The Wondering Prince Page 16

  She nodded her head. “How the costume becomes her,” she said. “This little girl of yours will be a beauty yet, sister. Louis tells me that he is pleased with her dancing and that she plays the lute with a skill beyond her years.”

  Ah yes, that had been a happy day for Henrietta Maria who already saw the crown of France on her daughter’s head; but she was not so pleased as she surveyed her youngest son.

  Stubbornly he had determined to shut his ears to the truth with which Père Cyprien was trying to save him from perdition.

  “But he shall be saved!” Henrietta Maria told herself, tapping her foot. “He shall! Or I will make him wish he had never been born to defy his mother and God.”

  Little Henriette had been delighted with her success. She loved to dance; she had learned her verses more easily than anybody, and Louis himself had been delighted with her. She found that Louis’ praise made her very happy. When those large brown eyes were turned on her in appreciation, she felt that she could be perfectly happy if she could go on pleasing him. How different was Philippe! Philippe’s dark, long-lashed eyes were quite scornful of her; being a clever little girl and sharper-witted than the two boys, she was aware that neither of them wished to play with a girl as young as she was; the difference was that Philippe was anxious for her to know that they despised her youth, while Louis was anxious to hide this fact from her. Louis was not only handsome; he was kind. Henriette was beginning to think that he was one of the kindest people she had ever known. She was moved because he was a king—a much cherished king—and yet had the kindness to care for the feelings of a little girl. She tried to think of new ideas for ballets, and if Louis liked them she was happy; if his interest was perfunctory—which meant that he liked them not at all—she was desolate and cried a little when she was alone at night because she had failed to please him. Sometimes, oddly enough, if she had pleased him she would cry—but with different feelings; perhaps this was because she wistfully longed to be older and more beautiful, so that he would like her better.

  But her excitement in her companionship with the King was spoiled by her pity for her brother. Why could he not be allowed to continue in the faith of the Church of England? It was Charles’ faith; therefore it was right that it should be Henry’s; and as Henry had promised his father that he would never leave it, why could not Mam be satisfied with one little Catholic in the family?

  Charles came to see her and she forgot even her new friendship with Louis. He kissed her affectionately and told her he was going away again. It was to Cologne this time.

  “I am a wanderer on the face of the earth, Minette,” he said. “I am not only a king without a crown, I am a man without a country. I cannot stay long in one place for fear of wearing out my welcome. So I just flit from place to place, never staying long anywhere lest, when I next wish to visit it, my previous visit may be remembered as a very long one.”

  “Here we love to have you.”

  “You do, Minette, I know. But this is not your home either. However, be of good cheer. One day we shall be together. Then I shall be a king with a crown, and you shall be my companion forever. How will you like that?”

  “Let it be soon, I pray. It is what I should love more than anything on earth,” said Henriette vehemently.

  “Oh come, you are happy enough here. They tell me you have done well in the ballet and that Louis himself is pleased with you. There, Minette! You may bask in the rays of the Sun God, so what do you want with a poor wandering prince like me when you move in the radiance of the Olympians?”

  “I would rather be in a hovel with you.”

  “Nay, Minette, do not say such things. Make the most of your good fortune. Louis is a good fellow. It makes me happy that you have pleased him. And now I must see Mam before I depart, and make her swear not to plague poor Henry.”

  Henrietta Maria listened to her son in cold silence before she brought out the old arguments. The King, her husband, she stressed then, had promised that her children should be brought up in her religion.

  “Mam! Mam! Why cannot you leave this matter of Henry’s religion and concern yourself with the ballet as does our little Henriette?”

  “You are frivolous, Charles. It is small wonder that God does not crown your efforts with success. This is a child’s soul for which we are battling.”

  The King was stern for once. He said: “Henry has given his solemn word to our father that he will not change his religion. Mam, you astonish me. Would you force the boy to break his word? I speak to you now as your King, Madam. I forbid you to plague the boy. I command that you obey.”

  Henrietta Maria pursed her lips together to keep back the angry words.

  “My own son is against me,” she complained bitterly to her daughter when Charles had gone. “It is small wonder that he is an exile … small wonder indeed. It is small wonder that God is on the side of our enemies.”

  “But they are not Catholics either, Mam,” said Henriette gently.

  And for once the Queen pushed her daughter away from her; she was in no mood for further argument.

  Her mind was made up. Charles was the King and he had commanded her; but Charles was an exile and would soon be far away.

  Young Henry was bewildered. For so many years he had longed to escape from his father’s enemies, to be with his family; and now that he had achieved this end he found that he was tormented as he never had been when he was in the hands of the Roundheads.

  His mother gave him no peace. He must read this; he must study that; he must listen to the teachings of older, wiser men than himself. Père Cyprien was at his elbow; so was the Abbé Montague.

  To all their talk he remained mute and faithful to the promise he had given his father; his mother did not see his attitude as fidelity; she called it stubbornness.

  The little boy was only fourteen. He did not know what he would have done without his brothers and sisters. Charles was not only his brother but his King; and Charles supported him. But Charles had gone to Cologne for a brief spell. His brother James was in Paris, and he supported him.

  “Mam is a loving mother,” James had said; “she is fond of us all, but she has one real passion—her faith; and where that is concerned she is a regular tornado. Stay firm, brother. Those are Charles’ commands, and he is the King. You promised our father. You do well to remember your promise, and in this you are in the right.”

  He knew that his sister Mary, the Princess of Orange, had placed herself on his side. He was certain that Elizabeth would have supported him had she been alive; Elizabeth would have died rather than break her word to her father.

  “And so will I!” declared Henry on his knees. “And so will I. I swear it, Papa. I remember. I will remember.”

  And when his mother railed against him, he shut his eyes tightly and thought of that man in the velvet jacket and lace collar with the hair falling about his shoulders. “Never forget what I ask, Henry….” He heard those words in his dreams. “Papa … Papa …” he sobbed. “I will remember.”

  Sometimes his little sister Henriette came to his bed and sat beside it, holding his hand.

  She wanted him to be happy. She did not know whether she ought to obey her mother and try to bring her brother into the Catholic faith; but when she heard that Charles had commanded his mother not to molest Henry, she knew what she must do.

  She soothed Henry; she did not say much—it seemed so wrong to speak against her mother—but Henry knew that his brothers and sisters without exception were on his side; and he continued to hold out.

  Henrietta Maria was growing impatient. She would sit glowering at her youngest son, tapping the floor with her foot, her eyes hard.

  Obstinate fellow! she thought. What an unhappy woman I am! My children will not obey me. They flout me. They are fools. Had Charles become a Catholic he might have stayed here. He might have been helped to regain his kingdom; who knew, Mademoiselle might have married him. But this obstinate clinging to heresy … it is ruining my li
fe! What an unhappy woman I am!

  It was true that Anne of Austria was protesting against the celebration of the rites of the Church of England in the Louvre; it was true that she was ready to help Henrietta Maria in her battle for little Henry’s soul; but no one in France was ready to go to war with the Protector of England to help the King regain his throne. Still, Henrietta Maria liked to believe that this was so.

  And now the boy had dared, without his mother’s knowledge, to dispatch a letter to his brother, the King; that was because she had dismissed his tutor Lovel—an evil influence if ever there was one.

  Henrietta Maria now had Charles’ reply to Henry in her hands, and she fumed with rage as she read it.

  “Do not let them persuade you,” Charles had written, “either by force or fair promises; the first, they neither dare nor will use; and for the second, as soon as they have perverted you, they will have their end, and then they will care no more for you … If you do not consider what I say unto you, remember the last words of your dead father which were ‘Be constant to your religion and never be shaken in it’; which, if you do not observe, this shall be the last time you shall hear from

  Dear brother,

  Your most affectionate

  Charles II.”

  Her own family banding against her! It was more than a mother could endure. She would not be treated thus. She would settle this matter of her youngest son’s religion once and for all time.

  She waited until they had dined that day; then, as they rose to leave the dining chamber, she went to Henry and embraced him warmly.

  “My son,” she said, “how grieved I am that I should be forced to deal so severely with you, but it is my love that makes me do it. You must know that well.”

  “Oh, Mam,” said the little boy, his eyes filling with tears, “please understand. I gave my word to Papa.”

  “Please … please, Henry, don’t talk to me of Papa. There are some days when the memory of him hurts me more than others. I knew him more than you did, child. We had years together before you were born. Any grief you have felt for Papa is a small thing compared with mine.”

  “Mam … then … it is because of him, you understand …”

  “You are weary, my son,” she interrupted, “of being talked to on this matter. God knows I am weary of it too. Let us shorten the trial. Go to your apartments now and I will send the Abbé Montague to you.”

  “Please, Mam, there is nothing I can do. Do understand me when I say …”

  “Go now, my son. Listen to the Abbé, and then give me your final answer.”

  “It can make no difference.”

  She pushed him gently from her, wiping her eyes as she did so.

  He went to his apartment where the Abbé came to him; wearily he listened, and again and again he reiterated his determination not to swerve from the faith in which he had been baptized, not to break his word to his father.

  “This is going to hurt your mother, the Queen, so deeply that I fear what the result will be,” warned the Abbé.

  “I cannot heed the result,” answered the boy. “I have only one answer to give.”

  So the Abbé left him and went to Henrietta Maria who was with her youngest daughter; together they were stitching an altar cloth for Chaillot.

  “Your Majesty,” said Montague, “I fear I have only bad news for you. The boy remains obstinate. He clings fast to heresy.”

  Henrietta Maria rose to her feet, letting the altar cloth fall to the floor.

  Her daughter watched the purple blood disfigure her face as, clenching her hands together, she cried: “Very well! This is the end then. He shall see what it means to flout God … and me. Go to him. Tell him that he shall see my face no more. Go at once. Tell him that. Tell him I can bear no more sorrows. I am weary. I am going to Chaillot to pray … for there only can I find peace.”

  “Oh, Mam!” cried Henriette. “Mam, what are you saying? You cannot mean this.”

  “I do mean it. I never want to see his face again. I want to forget I bore him.”

  “But, Mam, he swore to our father. He swore. You must understand.”

  “I understand only that he wishes to flout me. I shall make him repent this ere long. Go to him at once, Abbé. Give him my message. The ungrateful boy! He is no child of mine!”

  Henrietta Maria flung herself out of the room; Henriette slowly picked up the altar cloth; then she sat down on the stool and covered her face with her hands.

  Was there no end to these troubles which beset her family?

  After a while she rose. She must go to Henry. Poor Henry, who had dreamed so often of reunion with his family!

  She went along to his apartment. Montague was talking to Henry, whose face was white; he looked stricken yet incredulous. It was clear that he could not grasp what the man was saying; he could not believe his mother had really cast him off.

  “Just think what this will mean,” Montague was saying. “If your mother renounces you, how will you live? How will you supply your table with food? How will you pay your servants?”

  “I do not know,” said Henry piteously. “I cannot understand!”

  “Then go to the Queen; tell her that you will be her very good son, and she will have a proposal to make which will set your heart at rest.”

  “I fear, sir,” said Henry in a quavering voice, though his lips were determined, “that my mother’s proposals would not have that effect upon me, for my heart can have no rest but in the free exercise of my religion and in the keeping of my word to my father.”

  James came into his apartment while Henriette was wondering what she could do to soothe her brother. When James heard the news he was astounded.

  “But our mother cannot do this!” he cried. “I will go to see her. There has been some mistake.”

  He strode out of the apartment, and Henriette put her arm about Henry. “Be of good cheer, Henry,” she begged. “There has been a mistake. You heard what James said. It must be a mistake.”

  But shortly afterwards James was back. “Our mother is in a fury,” he said. “She declares that henceforth she will show her pleasure to neither of her sons, except through the medium of Montague.”

  “Then she discards us both, James,” said Henry. “Oh, James, I almost wish they had not let me come to France. I was happier at Carisbrooke than here.”

  “I would there were something I could do,” said Henriette. “I do not believe Mam means this. She flies into tempers, but they pass. Go to her, Henry. Speak to her. She will soon be leaving for Chaillot, where she is going for Mass. Speak to her before she goes.”

  James thought that their mother might be in a softened mood as she was departing for her devotions.

  So Henry waylaid his mother; he knelt before her, entreating her not to turn away from him; but she pushed him angrily aside and would not speak to him.

  The boy was heartbroken and uncertain what to do. James put his arm about him, and together they went to the service which was held in Sir Richard Browne’s chapel for the English Princes.

  “She’ll get over her anger,” James told him. “Don’t fret, brother.”

  But when Henry returned to his apartment after the service, he found that all his servants had been dismissed. There was no place for him at the table.

  Bewildered, he flung himself down and gave way to bitter weeping. His mother, for whom he had longed during the years of exile, had turned away from him and had declared her intention of looking on his face no more.

  Gloomily he walked about the palace grounds. He did not know what to do.

  The day passed; he returned to the palace. He decided he would go to bed and try to make plans for the morrow. As he entered the palace his little sister ran to him. “Henry, what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I do not know. I must go away, I suppose. But I do not know where to go.”

  “Then you will resist … our mother?”

  “I must, Henriette.”

  “Oh Henry�
�. Oh, my brother! Oh, my mother! What can I do? I shall never be happy again.”

  “So you too are afraid of her. She is only kind to you because you are a Catholic. If you were not, she would be as cruel to you as she is to me.”

  Henriette continued to weep.

  Her brother kissed her. “I am going to my apartment,” he said. “I shall try to rest. Perhaps in the morning I shall know what to do.”

  She nodded and kissed him fondly.

  He broke down then. “It is because I so longed to be with her … so much …”

  “I know, Henry. I know, dear brother.”

  She turned and fled; and Henry went up to his apartments, only to find that the sheets had been taken from his bed, and that all the comforts had been removed from his room.

  His Controller found him there, staring about in a bewildered fashion; he reported that the horses had been turned out of the stables and that he himself had been dismissed and warned that he should expect no wages from the Queen while he remained in the service of Prince Henry.

  “But I do not know what to do!” cried the boy.

  James sought him out and James had good news.

  “Fret no more, brother,” he cried. “All will be well. Did you think Charles would forget you! He knows how fierce our mother can be when she is engaged in conversions. Charles has sent to you the Marquess of Ormonde who waits below. He has horses and instructions to take you to Charles in Cologne.”