Loyal in Love: Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I

THE HAPPIEST OF QUEENS

It was nearly two years later before the promised boy was born. They had been two happy years, with the affection between my husband and myself growing with every passing week. It seemed so strange that out of those stormy beginnings this deep and glowing love had come. Charles seemed to have grown more handsome than when I first saw him. He smiled now more frequently. He had completely forgotten his obsession with Buckingham and I had been quite content with the letters Mamie and I exchanged. She was married now and had become Madame St. George. Her husband was of the noble house of Clermont-Amboise so it was a very worthy match. I knew she was happy and had found consolation for our parting and I was glad of that. She had become governess to my brother Gaston’s daughter, who was known as Mademoiselle de Montpensier, and I believe she was quite a handful. Mamie wrote often of her enduring love for me and assured me that she would never forget those happy years when as Mademoiselle de Montglat she had been my governess and friend. But we both realized now that it was no use grieving and my letters, I know, were just as much a joy to her as hers were to me.

I was happy. I had learned to speak English now, and although I should never be exactly fluent in the language I could converse adequately. It pleased Charles so much and I was always happy pleasing him.

We rarely ever quarreled nowadays. Occasionally my temper would burst out and he would shake his finger at me but there would always be a smile and I would cry out: “Oh, you can’t expect me to change all at once. My temper has been with me from the cradle. I doubt it will ever leave me altogether.”

He said that he really liked me the way I was, which was very comforting and true lovers’ talk.

The only trouble between us was, of course, my religion. I often thought that if I could convert Charles to the Catholic Faith and with him the whole of England, I should be completely happy.

But that was asking too much, and even I was wise enough to realize that I had a great deal.

And now…my child was to be born.

I kept reminding Charles of Lady Davys’s prophecy and although he pretended to be skeptical, because it was a happy one, he was not really so.

I knew I had a great many enemies in the country. Some people even refused to rejoice at the prospect of an heir to the throne. They called me an idolatress—some even had the temerity to shout after me when I rode out. It was rather disconcerting, but I had always known that it might be necessary to suffer for the Faith. But there were plenty of people to rejoice in the birth and there were prayers all the time for my safe delivery and that the child should be a boy.

Well, we were not disappointed, for on the morning of May the twenty-ninth in that year 1630 I was brought to bed in the Palace of St. James’s and within a comparatively short time my son made his appearance. This time he was strong, lusty and clearly healthy—just as Lady Davys had said he would be.

I shall never forget the moment when they laid him in my arms. He was the ugliest child I ever saw. He was big and very dark and looked much older than one day.

“Why,” I said, “he is a little monster.”

Charles came in and looked at him. He said: “He is a perfect child. The doctors say he is in excellent health.”

“He is so dark…almost like a blackamoor.”

“Babies get lighter as they grow.”

“But,” I said, “you are handsome. I am not considered ill-looking. Why should we get the ugliest baby in the world?”

But we were not really concerned with his ugliness. He had arrived and he was by no means sickly. Doubtless he would grow prettier with age.

The King was most excited. He held the baby and marveled at him. “Perfect in every way,” he kept saying. Everything which ought to be there was there; he made his presence felt with lusty yells and showed from the first his determination to survive.

We were all delighted with him—better a strong ugly child than a frail pretty one.

On the very morning of the child’s birth Charles rode to St. Paul’s Cathedral to give thanks for the birth of his son and heir. The people cheered wildly; they liked him far better than they did me.

According to the custom my baby was baptized within a few days of his birth. I knew there would be some controversy about this because of the difference in the King’s religion and mine. I had been promised that I should supervise the religious upbringing of my children until their thirteenth year and that meant of course that I could educate them as Catholics.

However, I did see that the ceremony could not take place in my private chapel because it was fitted as a Catholic sanctuary. The King said firmly that the baby must be baptized in the chapel of St. James’s and I was too tired and too happy to argue.

The Bishop of London, William Laud, conducted the service with the help of the Bishop of Norwich and the sponsors were my brother, the King of France, and my mother; they could not, of course, be present, and the Duchess of Richmond and the Marquis of Hamilton were their proxies.

My baby went through the ceremony without too much protest and was christened Charles.

The next thing we had to concern ourselves with was his wet nurse. She must be from Wales, Charles told me, for it was a tradition that the first words the Prince of Wales spoke must be in the Welsh language. After that he could speak his own tongue.

How I enjoyed those days. Sometimes I try to live them again through my memories. It was such a joy to have a child and a devoted husband. Charles could scarcely tear himself away from us. He tried to please me in every way and I was very happy to accept his attention and feel proud of myself because I had given my husband and the country this ugly boy.

Young Charles grew apace but his looks did not improve. His wet nurse said he was the liveliest and hungriest child she had ever known and was going to be tall; he was already big for his age. He was so forward and was more like a three-month-old child than one of a few weeks. I used to look at him in his cradle and he would return my gaze steadily. His nose was too big for a baby, I thought; but his lively eyes were darting here, there and everywhere.

“You are going to be a remarkable man,” I said to him; and he looked at me so intelligently that I could delude myself into thinking that he understood.

I had to write and tell Mamie all about him. She had a child of her own so she would fully understand the pleasures of motherhood. Writing to her was like talking to her and our letters had been a great solace to me since she left.

“Mamie,” I wrote.

“The husband of my baby’s nurse is going to France and I am writing this letter believing that you will be very glad to ask him news of my son…. He is so ugly that I am ashamed of him, but his size and fatness supply the want of beauty. I wish you could see the gentleman, for he has no ordinary mien; he is so serious in all that he does, that I cannot help deeming him far wiser than I am myself….

“I assure you that if I do not write to you as often as I might it is not because I have left off loving you but because—I must confess it—I am very idle. Also I am ashamed to admit that I am on the increase again; nevertheless I am not yet certain.

“Adieu. The man must have this letter.

“Your affectionate friend,

“Henriette Marie R.”

Yes, I was indeed pregnant again. I was not displeased about this as my wise little Charles had made me long for another child.

The King was delighted too. It was well for us to have several children, for although little Charles already looked as though he would be able to give a good account of himself, with plagues and other troubles one could never be sure.

Kings and Queens should have large families. Well, it seemed as if, now I had started, I might live up to what was expected of me.

Being a mother and a contented wife did not change my nature. I still loved to dance and although being pregnant did restrict me in many ways I did enjoy entertainments, ballets and banquets. I was very fond of dwarfs. The little people fascinated me and I was delighted when the two I possessed decided to marry. I declared we should have a celebration for them, which we did, and I took great pleasure in arranging the wedding. I had a masque written for it, a musical entertainment. Our great poet Edmund Waller wrote lyrics for it which were set to music. I sang some of the songs but not those, naturally, which were written in praise of my beauty. There were many of those sung at Court and I was vain enough to enjoy them.

How the dwarfs amused us as they tumbled about the room and when they danced on the table, I thought I should laugh so much that it would be bad for the child I was carrying.

Charles and I made a short journey soon after that and were entertained at the house of the old Countess of Buckingham. It was amazing how, since the death of the Duke, I had become quite fond of his family.

This was an occasion I shall always remember. I was seated beside the King in the place of honor and dinner proceeded in the usual manner with the musicians playing all the time, for the Countess knew how much I enjoyed music.

During a short pause in the playing a great pie was carried in and placed in the center of the table. All eyes were on it as slowly the pastry began to crack from within, until there was a great hole in it and it was scattered over the table. Then out of the enormous dish there stepped a man. He was eighteen inches high, beautifully dressed in miniature garments and with a face which was quite handsome. He advanced along the table taking mincing steps between the dishes. When he came to me he bowed low and said in a very pleasant voice that he trusted I liked him well enough to appoint him my devoted servant.

Everyone was laughing and clapping. Even the King was smiling benignly. I think they were all aware of what was going to happen. For me, of course, it was to be a surprise.

I begged the little man to come and stand beside me. He did so, delicately brushing scraps of pastry from his elegant coat. I said I should be delighted to take him into my service for I liked well his looks and, as he would have heard, two of my little people had married. Oh, they were still in my service but married people were apt to be more devoted to each other than those they served.

He nodded knowingly and said he would dedicate himself completely to his Queen.

I kept him by me and thanked the Countess for giving me so much pleasure.

My little man told me his name was Geoffrey Hudson and that it had long been his ambition to serve me.

So he came into my service. He was extremely intelligent and capable of performing all sorts of errands for he was quite a little statesman; and I became very fond of him and was so pleased that he had come to serve me.

That November, a year and five months after the birth of my swarthy gentleman, I produced a daughter. We decided to call her Mary and like her brother she was baptized in St. James’s Chapel by Bishop Laud.

A few weeks after her birth my daughter became very ill, and Charles and I spent an anxious time during the days which followed. I had been so happy to have a pretty baby and now reproached myself that I had ever complained about my son’s lack of good looks. Healthy children were what we wanted; beauty could take second place.

The Countess of Roxburgh had been chosen as little Mary’s governess and Mrs. Bennet was her nurse; the child had the usual dry nurse, watchers, rockers, a gentleman usher, two grooms of the backstairs as well as a seamstress and a laundress and other menial servants which were the requisites of a royal infant. I greatly feared during those first days of her life that she was not going to need them.

Prayers were said in my private chapel but not all over the country because we did not want the people to know that we feared for the baby’s life.

But in a week or two Mrs. Bennet came to me beaming with delight. “My lady Princess is demanding nourishment, Your Majesty. It is a good sign. She is coming through this.”

And she did.

Charles and I were so happy then. We went to the nurseries and he held young Charles, and I my frail little Mary, and Charles said with that faint stammer which was there when he was overemotional or very shy that he would be the happiest man in Christendom if this little girl lived and I continued to love him.

Dr. Mayerne, the Court physician, was soon declaring in his rather somber way that Mary would live, and I expressed my overwhelming gratitude to him, and Charles did so more quietly but nonetheless sincerely.

It was not long after when, one night, as Charles was disrobed in our bedchamber that I noticed some spots on his chest. I was not alarmed at the time, but in the morning I remembered and looking at them again I saw that they had multiplied and were spreading up to his neck.

Dr. Mayerne was sent for and diagnosed small pox, which threw us into a panic. He told me to remove myself at once while he looked at everyone in the palace to make sure none was suffering from the dreaded disease.

“But,” I said, “it is my place to look after my husband.”

Dr. Mayerne gave me one of his withering looks. I often laughed with Lucy about him for he was no respecter of persons and always treated me as though I were not only a child but a somewhat stupid one. Strangely enough he was French, having been born at Mayerne near Geneva of Protestant parents, and his real name was Sir Theodore Turquet de Mayerne. Ever since he had practiced he had been a pioneer and had invented several cures, and he considered his work more important than anything else on Earth and did not care whom he offended in practicing it. Charles’s father, King James, had thought so highly of him that he had made him Court physician and Mayerne had looked after Charles ever since he was a boy.

“Anyone who goes into the sick chamber is liable to risk his or her life,” he said.

“He is my husband,” I replied, “and I shall allow no one else to look after him.”

“You are too fond of drama,” he told me. “This is not to be confused with playacting.”

“I assure you I do not think of it as playacting,” I cried indignantly. “I am deeply concerned for my husband and I shall be with him in case he needs me.”

Mayerne shook his head but I did see a gleam of something in his eyes which I could not exactly construe. It might have been a faint glimmer of approval.

Charles did not feel very ill, which was unusual in such cases, and tried to persuade me to leave him, but I stood firmly and refused.

He said: “You are a stubborn woman.”

“I am…where I love, and I can tell you, Charles Stuart, that no one is going to tear me from this room while you need me.”

He was deeply moved and turned away so that I might not see the tears in his eyes. All the same, he kept urging me to go.

I would not and I was the only one who nursed him through those days. Fortunately it was only a mild attack that he suffered; we spent the time playing games together, and but for my anxiety about him I could have been completely contented for within a few weeks he was well again. I suffered nothing, although all through his illness I had been in his bedchamber and had even slept in the same bed.

Mayerne said it was a miracle and implied that I did not deserve such good fortune since I was capable of such folly. But I think he admired me, although he considered me foolish. As for Charles, he loved me more than ever. He said he was the luckiest of men and no matter what happened to him in the future everything would be worthwhile because life had brought me to him. For a man who was not inclined to talk extravagantly that was saying a good deal and I told Lucy that I was happier than I had ever been in my life.

Alas, there was one of whom I was fond who was less fortunate. Poor Lucy retired to her rooms in great distress. The dreaded plague had struck her and for a woman like her, one of the beauties of the Court, it was the greatest blow which could befall a woman, for even if she survived, the chances of her being disfigured far outdistanced those of her immunity.

Lucy was not only one of the beauties of the Court, she was chief of them all. Edmund Waller and the poets said I was, but I think some of the beauty attributed to me was homage to royalty. To be honest, I had never been classically beautiful; my nose was too large, so was my mouth; of course I did have magnificent dark eyes and because of my nature, which so many thought frivolous, they sparkled with more vitality than most people’s. My features were rarely ever in repose long enough for people to notice the length of my nose; so I gave the impression of charm, which may have been mistaken for beauty. But Lucy Hay was beautiful by any standards. Poets wrote verses to her, and she was lively and intelligent and liked to dabble in politics. She was rightly considered to be the most attractive woman at Court.

The thought of all that beauty being dimmed by the aftermath of the small pox cast a shadow over the Court. I was delighted when I heard that she was recovering, but she refused to admit anyone to her chamber; and only her closest attendants were allowed to see her, so I feared the worst.

For some time she would not emerge from her bedchamber and we all waited in trepidation for her to appear. Some of the poets were disconsolate. I believe they thought they had lost their main source of inspiration.

Then she sent word to me that that night she intended to join the company in the great hall for the evening’s entertainment. I was planning some special celebration to give thanks for Charles’s recovery. I was not sure whether Lucy’s was going to be a cause for rejoicing or not.

I remember that occasion so well. I was wearing a dress of white satin with a large collar trimmed with points. It is strange that when I remember certain occasions I see my clothes clearly. I suppose it is because in those days I paid great attention to them. I had a slight curvature of the spine which had to be disguised by clever dressmaking. I hated anyone to know of this and often had large collars made which hung over my dresses like shawls. Because my dresses were like that it became one of the highest fashions. This was a charming dress and I remember it in detail because it was one of my favorites and that was such an outstanding evening. I often wonder whether it is good to remember so clearly. Such memories come back and back again and I can project myself into those times and relive them. Whether it is a clever thing to do I cannot say. Sometimes the sorrow such recollections bring is greater than the joy.

There was a hushed silence when Lucy appeared. She was magnificently dressed and she had a superb figure, and that was certainly unaltered except perhaps she was a little thinner, which only made her look more elegant.

She was masked and we feared the worst. The mask was black velvet and it covered the whole of her face; through the slits, her eyes glittered. She walked up to Charles and me and bowed low.

I put my arms about her. I knew it was indecorous but I couldn’t help it. I was so distressed. My beautiful Lucy, the shining light of our Court and forced to wear a mask!

I fancied I sensed despair in her. I tried words of comfort. I kept saying: “Lucy …dear Lucy” again and again.

Then she stepped back and said in a voice which everyone could hear because there was such silence: “Your Majesties, have I your permission to unmask?”

“Only if you wish, Lucy,” I said.

She replied: “I do. It is well for all to see.”

Then dramatically she threw off the mask. There was a gasp. Lucy was revealed, her skin dazzling pink and white, completely unmarred.

There was a rustling throughout the room and then everyone was rushing up to look at her and congratulate her.

That scene was typical of Lucy Hay.

I said that we must celebrate the King’s recovery—and Lucy’s—and the manner in which we should do so would be by having a play or a masque performed. I wanted one written specially for the occasion so I summoned a writer whose work we liked. This was Ben Jonson, an aging man but one who had a light touch, and I had engaged him on several occasions to write a masque for me; and the best of our designers of scenery could work with him; this was an architect called Inigo Jones. Before I came to England the banqueting hall in Whitehall Palace had been destroyed by fire, and it was Inigo Jones who had designed the new one. He was the only son of a cloth-maker but he had done very well and there was evidence of the fine quality of his work throughout the capital. Unfortunately he and Ben Jonson did not like each other and were constantly quarreling. Jonson had once said that if he wanted to name a villain in one of his plays he thought it would be a good idea to call him Inigo. I should have known better than to engage the two of them to work on the same production. It was not long before they were refusing to work with each other because Jonson had put his own name before that of Inigo Jones on the title page of the work.

I was so angry with them both that I dismissed them and called in Walter Montague to start all over again and give us a play we could act, which had dancing and singing in it. Wat Montague was the son of the Earl of Manchester and had lived a great deal abroad in France and Italy, and although some people said he had not the wit and panache of Ben Jonson he had a good idea of the sort of entertainment I wanted.

Consequently he produced a masque called The Shepherd’s Paradise, which all my attendants declared was a masterpiece.

Many were going to perform in it and of course there was a part—the main one—for me. I was glad to have a big part but I did flinch when I saw the amount of words I should have to learn. I almost wished that I had retained Ben Jonson who for all his quarrelsome ways was able to say a great deal in a little space.

However we laughed over it and heard each other’s words and there was a great deal of talk of the play we were going to perform both in and outside the Court.

We had an enormous audience because people were allowed to come in from the streets if they could get in. It was not always easy and the Lord Chamberlain had made several rules which kept out certain people. But it was natural, I said, that the people should want to see their Queen perform in a play so I asked the Lord Chamberlain not to be too harsh.

The play went on for eight hours; and there was singing and dancing, which I liked, and in spite of the fact that many people had to sit cross-legged on the floor and quite a number of us forgot our lines and had to be audibly prompted, it was a success and I liked to see the people laughing and having a good time. It would make them like us, I said to Charles afterward.

Then we heard of the odious Mr. Prynne.

He took this very time to publish a book which he called The Histriomastrix; it was over a thousand pages in length. It was a diatribe against immorality, for William Prynne was a Puritan of the worst kind, which I hated so much and grew to hate so much more than any other type of man. Playacting was unlawful, he wrote. It was an incentive to Immorality. Plays had been condemned by the Scriptures and he was condemning them now.

The book was brought to Court and we all pored over it.

Saint Paul had forbidden women to speak in churches. He “Dares any Christian woman to be so more than whorishly impudent as to act or speak publicly on the stage (perchance in man’s apparel and cut hair) in the presence of sundry men and women.”

He went on to rant about women actors who were nothing more than strumpets. As for dancing that was worse still. It should be a criminal offense, and those who performed should be thrust into prison and do penance for their wickedness.

We might have laughed at such fanaticism but he did quote the Bible and the writings of many illustrious Christians; and we all knew that the attack was directed against me because I had acted, I had sung, and more than anything I loved the dance.

When the King read it he was very angry—not because he considered it important but because it was an insult to me. He thought the author should be brought before him and made to apologize. I think that would have satisfied the King, but Dr. Laud, who had become Archbishop of Canterbury, saw something significant in this attack.

He believed it was directed not only against the Court but was a criticism of the vestments of the clergy and ceremonies of the Church.

“Prynne is a dangerous man,” said Archbishop Laud.

As a result Prynne was arrested and stood trial in the Star Chamber. He was sentenced to prison and fined; his degree was taken from him and he was to stand in the pillory and have his ears lopped off.

Charles thought it was a harsh sentence for writing a book but the Archbishop was stern in his condemnation. “Men such as this could ruin the Church and all it stands for,” he said. “There are too many Puritans in the land and inflammatory literature such as this could increase their number. Let them see what happens to anyone who dares criticize the Queen.”

That silenced Charles but I could not sleep for some nights—the least upset gave me insomnia—and I kept seeing that man in my mind’s eye standing in the pillory with his ears dripping blood.

Of course he was an unpleasant creature. He was a miserable old spoilsport and he wanted to make us all be like him. But his ears…

Charles knew that I was worried about him, and Charles was too, for he was a just man. On the other hand Prynne had attacked royalty, for there was no doubt that the Court was his target, and Charles said that he was going against the Lord’s anointed—although, of course, I had never been anointed owing to my firm adherence to my own Faith.

Charles said he would order that pen and paper be taken to Prynne in prison. “That will comfort him,” he said.

“And enable him to write more words directed against us?”

“Poor fellow! He has suffered” was all Charles said; and I agreed with him that he must let Prynne have pens and paper. He would have learned his lesson and not write any more against us I was sure.

Soon after Lucy had appeared to the company so dramatically without her mask a rather unusual contretemps sprang up between some of the notable men of the Court. I was particularly interested because it concerned a letter of mine and one of my favorite friends was involved.

This was Henry Jermyn who had always seemed to me a most amusing gentleman and we had found a great deal to talk about when we met for, although he was quite humble in station, he had most excellent manners. I felt at home with him, perhaps because he had spent a great deal of time in Paris, where he had been sent on an embassy. He was able to give me news of my family and to talk knowledgeably about the life I remembered so well from my girlhood.

Henry was very tall, inclined to be somewhat on the heavy side; he was as fair as I was dark, with a lazy look which I found diverting. Some years before he had been appointed to the post of Vice Chamberlain and before that he had represented Liverpool in Parliament.

He was an inveterate gambler and as different from Charles as one man could be from another. Everything Charles did must be right in his own eyes. I sensed at once that Henry would not have the same regard for duty but liked to do what was most comfortable to him and which did not demand too much effort. As I was equally lazy and pleasure-loving there was an immediate bond between us. He was the sort who slipped in and out of trouble with easy grace, usually relying on his charm to extricate him from anything which interfered too much with an easy life.

There had been a little trouble on the tennis courts of Whitehall when he accused one of the men of attacking him with tennis balls. Henry had become really violent for like many people who are not easily aroused, when he was he seemed to make up for his periods of quietness.

That was a small matter compared with two other scrapes which followed closely on each other and resulted in a term of imprisonment and then banishment.

The first incident rose through the new French ambassador, the Marquis de Fontenay-Mareuil, to whom I had taken an instant dislike as soon as he arrived to replace my dear Marquis de Châteauneuf, who had been in England for some three years. There was at Court at this time a very charming young man, the Chevalier de Jars, who had come into conflict with the devious Cardinal de Richelieu and been exiled. He had come to me and as I knew that Richelieu and my mother were now enemies, naturally I made the Chevalier welcome. He was young, handsome and charming; he danced beautifully and played tennis so well that Charles—who was an excellent player—enjoyed a game with him. I was glad to see my compatriot fitting in so well at Court.

There was one man whom I greatly disliked and that was Richard Weston, Earl of Portland, who was the Lord Treasurer. Now when I try to reason out why I disliked him so much, I suppose it was because Charles thought so highly of him and I could never forget Buckingham and what a hold he had had over the King, and I think I was always afraid that someone else would rise up and maneuver himself into a similar position. Moreover, Weston was always refusing to give me money and at times made me feel like a pauper. When I complained of this to Charles, he gave me his slow smile and said it was Weston’s duty to look after the exchequer and make sure there was always enough money for the country’s needs. I said that was all very well but need he be so parsimonious? In any case there was enough money for the country’s needs so why be so miserly about my little request.

Charles said that was female logic and kissed me.

However, I was not to be put off so easily and I talked to my friends like Lord Holland and the Chevalier de Jars about it.

The Marquis de Fontenay-Mareuil was aware that I confided in the Chevalier de Jars, and men such as he always imagine that conspiracies are being hatched. One day the Chevalier came to me in great distress. He told me that his chambers had been ransacked and his papers taken away.

I took him to Charles at once, who looked very grave and asked him who he thought was responsible for this action.

“I feel sure it is someone who wishes to do me harm,” said the Chevalier.

I said: “We must find this thief, Charles, and he must be punished.”

Charles said the best thing to do was summon the French ambassador. This he did and I begged to be present at the interview because I thought that it might be necessary to defend my dear friend, the Chevalier.

I was right. Not that there was much I could do; and the effect of this was a near quarrel between Charles and myself.

Fontenay-Mareuil was very haughty. He admitted at once that it was on his orders that de Jars’s chambers had been ransacked and his papers removed.

“This is stealing,” I cried out.

“Your Majesty,” replied the ambassador, turning to me and bowing, “I am in the service of his Gracious Majesty, King Louis, and it is on his orders that I investigate the actions of the Chevalier de Jars.”

Charles nodded, seeing the truth of this.

“I have therefore removed the Chevalier’s papers,” went on Fontenay-Mareuil, “and in view of the fact that he is now without them, it will be necessary for him to return to France.”

“For what reason?” I demanded.

“That, Your Majesty, will need to be discovered.”

He then asked Charles if anything more was required of him.

When he had gone I turned to my husband. “You are not going to let him tell lies about the Chevalier. He is a friend of mine.”

Charles spoke tenderly. “Oh, I know he dances very well and is a merry companion, but if he is working against his King he must answer for his actions.”

“But he is my friend.”

“He is first the subject of the King of France.”

“Does this mean he will be sent back to France?”

“He cannot stay here if he has no papers.”

“Why not?”

“Because they have been removed by the ambassador and I have no doubt that in a few days we shall hear from your brother that the Chevalier is to return to France.”

I begged and pleaded, but Charles said that much as he wanted to give me all I desired he could not interfere with matters of state, particularly between a King and a subject of another country.

“It is my country,” I cried.

But he reminded me that I was now English.

I felt my temper rising, but Charles looked so distressed, and I did not want to do anything to spoil our happy life together so I curbed my irritation and made up my mind that I would be wiser to be silent as long as I did everything I could to help my dear friend.

But there was little I could do, for within a week or so the Chevalier received orders from my brother to return to France. I was very worried about him for I was certain that the odious Fontenay-Mareuil would have told tales about him.

I was right for as soon as the Chevalier set foot in Paris he was arrested and sent to prison.

After that there was a series of arrests. Châteauneuf was sent to Angoulême and kept there; even the frivolous Duchesse de Chevreuse, who I believe had numbered Châteauneuf among her admirers, was sent into retirement. Not that she endured it long for in due course we heard that she had captivated her guards and with their help, dressed as a man, she escaped into Spain.

But that was later. Meanwhile I had to think of my dear Chevalier de Jars.

This was where the trouble started for I wrote to my brother, begging him to release the Chevalier and assuring him that the young man had never been anything but a good friend to France. Unfortunately Weston’s son, Jerome, was acting as a courier and had been sent to Paris with important papers to be delivered to Louis and on his way back to England with further communications he happened to spend the night at an inn where the courier taking letters to Paris was staying. They fell into conversation and Jerome, who took his duties very seriously and, as the son of his father, was well aware of plots against him, thought he was within his rights to examine the letters which were being taken to France.

Thus it was that he came across the one which I had written to my brother and another written by Lord Holland. These were private letters and the custom was to send them separately; and the fact that they were in the diplomatic bag raised the officious Jerome Weston’s suspicions. He took the letters and brought them back to England to present to the King.

It was not difficult to imagine my fury when I heard what had happened. Charles did his best to restrain me, but this time he did find it impossible.

“It is an insult,” I cried. “How dare this…upstart treat me like this? Am I the Queen or am I not?”

Charles tried to calm me. “He was doing what he thought was his duty.”

“His duty…to insult me!”

“It was not intended to be an insult. Private letters should not be put into the diplomatic bag. Don’t you see that if someone wanted to make mischief how easily it could be done? There has to be a close watch on this. All young Weston was doing was his duty.”

“Lord Holland is furious,” I cried. “He will do that young man an injury.”

“He will be foolish if he does for that would be an offense whereas Jerome Weston has committed none.”

I was exasperated and left him. I dared not trust myself to stay longer for I should have started to abuse Charles himself very soon.

I went to my own apartments. Lucy was there with Eleanor Villiers, a niece of Buckingham, who had joined the ladies of my bedchamber some little time before.

I told them what had happened and they both expressed their astonishment that young Jerome Weston could have behaved so; that comforted me a little.

It was Eleanor Villiers who brought the news to me. She seemed very upset.

“Henry Jermyn has been arrested,” she said.

“Henry Jermyn! But why?”

“Holland challenged young Jerome Weston to a duel because he said he had insulted you and himself. Henry delivered the challenge and that is an offense.”

“What of Holland?”

“He is also arrested.”

I said: “I will see the King at once.”

I found Charles with some of his ministers and they were already discussing the matter which had sprung up between Holland and the Westons involving Henry Jermyn.

“I must see you at once,” I said, glancing haughtily at the ministers, and adding: “Alone.”

I could see that they thought Charles a most uxorious husband for he immediately told them he would see them later.

They left and I burst out: “I have just heard that Henry Jermyn has been arrested and Lord Holland with him.”

“That is so,” said the King.

“But why?”

“For disobeying the law. They know dueling is forbidden and any connected with it are guilty of breaking that law.”

I said “Holland has challenged young Weston. But why Henry Jermyn….”

“I will not allow the laws to be broken.”

“He is my friend.”

“My dearest, even your friends are not friends of the crown if they break the laws.”

“This is a plot.”

“I think,” said Charles, “that there is a plot and it is directed against my Treasurer. The young man did right to intercept the letters. He suspects that some people are working against his father and I am of the opinion that he may be right. He was acting within his duties in searching the diplomatic bags. You must understand that, my loved one. We cannot have plots within our midst and we must be ever watchful of those who foment them.”

“Do you mean that Holland and Jermyn will be punished?”

“They must answer to the law. There have been murmurings against the Treasurer, who is a good and honest man. He is careful with our money and that is what we need.”

“So you are determined to be on his side!”

“My dear, I am on the side of right.”

I could see that no amount of pleading could change him. He was the most obstinate man alive and while he thought he was doing what was right he would continue to do it.

He explained to me that it was offensive that a member of his council—as Holland was—should send a challenge to a man in the King’s service who was merely carrying out his duties.

Of course neither offense was very great and all that happened was that Holland was confined for a while to his house in Kensington and Henry Jermyn was sent away from the Court for a short time to stay in a private house.

It was typical of both men that they should make the most of their captivity. Holland gave parties and it was said that he attracted all the most amusing people from Court to visit him. I heard that his parties were the most exciting thing that was happening. The Court certainly seemed a little dull without those two. I particularly missed Henry Jermyn. I did not realize how much he had amused me until I had lost his company.

Charles had become more friendly than ever with the Earl of Portland since the incident and with his son—the little spy, I called him. They were both high in Charles’s favor.

I said to Charles, rather bitterly: “It is clear that you will never listen to my desires. You punish my friends and cherish my enemies.”

“You rule my heart,” said Charles, who could be very sentimental at times, “but, my dearest love, because God made me King I have to rule this kingdom. Those whom you think are your friends are not truly so for if they work against me and my ministers they cannot be mine, and you and I are as one, and therefore what is evil for me is evil for you also.”

I was so happy with Charles and the babies that I did not really want anything changed; but I did think a great deal about Holland and Henry Jermyn, and after a few weeks, because I missed them so much, Charles said they could return to Court. So they came back and I was delighted. But Charles was cool to them both and his trust in the Earl of Portland seemed not to have decreased.

Charles said that Holland was unreliable and I should not become too friendly with him. I reminded him that he had arranged our marriage and I added: “He will always have a special place in my regard because he did that.”

Charles was touched and very soon these two gentlemen were as much in evidence as ever, though I did believe they saw how useless it was to try to shift the King’s trust in his Treasurer.

It was soon after that that the second trouble arose.

I noticed that Eleanor Villiers had been looking a little strained lately and it gradually dawned on me that she was in a certain condition which I myself had been in more than once so I was very much aware of the signs.

I called her to me one day, making sure that we were alone and I said: “Eleanor, are you feeling quite well?”

She looked startled and then blushed a fiery red, so I knew I had not been mistaken.

“Who?” I asked.

She would not say at first and I thought I could not press her…just yet.

“How soon?” I asked.

“Five months,” she replied.

“Well, Eleanor,” I went on, “it is a good thing I know. Your marriage will have to take place without delay.”

She was silent and I feared the worst.

“He is married?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Then that is good. There must be no delay. Why did you wait so long?”

“He does not want to marry.”

“Does not want to marry! But he will have to keep his promise.”

“He made no promise.”

“You mean that you…a lady of the Court…without a promise of marriage….”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

I said angrily: “Who is this man?”

And then she told me. “Henry Jermyn.”

“Oh, the rogue,” I cried. “Leave this to me. The King will be most put out. You know what a high standard of morality he sets upon the Court. I will speak to Jermyn at once. Go and leave this to me.”

I sent for Henry. He looked as jaunty as ever—not in the least like a man who was heading for trouble. He took my hand and kissed it.

I said: “I have just been talking to Eleanor Villiers.”

Even then he did not look in the least disturbed.

I went on: “She had some distressing news to tell me. I think you must know what it is.”

He put his head on one side in an amusing way he had and regarded me with earnestness. I said severely: “It is no use assuming innocence. You know what you have been doing. You have got the poor girl with child.”

“Most careless,” he said.

“I agree with that. There is nothing you can do but marry her.”

“That I cannot do.”

“What do you mean? You cannot marry her! You are a bachelor, are you not?”

“A very impoverished one.”

“I cannot see that that should prevent your marriage.”

“Alas, the lady is also impoverished and now that her uncle is dead and blessings have ceased to flow on the family, she is as poor as I am and such poverty should always be a bar to marriage.”

“You are a wicked man,” I said.

“Who sometimes amuses Your Majesty. If I can do that I must be content.”

“The King will hear of it and be most displeased.”

“I regret that.”

“He may well order you to marry the lady.”

“I do not think the King would step outside his rights.”

“No. He always does what is right. Well, Henry, there will be trouble over this. She is after all a lady of the Court and a member of the Buckingham family at that.”

“I know,” he said mournfully.

“You should marry her.”

“It would not be a good marriage for either of us. She is a charming girl…but penniless, and I am a rogue as you say and not worthy of her.”

In spite of his light manner I could see that his mind was made up.

The King was most distressed. “I will not have this immorality in my Court,” he said.

“You cannot make them marry though. Do you think Eleanor Villiers would want to marry a man who did not want to marry her?”

“As there is to be a child, yes.”

“But I do see Henry’s point. If he marries her he will have no chance of retrieving his fortunes.”

“If he doesn’t what chance has she of making a happy marriage?”

I looked at him helplessly and thought again how fortunate I was in my happy marriage.

I flung my arms round him and told him so. He smiled quietly and indulgently at my demonstrative behavior, which was so unlike his own; he patted me and said that he would consider the matter and decide what should be done.

The King saw both Eleanor Villiers and Henry separately.

He was determined then that Henry should marry Eleanor. He said he must have promised marriage before she agreed to intimacy with him but Eleanor, who was a very honest girl, said there had been no talk of marriage.

The King was horrified, but she said; “I loved him too much.”

Charles was touched and that made him all the more angry with Henry. He said that as there had been no promise of marriage he could not insist on it, but he would not for one moment give his approval to what Henry Jermyn had done. He did not demand that there should be a marriage but he said that Henry would not be welcome at Court until there was one.

That meant banishment. Henry went abroad and once more I was deprived of his company.

In the meantime I had become pregnant again. I often thought that Buckingham must have laid a spell on me because during the time of his ascendancy over Charles, I remained barren; and no sooner was he dead than I became as fertile as any woman in England.

When I told Charles that I was expecting another child he was overjoyed.

“We must go to Scotland soon,” he said, “for you will not be able to travel when your pregnancy is advanced.”

“Scotland!” I cried in dismay. I had never liked what I heard about the place. It was cold and the people were dour, so said my informants. I thought some of them in our own Court were solemn enough so I did not relish going among those who were more so.

“It is time I was crowned there,” said Charles. “The people expect it.”

I was immediately apprehensive. I had refused to be crowned with the King in England. How could I possibly be in Scotland? I was in a very difficult position as my French advisers had pointed out. For a Queen not to be crowned was to place herself in a position which could be dangerous. On the other hand, how could I, a fervent Catholic, bow to the doctrines and customs of the Protestant Church?

“I cannot do it,” I said. “I should hate myself if I did. It would be wrong. I cannot deny my Faith.”

Charles tried to explain patiently that there was no question of denying my Faith. All I had to do was stand beside him and be crowned. But I knew there was that in the coronation ceremony which obligated the sovereign to swear to live in the Reformed Faith. I knew what that meant. It was flouting the Holy Church, and I could not do it.

In the old days there would have been a quarrel. There was none now.

Charles looked at me sadly and tenderly; he said that he understood the depth of my feelings and would do nothing to distress me.

So he went to Scotland without me and I stayed at home to await the birth of my next child.

When I look back in the light of hindsight, and perhaps because I have become wiser than I was, I think perhaps the first seeds of disaster were sown during that visit to Scotland. I now understand the character of my husband as I never did then. Then I loved him for his concern for me, his devotion and the knowledge that he was one of the few faithful husbands at Court and because he made me feel cherished and beautiful. Now I can love him for his many sterling qualities and at the same time for the weaknesses which would destroy him.

I thought then—and I think now—that Charles was one of the most noble and virtuous men ever to sit on the throne of England; he was a good man, but to be a good man is not necessarily to be a good King; some of the greatest Kings who ever lived have been far from good in their private lives. I see now that the two lives are different and one cannot be judged against the other. We do not judge a man but a king. As a man Charles was noble and good; as a king he was often blind, often foolish, unable to see beyond his own vision, which was misted over by the firm belief that Kings are chosen by God and rule by the Divine Right.

I can see all this now; but I could not see it then. In fact I did not give much thought to it. If I had been asked I should have said that of course we should go on living as we were, raising our children, and in due course my eldest son would take the crown. There were outcries about taxes and Charles said the exchequer was in a sorry state but that had often happened before and as it never made any difference to my way of life, I ignored it.

Now I look back at Charles and try to see him as he was—a smallish man, fastidious and very reserved; he took a long time to make friends, but when he did he became devoted to them, as I had seen through Buckingham and, once he had really grown to love, with me. He was the sort of man whose friendship was to be completely trusted. He was very steadfast in his opinions, and if he liked or disliked a person it was hard to shake either his trust or his suspicion. He loved art in any form and once told me how he would have enjoyed being able to paint, write verses, or compose music; he lacked the talent of performance yet that did not mean he was not a good judge and he did a great deal to encourage painters, musicians and writers at our Court.

“I want a cultivated Court,” he once said to me.

I enjoyed these things, too, so that was an added bond between us.

Dear Charles! He could not make friends easily and he never really understood the people whom he was so anxious to govern well. Later I read a great deal about Queen Elizabeth. This was when I was trying to understand what had gone wrong. I remembered those pilgrimages she made through the country—getting to know the people, always pleasing the people; she had been much more careful in her treatment of them than she was of her intimate friends. Oh, she was a clever woman—a great Queen and a great ruler…but she lacked the noble personal character of my Charles.

He would become less aloof in the hunting field. He loved horses and understood them far better than he did people. Perhaps that was why he liked to be with them and avoided human contact—except with those few whom he loved.

He was so constantly reading the book his father had written called Basilicon Doron that he must have known it off by heart for it was not very long. It was a kind of guide book for kings and had been intended for Charles’s elder brother, who had died leaving Charles to bear the burden. The theme of this book was that a king had received his crown from God. Charles never forgot that and he always believed firmly in the Divine Right of anointed Kings to govern their people.

I realize that I was in a great measure responsible for the people’s dissatisfaction—but perhaps I should say my religion was. There were, it was true, many Roman Catholics in England, but the country as a whole was solidly behind the Reformed Church. And here was I, the Queen—a Catholic.

Charles did everything he could to make things easy for me. He never tried to make me give up my Faith and I had my chapel, which was as Catholic as anything I had in France. But the people did not like it. He had introduced certain ceremonials into the Church of which the people did not approve and Charles, believing that he had Divine guidance in this, had directed the clergy to keep silent on the matter. There was trouble with the people they called Arminians, who were followers of a Dutchman, Jacobus Arminius. He had published a book which opposed some of the teachings of Calvin, and the Commons had wanted the Arminian theory to be suppressed and were annoyed with the King’s attitude. This was disastrous for him because he needed their support over the tonnage and poundage matters which could provide funds for the Treasury.

I paid very little attention—I wish now that I had paid more. I might have seen the storm clouds gathering and done something to protect ourselves from them.

Charles had dismissed that Parliament and not called another. For eleven years he had ruled without a parliament. How blind we were not to realize what forces we were building up against ourselves.

Meanwhile the King went to Scotland. There he angered the Scots by being crowned by five bishops all ceremoniously dressed in white rochets and sleeves and copes of gold and shoes of blue silk of which the Scots did not approve; moreover the communion table was arranged after the manner of an altar with a tapestry set up behind it on which the crucifix was put up.

This was bringing something which the Scots called near-idolatry into their Church and they did not like it. Moreover they strongly resented it and there was a very dangerous moment during the Parliament which Charles was forced to call in Edinburgh after his coronation, when the matter of imposing apparel on churchmen was raised.

The majority of members voted against it, but Charles, who was certain he could manage very well—in fact much better without Parliament, instructed the clerk of the court to announce that the matter had been carried in the affirmative.

Charles then said that the decision must be right since the clerk had made it, and since it was a capital offense to falsify the records were some members going to accuse the clerk? None was prepared to put the clerk into such a dangerous situation, for how could they know what would be proved against him; but the Scottish nobles were not the kind of men to allow this to pass. There were objectors and the chief of these was John Elphinstone, Lord Balmerino, who was consequently arrested and put into Edinburgh Castle. Charles had returned to England before he was tried. It was imperative that Elphinstone should be found guilty and, when he was, the people gathered in the streets of Edinburgh, threatening to kill the judge and jurors, swearing vengeance on all those who had connived against their hero Elphinstone. He had to be reprieved but was made a prisoner in his castle at Balmerino and finally he was freed.

I mention this because I think it was one of the pointers to the King’s eventual fate and was the beginning of Scotland’s disenchantment with him.

The King returned from Scotland in time for the birth of our next child. There was great joy on that October day for we had another boy. We called him James after Charles’s father and a pretty boy he was—so different from his brother. Poor Charles, his looks did not greatly improve, but he was certainly bright and clever enough to demand attention. Beside him James and Mary looked beautiful, but a little frail.

When the King pointed this out I replied: “All children look frail beside our dark gentleman. He is already twice as big as other children of his age. Don’t worry about the others because they lack his undoubted strength. They have the consolation of being beautiful.”

The arrival of a new baby was certain to arouse the controversy of religion. If Charles had not been a king who took his duties so seriously I was sure I could have made a Catholic of him by this time. But of course the English were a stubbornly Protestant people. I had always maintained that they were not deeply religious. They were Christians; they worshipped God, but they were a lazy people and they did not greatly care to bestir themselves until some issue was presented to them which they considered worth fighting for. How formidable they could be when this happened I did not learn until later. At this time I saw only their lazy indifference. Another thing which I had not seen was that there was a Puritan element beginning to arise in direct defiance of the beautiful church ceremonies and the gracious way of living which I flattered myself I had introduced with the help of Charles, who was such a great lover of art and all its beauties.

The trouble started with the baby. A boy was more important than a girl and, as he was a possible King, next in line to the dark gentleman, he must be baptized by the King’s Protestant chaplain. James was christened and created Duke of York and Albany. I was very proud of him because he was a good and beautiful baby, but I did feel that as he was mine I should not give way to the Protestants on every point, so I engaged a wet nurse knowing that she was a Catholic—in fact choosing her for that reason. It was soon being whispered about the Court that the nurse would inject the baby with idolatry and Charles’s advisers warned him that the nurse must either be converted to Protestantism or go.

Charles came to me in some distress. He told me about the complaints and said that if the woman would only make certain statements she would be allowed to remain.

I protested. “She is a good nurse. The baby has taken to her. I might not be able to find another as good.”

But Charles was adamant, as he could be on some occasions, and I could see that in a matter like this my wiles would avail me nothing.

He sent for the nurse and gently explained to her that she had done her work well and that the Queen was highly satisfied with her as a nurse but she must remember that the baby could in some circumstances become the King of England and the English thought he should not have a Catholic nurse. All she need do was take an oath to the effect that the power of the Pope to depose princes was impious, heretical and damnable.

“Take this oath,” said the King, “and all will be well.”

The nurse started to scream in horror: “Deny the Pope. Deny the Holy Father his rights. Never…never…never….”

The King said: “Then you will leave this palace at once.”

I was very distressed and although the King tried to comfort me I refused to listen to him. I said that every woman in the country could choose the nurse for her own child but the Queen, a daughter of Henri IV, was denied that right.

The King went on trying to comfort me, making allowances for my state, I know; but I was really distressed, not only because of the nurse, but because I had believed till then that I was making some headway and that Catholics were treated much more leniently in England than they had been before my arrival. I had strong hopes that I was beginning to make the King see the rightness of the Catholic Faith and I had thought how wonderful it would be if I could convert him, and, through him, the nation. I should go down in history as another St. Augustine or Bertha of early England. And now I could not even have a Catholic wet nurse for my baby!

I refused to eat and I lay sullenly in my bed and was so despairing that I became really ill. The King sent for doctors who could not put a name to my malady. “The Queen is depressed and so upset that she has lost her vitality and her interest in life,” said the doctors.

Charles was beside himself with anxiety. He really did love me, and I hated to worry him; but I was upset for I did see in this dismissal of the nurse the hopelessness of my dreams.

As I lay there, one day Charles came to the room and with him was the Catholic nurse.

“She is to come back,” he said simply. “I have given permission. I will silence the gossipers. I hope that pleases you.”

I just held out my arms and we clung together. I was so happy—not only to have the nurse back but because of this further sign of his love for me.

I was better within a day.

There was another little trouble a few days later. The King’s Protestant chaplain came to me and explained what great good I could do the King and the country by renouncing the Catholic Faith and embracing Protestantism.

What a proposition to make to an ardent Catholic! I denounced him and his Faith vehemently but he persisted; he went on his knees and prayed. This angered me. As if I did not know the meaning of prayer!

I cried out: “It is you who are mistaken. You will burn in hell. God will never forgive you for renouncing the true Faith.”

I became hysterical and ill again.

The King came and soothed me. I must be calmer, he said. He knew how strongly I felt about my religion and he had done everything he could to make life easy for me. He had relaxed the laws against Catholics and that was making the people displeased. A great deal of our unpopularity was due to that. I must know that he would do everything he could to please me.

“Anything?” I asked.

“You know that I would.”

“Then there is one thing I want more than anything in the world. Dear husband, I want you to stand beside me in worship.”

He sighed and said: “Ah, little one, I would that could be.”

I was confident then that one day Charles would see the light. I threw off my lethargy, my fury against those who had taken the nurse—but I had her back, had I not?—and I determined to fight as never before for the conversion of my husband to the true Faith.

There were many people to report what was happening in England and I realized that the general opinion abroad was that I had a great influence on the King and was bringing him round to my Catholic point of view. I think there was some truth in this and perhaps it was the reason why I was becoming more and more unpopular in England. I ignored this in my heedless way, believing with Charles that Kings were the Lord’s anointed and the common people at length must realize that they had no right to do anything but accept this. However, there were high hopes in Rome because I was regarded as the Pope’s good ambassadress.

Baby James was just over a year old when Gregorio Panzani came to London. He had been sent by the Pope to visit England in particular to talk to me. I was greatly flattered and I really did feel that in spite of a few steps backward I was making some progress.

Father Philip presented Panzani to me as soon as he arrived in England and Panzani was most gracious.

“The Holy Father himself thanks you for what you have done and what you are doing for the Faith in this misguided land. You have been as a mother to these ungrateful people. Can you, do you believe, bring them to true understanding?”

I was filled with emotion.

“I cannot tell you how much I esteem the good opinion of His Holiness,” I answered. “Tell him to rest assured that I will do everything within my power to please him and God.”

“His Holiness is aware of this but will be overjoyed that you have confirmed it.”

My impetuosity took charge. I was so pleased that my efforts were recognized and I wanted to get the ultimate credit, so I said confidentially: “I firmly believe that before long I shall have converted the King to the Faith. He is a saintly man; he appreciates what is holy. Yes, I am convinced that ere long I shall bring about his conversion.”

“That,” replied Panzani, “is the best possible news I could have heard and exceeds my expectations.” He went on to say that he greatly desired a meeting with the King and I told him I would arrange it without delay.

When Charles heard that Gregorio Panzani was in England and had actually visited me informally he was greatly disturbed. He looked at me with that tender exasperation which I knew so well and said: “This could be dangerous. What will be said if the people hear that you are secretly receiving messengers from the Pope?”

“If you receive him his visit will not be secret,” I said logically.

But Charles merely shook his head at me.

I then said that I had promised Panzani should meet the King, so Charles could not humiliate me by not receiving him.

Charles demurred. He was far more worried about the people who surrounded him, and many of them were his enemies, than I realized then.

At length he said that a meeting should take place, but it would have to be in secret…not official.

I was delighted. That would do very well, I cried and embraced him and told him I was the happiest and luckiest of women to have such a husband.

A meeting was arranged and Panzani and Charles met without any fuss. I was not present at their meeting but I knew it was an amicable one.

It was impossible to keep the arrival of Panzani a complete secret. Several members of the Court knew he was in England; however, realizing the King wished that the visit should not be considered an official one, they kept quiet.

But these matters cannot long be kept secret. There is certain to be someone who cannot resist talking too much, and one day when Charles and I were together playing some parlor game a guard came in to tell us that there was a man outside who was begging an audience with the King on a matter, he said, of grave importance.

“He does not look in the least dangerous,” said the guard, “and he carries no weapons.”

“Then bring him to me,” said the King.

The man was brought in. He proved to be one of that sect which was becoming more and more prominent in England during the last year or so: a Puritan. He was very plainly dressed and his hair was cut in an odd fashion which made his head look round.

I was convulsed with amusement when the man said in a very confidential whisper: “Your Majesty, I thought you should know that a dangerous man has arrived secretly in England.”

The King said: “A dangerous man! Who is this?”

“Your Majesty, it is one of the Pope’s men. I have information that his name is Panzani. I decided it was something you should know at once.”

Although I could scarcely keep a straight face, the King managed to.

“Thank you for warning me,” he said.

And our round-headed Puritan went on his way convinced that he had done his duty.

How I laughed about that afterward—but not with the King. He admired the man for coming to tell him that he thought he was in danger.

“I could see that he thought the manner in which we live somewhat sinful,” I commented. “I saw his eyes roaming round the tapestries and some of the furnishings. I think he thought they were symbols of the Devil.”

“Poor fellow,” said Charles. “It must be a sad thing to be blind to beauty.”

I laughed over the incident with Panzani. He was a very sophisticated gentleman, and pious as he was, could still compliment me on my gowns and scents. Father Philip was very pleased with me and he told Panzani that he reckoned in three years or so the King would become a Catholic and then it would only be a short time before the country followed. When this happy state of affairs occurred the religious world would have to be grateful most of all to the Queen of England.

They were intoxicating words, and foolishly I believed them. How was I to know that it would be a very different story and that I should play quite a big part in bringing about not triumph but disaster?

But it really did seem as though we were going to succeed because, although Panzani did not come until December, the following March Richard Weston, Earl of Portland, the Treasurer who had been at the heart of the trouble over my letter, died and in his final moments he sent for a Catholic priest to administer the last rites.

Then there was Wat Montague, the poet who had written The Shepherd’s Paradise, which had caused Prynne the loss of his ears. Wat had been abroad and recently returned to England announcing that he had seen the light and become a Catholic. He was proposing to go to Rome and join the Fathers of the Oratory.

Ah yes, I thought, we were indeed making progress.

Then I discovered I was pregnant again.

While I was awaiting the birth of my child, my new chapel in Somerset House was completed. What a joyous day that was when it was consecrated. It was so beautiful with a wonderfully painted dome in which archangels, cherubim and seraphim appeared to be floating above our heads; and it was my happy task to draw the curtains and reveal all this beauty.

I was so moved when Mass was celebrated that there were tears in my eyes. It seemed to me the ultimate triumph that I had made this corner in a land alien to the Truth. Soon, I promised myself, there should be chapels everywhere—not so grand as this, of course, because this was a royal chapel, but places where Catholics could go freely to worship. I would not rest until I had turned the heresy of England to true belief.

Charles could not be there to worship with me, of course, but as a connoisseur of art and beauty he came to admire the work, and his eyes glistened with appreciation.

Panzani congratulated me in private. “But,” he said, “this is not enough. What we need is conversions…of men in high places.”

I was a little cast down for I thought I had done very well. He comforted me and said that the Holy Father was delighted with my efforts. I had done more than he had thought possible at the time of my marriage, but there was a great deal to be done yet and we must not be complacent.

To tell the truth I was not feeling any great desire to do anything but rest, for my baby was shortly due to arrive, and however frequently one gives birth—and in my case it seemed to be an event which began again as soon as one was ended—one does every time have to face an ordeal.

It was a cold December day when Elizabeth was born. I had spent an exhausting day in labor and as night was falling—at ten o’clock to be precise—my daughter made her appearance.

However irksome the waiting has been, it always seems worthwhile at that moment when the little one is there and one’s inconvenience is over…for the time being. I loved the child at once and I was rather glad that it was a girl. The only one who gave me cause for anxiety was Mary, who seemed to be delicate and had given us one or two frights. My eldest, Charles, flourished, although he did not grow any less unprepossessing. Perhaps that is the wrong word, but he was definitely lacking in beauty, though it did seem that he had a great deal of charm to make up for that. I had never seen a child win people to his side as Charles did. James, for all his innocent beauty, could not compete, and I could not be anything but surprised and delighted by my still rather swarthy eldest. He said the most amusing things and he was so serious contemplating the world with those large dark eyes and clearly finding it diverting.

I sometimes wished that I could go right away to Oatlands with the children and Charles and live like a simple noblewoman. Should I really want that for long? I was not sure. My frivolous nature did enjoy the masques and balls and all the beautiful clothes and jewels that seemed part of them. I was by nature an intriguant, I suppose. I loved to be in the thick of adventure. I had so enjoyed Panzani’s visit and that enjoyment had been greater because of the secret understanding between us which I knew would be against the wishes of those serious puritanical people who were springing up everywhere.

A new baby was an additional expense. She was put into the care of the Countess of Roxburgh, who was already looking after her elder sister Mary; but she had to have her suite of attendants befitting a royal child—her dresser, her watchers, her nurses, her rockers and quite a number of minor servants. Moreover, Charles’s nephews—the sons of his sister Elizabeth—came to visit us and that meant lavish entertainments. Charles Louis, the elder, was a little dull, but Rupert was a very attractive young man of about seventeen. Charles took a great fancy to him and he to Charles. It was fun to have the young men at Court and there was one entertainment which stands out in my memory. Lady Hatton gave a wonderful show at her place in Ely Court, and the masques, plays and balls and firework displays lasted for a whole month. Lady Hatton closed her entertainment with a ball for the citizens of London. It was not for people of the Court, she said.

It was Henry Jermyn who suggested that we go incognito and I thought it was an excellent idea.

“But how?” I asked.

“We shall have to dress as citizens,” said Henry. “I’ll be a merchant. Your Majesty can be a shopkeeper’s wife.”

What fun we had! I instructed one of the seamstresses to make me a suitable gown and a bonnet which hid my face to a certain extent because it was just possible that someone might recognize me. I sent for my lace woman who kept a shop somewhere in the city and let her into the secret. She promised to take us in with her.

It was so amusing dancing with the citizens and interesting to listen to their talk although a little disconcerting that there were some who had harsh things to say about the way in which Catholics were getting a footing in the country. There were even one or two comments against me, but I didn’t take them very seriously. They only seemed to add to the fun as I was intent on enjoying the evening and Henry Jermyn was so amusing posing as a merchant and Lord Holland—always good for adventure—was excellent company.

Charles was at this time in good spirits, for to celebrate the birth of the new baby, Louis and Rupert had brought with them presents from Charles’s sister Elizabeth and the Palatine her husband, and these happened to be four paintings of great beauty and nothing could have pleased the King more. He was delighted to add the two Tintorettos and Titians to his collection, and I often found him gloating over them. The Arab horses—snow white in color—which had accompanied the paintings, Charles had presented to me.

“I am sure you will enjoy them more than I would,” he said fondly. “And I have my pictures.”

It was hardly likely that with a new addition to the family making us the proud parents of four healthy children and all the merrymaking we were going to worry ourselves about the depleted state of the exchequer.

It was certainly not in my nature to do so.

I was a little saddened to hear that Lady Eleanor Davys, who had prophesied that my first child would be born, christened and buried on the same day, had become a widow. She had prophesied Sir John’s death, which she had said would take place within three days of her prophecy and it did. It was reported that when she had looked somber and worn something dark in mourning for him, he had said: “Don’t weep while I am alive and I will give you leave to laugh when I am dead.”

There was a great deal of talk about her and her prophecies at the time of Sir John’s death. I should have liked to consult her again, but I knew that Charles would not be pleased if I did and I was so happy in this wonderful relationship which was growing between us and which was becoming stronger every day, that I did my best not to upset him now.

Only recently Lady Eleanor had been committed to the Gate House Prison and fined three thousand pounds. I don’t know exactly what she did but she had been accused of some crime through her writings. She did not care about this but continued to write. Whether she was in league with the Devil I cannot say, but she sincerely believed in her prophecies and that it was her duty to make them.

A new Papal agent had arrived in England. This was George Conn. He was a Scotsman of great charm and good looks who had been sent to the Scots’ College in Paris and Rome and gone on to complete his education afterward at Bologna, where he had become a Dominican friar.

His mission, I learned later, was to mingle with the people of the Court and persuade them—with the utmost subtlety of course—to embrace the faith of Rome. Panzani had been too ambitious. He had planned to convert the whole country. The new idea, which came with George Conn, was to convert the important people of the Court; and this was what George was setting out to do.

Having traveled a great deal he was possessed of a sophistication which made people forget he was a priest. Charles enjoyed his company very much indeed—almost as much as I did; and he was very soon popular at Court. He had some rooms in the house he had acquired made into what he called the Pope’s Chapel, and Catholics from all over the neighborhood went there to worship. George Conn told me that the Pope was delighted with what I was doing in England and as a symbol of his approval sent me a beautiful gold cross studded with exquisite gems. I wore it proudly and told my friends that I regarded it as my most precious possession.

One day George Conn showed me a beautiful picture of St. Catherine which he said he was going to have framed for me. I loved it on the spot and asked if I might see to the framing myself. I then decided that I would not have it framed after all but have it attached to my bed curtains so that the first thing I saw on opening my eyes was the beautiful serene face of St. Catherine.

George Conn was very pleased with me but he pointed out that as there was a great deal of work to be done we must not be complacent. I was so delighted that Charles enjoyed talking to George almost as much as I did.

Once Charles said: “I think I am a Catholic at heart.” And George and I exchanged glances of triumph for I at last believed victory was in sight. I suppose George was too wise to think so.

But there was no protest when one of the preachers said in a sermon which he gave for the King and the Court that the people who had brought about the English schism were like tailors who cut out garments and find themselves unable to piece them together and become so bemused that they do not know what they are doing.

I began to feel very proud of myself for there I was, a happy wife and mother, and upon my shoulders had descended the great task of leading the country of my adoption back to salvation. I was seeing myself at that time as one of the great figures of history. I should be remembered as that Bertha of whom some people were fond of reminding me.

There were setbacks of course. I was sure Charles wanted to become a Catholic. There was nothing of the Puritan in him, but he had at his coronation vowed to uphold the Reformed Faith as all anointed sovereigns must do and which was one of the reasons why I had refused to be crowned with him.

I had made a habit of taking my son Charles to Mass. It had, after all, been one of the clauses of the marriage settlement that I was to have charge of the children’s religious education until they were thirteen. Charles was only six years old but he was very interested and asked a great many pertinent questions as he did about everything, and he happened to mention something of this when he was with his father.

Charles was taken aback. “Surely,” he cried, “you did not take the boy to Mass?”

“But, of course, he must go to Mass,” I said. “He is six years old. I want…”

Charles laid his hands on my shoulders and looked at me with that half-exasperated, half-tender look which I seemed to inspire so often.

“My dearest,” he said, “you cannot take the Prince of Wales to Mass.”

“But why not?”

“Because, my love, he will one day be King of this country. He will take his oath, as I have, to adhere to the Reformed Faith.”

“But I am to have charge of his education until he is thirteen.”

“You must not take him to Mass.”

“And if I insist?”

“I hope you will not, my dearest, because if you do I shall have to forbid you and you know how it grieves me to forbid you anything.”

So of course I had to obey, but in my heart I knew that Charles leaned toward the Faith and, if he had not been the King who had sworn to adhere to the Reformed Faith, I am sure he would have admitted it.

It was only later that I realized that all these small incidents were like a smoldering pile in which the smoke is only seen in occasional escaping wisps. But the fire is there waiting to break out. I could not see it then though. I was foolish and frivolous, congratulating myself on the work I was doing.

Quite a number of the ladies of the Court were becoming involved with religion. George Conn was so persuasive and he never talked religion openly, only in the most subtle manner. I had the greatest admiration for him.

Lucy Hay professed interest, but I thought in my heart that she did so lightly. In fact she had a fondness for George Conn’s company. Quite a lot of the women were like that. They flirted with the ideas as they did with the men, while they had no intention of becoming involved in anything seriously.

It was different with Lady Newport. She became very involved and I think she had always been a little inclined toward Catholicism, for her sister was a Catholic. George Conn had made a special effort with her and so had Wat Montague, an old favorite of mine who had now returned to England with Sir Toby Matthew, a much traveled and zealous Catholic. We all believed that a little persuasion would bring her to the decision she was longing to make.

Lady Newport’s husband, who was Master of the Ordnance and a stern Protestant, had forbidden his wife to dabble in idolatry, as he called it; but Anne Newport was a persistent woman and she was growing more and more certain that the true Faith was that of the Catholic Church. Her conversion was delayed, for oddly enough she had become greatly influenced by her glover who, humble though he was, was something of a preacher and a Protestant belonging to that sect of Puritans which had become more and more prominent since such efforts to bring back the Catholic Faith had been made in the country.

She said to me: “I know he is humble and merely a glove-maker but he has a power…a way with words which can only be inspired.”

I replied: “Bring him along and let George Conn talk to him. We’ll see how his inspiration stands up to that.”

Lucy, with the rest of my ladies and friends like Wat Montague and Toby Matthews, was always excited when I proposed something unconventional, and in due course we all assembled and summoned the glover, George having already consented to talk to him.

When I saw the glover I disliked him on sight simply because here was another of those Puritans in plain black garments and that ridiculous haircut which made their heads look round.

George Conn looked elegant and handsome and so worldly that I was sure he confirmed all the glover’s suspicions about idolatrous Catholic priests. The result was as we all predicted. The poor man had a certain eloquence, it was true, but to watch him in verbal conflict with George was like watching two combatants fighting with a spade and a sword. George’s rapier thrusts were soon getting home and the poor glover was growing more and more bewildered.

At length he cried: “Pray give me leave to retire. I must think…think…You bemuse me. I am mazed….”

George smiled and laid his hand on the poor man’s shoulder. “Go in peace, my friend,” he said. “Go and ponder what I have said. You will find yourself confronted by the Truth at every turn. Never forget that when you leave the tanglewood of ignorance, I shall be the first to welcome you to the paths of Truth.”

I had rarely seen a man so bewildered. He left us in a daze and we all clustered round George and congratulated him.

“You were so clever,” I said. “Poor man! It was most unfair of me to set you against him.”

“It was right for you to do so, Your Majesty,” replied George. “Another of your good deeds.”

“You were so clearly the victor,” added Lucy.

“The Truth will always prevail,” answered George.

That interview was to have startling results. A few days later the glover went mad. He could not reconcile himself to either form of religion and, as religion was the center of his life, he was lost in a maze of beliefs and disbeliefs. We were all very sad to hear of his tragedy, for he was a worthy man and a most excellent glove-maker.

But the event which caused the greatest stir was the conversion of Lady Newport. She came to me in great uncertainty one day.

“Madam,” she said, “I need your help. I have been talking to my sister and I am now convinced which is the true Faith. I want to be reconciled to the Church of Rome. I want to make my confession and proclaim my beliefs, but how can I do this? If my husband discovers what I am about to do, he will shut me away, send me out of the country…do anything to prevent my conversion.”

Intrigue ever fascinated me and I was delighted to help her, for bringing people to the true Faith was my great purpose. I was longing for everyone to know that we had a convert in Lady Newport because I guessed that would bring quite a number who were wavering to make a decision.

So I consulted George Conn.

He came up with an idea. “Let it be a secret until it is actually done,” he said. “Otherwise there may be powerful people who will do everything within their power to prevent it. Let her visit one of your Capuchin friars at that time when she would normally be returning from some entertainment perhaps.”

Anne Newport thought it was a good idea and she said that she could go to a performance at Drury Lane and on her way home call at Somerset House and see the friar there.

So that was what we arranged. Lady Newport went to the theater and on the way home visited the chapel and made her confession to the Capuchin friar; and then she was reconciled to the Catholic Church.

Another convert! I congratulated myself that I was winning my war against heretics. I was, however, unprepared for the storm which the conversion of Lady Newport brought about. The fact that his wife had become a Catholic enraged the Earl of Newport. He was a clever man, which was not surprising considering that his mother was Penelope Rich, the daughter of Lettice Knollys, Countess of Leicester. Even now people talked about that forceful woman. The fact that Penelope’s son was illegitimate—his parentage was shared with Charles Blount, Earl of Devonshire—had not stopped his inheritance or impeded his advancement. Not only had he been made Master of the Ordnance for life, but he had made considerable profits out of the office and he was not the sort of man to stand quietly by while his wife defied him on a matter which he considered of great importance.

He went himself to see Charles. He ranted and raged and was clearly distressed. Charles expressed deep sympathy. Newport, of course, dared not say anything to Charles about me, but his implications were that I and my little coterie were infiltrating mischievously and undermining the accepted Faith of the country. He blamed several of my close associates, naming Wat Montague and Sir Toby Matthews.

“Your Majesty,” he begged, “I pray you send Montague and Matthews out of the country. I am sure that they and some of their friends are at the root of this disaster.”

Charles was very sorry for Newport’s distress but he knew that I would be rejoicing in my convert. However, he did not think it was good for such a fierce Catholic as Montague to remain at Court in view of growing resentment, but he did nothing for he knew how upset I would be if Montague were sent away.

Very soon a bigger issue grew out of the matter. When he found the King reluctant to act, Newport went to Archbishop Laud to complain that he feared the King was too much influenced by his wife to take any action which might not be in accordance with her wishes.

This was the beginning of the antagonism between myself and Archbishop Laud. There had been times when I had had hopes of Laud for he was a man who loved the ceremonies of the Church. I had mentioned to George Conn that if the Pope would give him a Cardinal’s hat he might become our man. I am not sure now whether I was right about that, but in any case he did not get his red biretta. On the other hand he said that he “labored nothing more than that the external public worship of God—too much slighted in most parts of the kingdom—might be preserved and that with as much decency and uniformity as might be, being still of the opinion that unity cannot long continue in the Church when uniformity is shut out.” This implied that he loved all the ceremonies of the Church and it was natural that I should think he was leaning strongly toward us. Had he not amended the Prayer Book and imposed it on Scotland in place of the liturgy which had been prepared by the Scots bishops?

The son of a Reading clothier, Laud was indeed a clever man to have climbed so far; such are always the most difficult to bend to one’s wishes. I have always recognized that they are possessed of a very special cleverness to have risen up and overcome their handicaps and one must in assessing them—particularly as an enemy—have a special respect for them.

There was another point: many people suspected that his attitude to the ceremonies of the Church meant that he was a secret Catholic and as he was aware—far more than I was—of the growing resentment in the country, he was eager to prove himself staunchly Protestant. He therefore complained at a meeting of the Council that since the coming of the Papal agents, Panzani and Conn, there had been many conversions to Catholicism and there was too much favor shown to Catholics and he thought that both Walter Montague and Toby Matthews should be prosecuted.

When I heard this I was enraged, and from then on the Archbishop was my enemy. Poor Charles was in a dreadful dilemma. He could quite understand Lord Newport’s fury; he saw the Archbishop’s point; but he was very eager not to upset me.

I realized then—and I think so did many others—how important I was becoming in the country. I had had such success with the Pope’s agents; I had done so much to make life easier for our Catholic subjects that I was beginning to be thought of not so much as the frivolous pleasure-loving Queen as the power behind the throne. My husband listened to me because he loved me so much and hated to disappoint me so that I was almost in the position of being his most favored and influential minister.

I heard that Laud had said to Thomas Wentworth, whom the King greatly favored and who had just returned from his duties in Ireland: “I have a very hard task and God, I beseech Him, to make me very good corn, for I am between two great factions very like corn between two mill stones.”

I was made fully aware of the importance of this by George, who came to me in great haste to tell me what was happening at the Council.

“I think we have gone a little too far too quickly,” he said. “Laud has suggested to the Council that the Catholic chapels should be closed down, including yours of Somerset House, and the counselors have agreed with enthusiasm that this should be so.”

“I will never allow that,” I cried.

“I beg of you be careful,” begged Conn. “Do not ruin the good work we have done so far.”

“Nothing can ruin that,” I assured him. “We have saved souls and that is our endeavor. Do not take this threat too seriously. I know Charles. He would never agree to a step which he knows would make me very unhappy.”

When Charles came to me he was really distressed. “Laud wants all the Catholic chapels to be closed down,” he said.

“What!” I cried. “That man is a monster. Let him go back to his father’s clothier’s shop.”

“He is the Archbishop of Canterbury,” he reminded me gently.

“But he loves the ceremonies of the Church. He hates these miserable Puritans as much as I do.”

“He supports the Protestant Church, my love.”

“I will not allow him to shut my chapels. Charles, you will not allow this. You have promised me…. Oh, Charles, promise me now. Not my chapel…!”

He soothed me and swore that my chapel should not be closed, although he added: “There is no alternative for the others. They will have to be closed wherever they have sprung up.”

The controversy went on for a long time and it did show how thoroughly the people disliked the Archbishop. It has always amazed me to see how the common people dislike to see one of their own rise to great heights. One would have thought they would be delighted. But no. His humble birth was continually flung at Laud, more so by the common people than by the nobles. It was said that he was at heart a Catholic and ought to admit it. At least, they said, the Catholics like myself and George Conn made no secret of their idolatrous beliefs.

Poor Charles, he did not know which way to act. He was advised that he could not ignore the growing feelings against the Catholics, and on the other hand, how could he hurt me?

In the end he compromised. He agreed that there should be a proclamation threatening Catholics in the country; but at the same time he had so weakened the laws against them that they did not amount to very much. He tried to do what he had to do without offending either protagonist.

I laughed and told him he was very clever. He was serious though and seemed to be looking into the future with very melancholy eyes.

Dear Charles! He was only vaguely aware of the dangers which were springing up around him—but he was not quite so blind as I was.

There was sad news from my mother. She was in great distress. It seemed that she had quarreled irrevocably with Richelieu, and that he governed France. He had made it clear to her that she was not wanted there; in fact he had actually sent her into exile.

I worried a great deal about her. It was dreadful that she, who had always been such an imposing figure during my childhood, should now be reduced to this.

“Who is this Richelieu?” I cried to Charles. “Merely a priest—a Cardinal it is true—and yet he has set himself up as the ruler of France, and he has decided that there is no place there for my mother.”

The King said something very strange then. It was almost like a prophecy, but he did not know that, and I certainly did not. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it is strange. And what is happening here? I often think there are some who would like to do the same to me.”

I laughed disbelievingly, but he went on seriously: “There is trouble brewing, my dearest. Scotland….”

“That awful country,” I cried impatiently. “Haven’t the Scots always been troublesome?”

He agreed with that. Then he went on: “There is something about these Puritans. I can understand the situation when there is a desire to supplant one king by another who it might be thought has a greater claim to the throne. But these people seem to have set themselves against Kings and all that Kingship means. They seem as though they want to abolish that rule and set up their own.”

I continued to laugh and Charles managed to smile. It was such an incongruous idea. There had always been Kings; and who were these people who went about looking like black crows with their ridiculous haircuts?

If only we could have looked into the future then, perhaps we could have done something to prevent the holocaust. I think we might well have. When I look back I see the way we came was strewn with warnings which we ignored.

But for the time there was the problem of my mother.

Charles knew it would be a mistake to give her refuge in England, but he also knew that it was what I wanted. I could not bear the thought of her going about Europe like a beggar pleading for sanctuary. I wondered how my brother could allow her to be treated so, but I supposed he was under the thumb of that hateful old Richelieu. At least he gave her a pension but he was adamant about her leaving France. To be turned away from one’s home must be horribly humiliating, particularly when one had in the past been its ruler.

She was now in Holland and one of Charles’s agents there had sent a message to tell him that he believed she had plans for coming to England.

“The people would not like it,” said Charles, and he looked at me sadly. It was a great sorrow to him that the people had turned against me. I think he would rather have heard them cheer me than himself. He rarely ever did. I was not only a foreigner, I was a Catholic and that was enough to turn a great many people in England against me. “And,” went on Charles, “you know the state of the exchequer. We can hardly afford to entertain your mother in the manner she would expect.”

“Poor dear lady,” I said. “I daresay she would be pleased to receive any warm welcome from someone who cared about her.”

Charles was very depressed and I knew this was because he had sent a messenger to Holland to tell his agents to do everything to dissuade my mother from coming to England.

She must have known that she was unwanted but, being my mother, that did not deter her. I was her daughter; she imagined that I was rich and powerful. I was after all the Queen of England. Perhaps she did not know that there were certain difficulties in the country now, but even if she did she would sweep those aside. I knew her well. She was the sort of woman who made circumstances fit her needs.

I wondered how she felt about the new baby at the Court of France. There had been great excitement there for months because Anne of Austria, after twenty-three years of infertility, had given birth to a boy.

However I knew that the King was probably right in not inviting her to England but on the other hand I did feel that I had failed her. I decided I would try to persuade Charles to let her come if only for a brief visit. But that would mean that if she liked it here her visit would not be a brief one.

This was the state of affairs when we heard that my mother had actually set sail from Holland and was making her way to the English coast. Moreover she was bringing with her one hundred and sixty attendants and servants, six coaches and seventy horses, which was a clear indication that she expected to be received in a manner worthy of a queen.

Charles was nonplussed. “But I have not invited her,” he cried in despair. “I have not given her permission to come here….”

I knew that he was thinking of what it was going to cost to house my mother and I hated to see the furrows in his brow, but what could I do? I went to him and slipped my arm through his while I looked up at him pleadingly. “I could never be happy if we turned her away,” I said. “She is my mother….”

He tried to explain to me the cost and the attitude of the people—but eventually I won. The fact that I was pregnant again made him very anxious not to upset me. He promised that he would go himself in state to meet her to show everyone that she came as an honored guest. I should prepare rooms for her and have three thousand pounds to spend on any alteration or new furniture which I deemed necessary. She was my mother and for that reason, naturally he must welcome her.

I hugged him and told him he was the most wonderful husband in the world and my mother would be so happy to see what a perfect marriage I had made.

He was as good as his word and set out for Chelmsford and I went to St. James’s, where the children had their apartments, and chose fifty rooms for my mother.

My baby was due in four months’ time and I was feeling heavy and tired but exhilarated by the thought of seeing my mother. I had told the children that she was coming and the elder ones were very interested. Charles was now aged eight and different from the others, with his black hair cut into a fringe which almost covered his black brows, under which his flashing dark eyes were the most lively I ever saw in a child of his age. Mary, only a year younger, was beautiful and so was James; Elizabeth was three and Anne only a baby. She had been born in March of the previous year and within a few months I had become pregnant again. And I was not thirty yet! I often wondered how many children I would have. I was happy to be the wife of an ardent and loving husband and to have produced a growing family but frequent childbearing was often taxing and I certainly did not feel well at this time.

However, I tried to forget my own discomforts and prepare for my mother. Riders came in breathlessly to tell me that she had had a good reception in London, that people had hung out banners in the streets and that the Lord Mayor in all the splendor of his office had greeted her. I was immensely relieved because one could never be sure of the people of London and, with all those horrid Puritans about, they might have decided to become hostile. But they did love pageantry and it may have been that they found that more entertaining than a stupid riot. But I liked to think they did homage to my mother as a woman who had once been Regent of France and was still mother of their Queen.

I heard the sound of trumpets which meant that the cavalcade was approaching St. James’s. Young Charles was right beside me and the others came toddling up. I hurried into the courtyard. I could not think of ceremony at such a moment.

I ran to my mother’s coach, the children at my heels, and I tried to pull open the door. One of the coachmen opened it for me and as my mother stepped out, I was so overcome with emotion that I dropped to my knees and begged her to give me her blessing.

With great joy I took her into the palace and showed her the apartments I had had made ready for her. I was rather shocked by her appearance. It was, after all, a long time since I had seen her. I had been the fortunate one. I had learned to love my husband and had made for myself a family life so felicitous that I could not believe many people were so blessed. Poor Queen Marie! She was sixty-five years old and her life during the last years had been very uncomfortable. She had never been beautiful and events, with the aid of time, had ravaged such looks as she had had. But I was quick to realize that the indomitable spirit had remained intact, and so had the determination to manage the lives of all those about her.

She talked incessantly. She was poor…yes poor! She, the Queen of France, now lived in abject poverty. She had her jewels…oh yes, she had been clever enough to bring those with her and it had occurred to her that she might have to sell some of them.

“I will buy them, dear Mother,” I cried. “That will give you some money and you will know the jewels are safe.”

She patted my arm. She said I was a good girl and as I was rich she would be glad to accept the money for the jewels and know that they were safe in the family.

I said: “I am not really rich, my lady. There is always trouble about money. There is never enough. Charles is always wanting money and unable to get it except by unpopular taxation.”

“The perpetual cry of Kings!” replied my mother. “Of course there is money, dear child. There always is in a country. It is a matter of knowing how to extract it. You shall have the jewels. I may not be here long, you know, to burden you.”

“Burden us!” I cried. “Dear Mother, how can you talk like that?”

“I did not mean I am going to die,” she replied. “I know you are pleased that I have come to be with you. It was far too long that we were apart, Henriette chérie. I will stay with you and help you. But I may be called back to France.”

“Do you think the Cardinal…”

“The Cardinal!” She spat out the words. “He is plagued by a terrible cough. He can’t keep warm. I hear he sits by the fire drinking that sickly strawberry syrup which is the only thing which gives his throat some relief. He crouches over the fire because he cannot keep warm. How long do you think he can last like that?”

“You really think he is desperately ill?”

“I know, my child. You don’t think I have been idle. I know what is going on. One advantage of being in exile is that one can send out one’s spies and no one can be absolutely sure who they are. There are always advantages in life, child.”

“I cannot understand my brother’s turning you away.”

“Oh, he is a weakling, Louis. He always was. He is guided by his wife and the Cardinal. He is nothing…a puppet…a cypher.”

“And the baby?”

She nodded, smiling. “A healthy boy. Another Louis.” She came close to me. “No, I shall not be here with you long, dear child. A breathing space, that’s all I need. My astrologers have told me that Louis cannot last more than a year or so. He is a sick man. He was never strong. And then when he is dead…can a baby rule? Little Louis XIV will be still in his nursery. Then it is for me to return and take over the reins as I did when your father died.”

“And this is the prophecy?”

“It is and I have had the best astrologers in Europe. Their verdict is always the same. So it would be advisable for your Charles to make me happy here. I could be of great importance to him later on.”

I was overawed. It all seemed so plausible and I had seen the evidence of astrologers and soothsayers. I should never forget Eleanor Davys and her prophecy about the first baby I had had.

My mother’s presence at Court did mean that I must spend a great deal of time with her, which gave me less time for my husband. She loved the children and was most impressed by Charles. She even liked his looks and said he had inherited them from some of my father’s ancestors—The Brigands of Navarre she called them.

“He has a look of your father,” she said. “Mon Dieu, how he reminds me! Quick, lively, eyes everywhere. Let us hope they do not linger on every woman in the vicinity as your father’s did. I had to shut my eyes to his infidelities and I did so without complaint…for the sake of the crown. You, my dear Henriette, have no such trouble with your husband. He seems a mild man…but devoted to you. There seems to be nothing but pregnancies for you. I know what that means. Your father always took time off from his lights of love to fill the royal nurseries. How different you are with your Charles. You are a very fortunate woman, Henriette.”

I told her I realized that and if only Charles would stop worrying about the troubles of the country and those wretched Protestants—and worse still Puritans—I could be completely happy.

“It appears there is always trouble for rulers, but you have done well and I believe even the Holy Father is pleased with you.”

“How is Madame St. George? Have you heard?”

“I haven’t seen her since I left France, of course. I think she is happy with that little tyrant. Gaston dotes on his daughter. It is a pity he could not get a son. Little Mademoiselle de Montpensier is very rich, for Gaston’s wife, as you know, left everything to her when she died. It is a pity it did not go to Gaston. It is a mistake, in my opinion, for young people to inherit large fortunes.”

“She will find it easy to get a husband.”

“My dear child, they are waiting to pounce. Gaston will have to be careful. I should be there to make sure no mistakes are made. Well, perhaps soon…according to the prophets….”

I was a little sad at the thought of Louis’s dying. After all, he was my brother and although I had seen very little of him and I did think of him more as the King of France than a relation, the bond was still there. My mother was so sure that he was going to die and I couldn’t help feeling a little horrified that she seemed to be looking forward to the event.

Power! I thought. How people crave for it! I didn’t think I did. What I really wanted was to be with my husband and family in a peaceful country where there were no troubles—but of course that must be a country which had turned to the Catholic Faith.

My mother was saying: “I could have returned to Florence.”

“Oh, my dear lady, that would have been wonderful,” I replied. “You could have gone back to your family.”

“Oh yes. The Medicis would have welcomed me. They have a strong family feeling. It would have been strange to be in Florence again, to stroll along the Arno and to live in the old palace. But think how I should have gone back. A queen yes, but one who had been turned out of her adopted country by her own son and a cardinal. No, I could not do that.” For a moment the mask of optimism slipped from her face and I glimpsed a rather fearful old woman. Fleetingly I wondered how much she really believed in those prophecies. She added slowly: “I could not go back to Florence…a failure.” Then the mask was back again. “One day, I shall be very busy. If I have to return to France—I am sure the message will come before long—then I shall be fully engaged with affairs in Paris.”

While she was waiting for all that, she concerned herself with affairs in England.

The children were very interested in her and I was delighted to see how well they got on. She wanted to take charge of the nurseries. Charles, oddly enough for such a precocious child, had always taken a wooden toy to bed with him. He had had it when he was about two years old, had formed an attachment to it and his nurses told me that he would not go to sleep without it.

“Nonsense,” said my mother. “Of course he must give it up. It is not becoming in the Prince of Wales to need toys to go to bed with.”

She talked to Charles very seriously and somehow made him see that it was childish and not worthy of a future King.

When that argument was put to him he allowed them to take the toy away. He was very interested in the fact that he would one day be King and was already talking now and then of what he would do, and it was only this which made him relinquish his toy.

He was a shrewd, often devious little boy. We were amused by the incident of the physic, but at the same time it did show that he had a clever, if crafty, nature. The fact was that he had refused to take some physic which his Governor, Lord Newcastle, thought he needed and Newcastle had complained to me, so I wrote to Charles telling him that I had heard he had refused to take his physic and if he persisted I should have to come and make him take it as it was for his health’s sake. I added that I had told Lord Newcastle to let me know whether or not he had taken his medicine and I hoped he was not going to disappoint me.

Lord Newcastle visited me next day with a note which he said the Prince had sent him.

“My Lord,” Charles had written in his still-childish script and on ruled lines to keep the writing straight, “I would not take too much physic for it doth always make me worse and I think it will do the like for you. I ride every day and am ready to follow any other direction from you. Charles P.”

I could not help laughing and was so impressed by the wit of my son that I told Lord Newcastle that we would not impose the physic for a day or so and if the boy was well enough without it he deserved to escape.

How could I help being proud of such a boy? And I was sure that even my mother could not succeed in getting the better of him.

My mother was complaining now that Mary ate too much at breakfast and must expect to be sick if in addition to manchets of bread and beef and mutton she took chicken as well. Also she drank too much ale.

It was true that when her rather large meals were curtailed Mary did seem better.

My mother was not popular. People thought she was too extravagant and that too much money was being spent on her entourage and entertainment. It was true that she expected to live like a queen—but then she was a queen.

The weather had changed as soon as she arrived, and the southern half of the country was engulfed in storms and gales which caused a great deal of damage. The people, always superstitious, said it was a sign and meant that the Queen Mother was going to be a menace to the country. It was very upsetting and I was afraid my mother would hear these rumors. But if she did, she brushed them aside. I had forgotten her capacity to accept only what she wanted to happen.

Whenever the weather was bad during my mother’s stay in England, the Thames watermen would shout to each other that this was more of the weather the Queen Mother had brought to England, as though she used some malicious influence in the heavens to make us uncomfortable.

As a queen she looked upon luxury as her natural right and maintaining her household was a drain on the exchequer. She did not, however, see why the people of England should not pay for it. They did, and complained bitterly about her in the streets and now and then I overheard unflattering comments. It was said that she was a trouble-bringer and there was never tranquility when she was nearby. There was grumbling about the people of England being taxed to pay for her “shaggrags”—by which I presume they meant her household.

Charles grew worried and told me he had sent a message to King Louis urging him to invite his mother back to France. “It is the best way,” he said. “She pines for the old life in Paris. I know that she has entered into intrigues in the past, but I feel sure she would promise not to if you would only have her back.”

Charles explained to me that, apart from the expense of keeping her in England, her presence was an irritation to the people and that was something he wanted to avoid because he was growing more and more uneasy about the state of the country.

I hated to see him worried so I made no protest, but Louis wrote back to the effect that however much his mother promised not to meddle she would be unable to prevent herself doing so because she was a meddler by nature; and he would not give her permission to return to France. He was sorry for his brother-in-law but he must be as firm as Louis himself was and explain to Queen Marie that her presence was no longer wanted in England.

But how could Charles do that! She was after all my mother and in spite of those traits of hers which I had to admit were there, I loved her. Charles could never do anything to hurt me if he could help it, so she remained.

It was true that she meddled. One day she said to me: “I was not idle in Holland. All the time I concerned myself with your good and that of the children. I sounded them on the possibility of a match between the Prince of Orange and one of your girls.”

“The Prince of Orange!” I cried. “He is of no great importance.”

“I didn’t mean for Mary, of course. Perhaps Elizabeth.”

“She is three years old!”

“My dear daughter, we have to think of the alliances of our children when they are in their cradles. I will discuss the matter with the King.”

“No, my lady,” I said firmly. “I will discuss it with the King.”

“Oh,” she said, a little huffily, “you two seem to talk nothing but lovers’ talk. State matters have their place too, remember.”

“They will be the state matters of England,” I retorted coolly, and wondered if I was becoming as hard toward her as Louis was. We must show her that she could not interfere in English affairs any more than she could in French. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Surely being turned out of her home must have made her realize something. But no doubt she blamed Louis and Anne…and the Cardinal of course, for turning away one who could have been—as she would see it—a great help to them.

At the first opportunity I told Charles what she had suggested.

“The Prince of Orange!” he said. “Oh, he is too petty a prince to mate with a Princess of England.”

“So thought I,” I replied. “But my mother talked of it when she was in Holland and she tells me that the Prince of Orange would be very happy with the match.”

“I have no doubt he would. No. Not even for one of our younger daughters would he be good enough.”

There was one other point which seemed to have escaped them all and of which I was very much aware: the Prince of Orange was a Protestant. When my children married I wanted to make sure that they married Catholics.

I was getting bigger but still able to walk a little in the gardens. I loved those of St. James’s with the deer park and the terraces. I enjoyed walking there with Charles and the children. Charles was always so tender and affectionate and everyone marveled at his care of me…especially when I was in the condition I was at this time.

Charles and I would sit on one of the seats and the children would run about making a great deal of noise with all the dogs yapping round them; and the ladies and gentlemen made such a charming sight walking on the paths round the palace.

Happy days they were, when Charles looked so handsome and was so different from the rather shy young man whom I had first met. I rarely heard him stammer now; he didn’t when he was at peace and happy; and he certainly was with his family. He liked to hear little domestic details. He answered young Charles’s questions gravely and gave his attention to James when he accused Mary of taking his share of the custard tart they had had for dinner. I was sure he would have been happier being just with us than coping with his ministers.

Why couldn’t everyone stop complaining? I asked myself. Why could they not enjoy life as we did walking in the gardens of St. James’s.

Winter came in fiercely. “Queen Mother weather,” said the boatmen.

It was at the end of a bitter January that my baby was born. It was a little girl and she was hastily baptized and christened Catherine, for she died a few hours after her birth.