Henry Bennett soon after the arrival of the Duke. Sir Henry had come to Holland with James, and like James was looking for amusement at the quiet Court. As soon as he set eyes on Lucy he decided she could provide this, and when he learned something of her history, he could not believe—in spite of her association with the King—that she would be unwilling to become his mistress.

He called at her apartments, pretending to bring a message from his master. Ann Hill brought him to her mistress whose big brown eyes were wistful as they rested on his handsome figure, for if he had noticed Lucy, Lucy had also noticed him, and although they had not spoken at their first meeting, their glances told each other a good deal.

“Mistress Water!” said Sir Henry, bowing over her hand.

“Welcome to Holland, Sir Henry.”

“I was loath to leave France for Holland,” he said, his warm eyes full of suggestions, “but had I known I should find you here, Mistress Lucy, my reluctance would have immediately changed to delight.”

“Men’s tongues become sugar-coated at the French Court, I’ve heard.”

“Nay, Lucy. They learn to appreciate beauty and are not chary of expressing that appreciation.”

Lucy signed to Ann to leave them. Ann was hovering, and Lucy knew
that she was trying to remind her of her royal lover. Lucy did not want to remember Charles just now; she had remembered him for four months—an age for Lucy—and none but Charles could have kept her faithful so long.

As soon as they were alone Sir Henry was beside her, taking her hands and covering them with kisses.

“You … you move too quickly, sir.”

“Madame, in this world of change, one must move quickly.” “I would have you know of my position here.”

“Do you think I do not know it? Do you think I did not make it my first business to know it, as soon as I set eyes on you?”

“There is a child in the next room who is the King’s child.”

“Poor Lucy! You have been long alone, for indeed it is long since His Majesty left for Scotland.”

“I have been faithful to Charles …”

“Dear Lucy! What hardship for you! Come, I will show you that a knight in your arms is a better man than a king across the water.”

“That sounds like treason, sir.”

“Who’d not commit treason for you, Lucy!”

Lucy ran from him and made for the door, hoping he would catch her before she reached it, which he did very neatly. He kissed her with passion.

“How dare you, sir!” cried Lucy.

“Because you are so fair and it is a sin that all these charms should be wasted.”

“You shall pay for this, sir.”

“I’ll pay with pleasure, Lucy.”

“You will go at once and not dare come here again.” Lucy’s voice faded away; she gasped; she sighed; and she pretended to struggle as she was carried into the bedchamber.

So Lucy was no longer alone. Lucy had a lover.

The little Court, amused, looked on. What was Charles doing in Scotland? They wondered; they had heard rumors. Was he thinking wistfully of his exiled Court? From all accounts the Covenanters were keeping a stern eye upon him. He must listen to prayers and sermons each day; he must not walk abroad on Sundays; he must spend long hours on his knees. It was a big price, all decided, to ask of a man such as Charles, even for a kingdom. And what of the women of Scotland? How could he elude his jailors—for it seemed they were no less—to enjoy that company in which he so delighted? It was said that he was not permitted even to play cards, and that he had been seen by a pious lady sitting at an open window doing so, and that she
had immediately complained to the Commissioners of the Kirk. The King was sternly reprimanded. Cards on the Sabbath! The Scots would not allow that. One of the Commissioners had come in person to rebuke him and had read a long sermon on the evils of card-playing at all times, assuring him that it was a double sin to play on the Sabbath. But this Commissioner had seemed to be aware of the strain the Scots were imposing on the gay young King, for it was said that he whispered before he left: “And if Your Majesty must play cards, I beg of you to shut the window before commencing.” From which it might be deduced that Charles had found some in Scotland to understand him a little.

He had not been crowned, and the Duke of Hamilton and the Earl of Lauderdale had been warned that he was not to mingle with the people on the streets, for that easy charm would, it was understood, win them to his side; and because he was such a feckless young man no one could tell what effect this might have. The Scots wished to keep Charles Stuart under their control; he was to be the figurehead they would use when they marched against Cromwell’s England.

But, said the exiled Court, if there was an opportunity Charles Stuart would have found a mistress, and there were always women in any country; so it was certain that the warmth of Charles Stuart’s charm would have dispersed even the frigid mists of Scotland.

In any case Charles might be hurt when he came back to find Lucy unfaithful, but he would understand. He could always understand. Warm and passionate himself, he would be ready to make allowances for Lucy’s warm and passionate nature. It was true, Lucy assured herself, that no one of her temperament—or Charles’—could remain faithful to an absent lover for so long. So, after the first reluctant submission which Lucy liked to imagine had taken place by force, she would make assignations with her lover; she would deck herself with finery; she gave herself up to the arts of loving which she practiced so well, and in a month after the day when Sir Henry Bennett called at her apartments she found that she was to have his child.

A small and solemn party was riding slowly towards Carisbrooke Castle. There were guards before and behind; there were a few servants and a tutor, and in the center of the party rode two children, the elder a girl of fifteen, the younger a boy of eleven.

As they rode along the boy would take surreptitious glances at the girl down whose cheeks the tears were quietly falling. The pale face of his sister frightened him; her tears worried him, for he knew that she was now even more unhappy than she had been before.

He had always been afraid of his sister, afraid of her passionate courage as well as her frequent tears. She could not be reconciled to their way of living as he could have been. He could have forgotten that he was a prisoner if she would do so.