The Wondering Prince

ONE

It was late afternoon on a July day in the fourth year of the Great Rebellion. The sun was hot; the grass banks were brown; and the purple nettle-flowers and the petals of the woundwort were peppered with fine dust.

A small party—two men and two women—trudged slowly along the road, looking neither to right nor to left, their eyes fixed on the ground. One of the women was a hunchback, and it was this deformed one who carried a sleeping child.

Sweat ran down her face; she caught her breath as she saved herself from tripping over a stone and going headlong into one of the numerous potholes which were a feature of the road. She wiped the sweat from her face but did not lift her eyes from the ground.

After a while she spoke. “How far from the inn, Tom?”

“We’ll be there within the hour.”

“There’s time before dark,” said the other woman. “Let’s stop for a rest. The boy’s heavy.”

Tom nodded. “A few minutes will do no harm,” he said.

The hunchback spoke again. “Only let us rest if you are sure there’s time, Tom. Don’t let the dark overtake us. There’ll be robbers on the road at twilight.”

“There are four of us,” answered Tom, “and we look too poor to rob. But Nell’s right. There’s time for a rest.”

They sat on the bank. Nell took off her boots and grimaced at her swollen feet while the hunchback laid the child gently on the grass. The others would have helped, but she waved them aside; she seemed determined that none but herself should touch the child.

“Here’s the best spot for you,” said Tom to the hunchback. “The bush makes a good support.” But the hunchback shook her head and looked at him with some reproach. He smiled and sat down at the spot he had chosen as the best. “We should be in Dover long before this time tomorrow,” he added.

“Call me Nan,” said the hunchback.

“Yes … Nan … I will.”

“You must remember to call me Nan. It is short for Nanette. Ask my husband. Is that not so, Gaston?”

“Yes … that is so. Nan … it is short for Nanette.”

“And that is my name.”

“Yes, Nan,” said Tom.

“There is someone coming,” said Nell quickly.

They were silent, listening to the sound of footsteps on the road. A man and a woman came into sight, and the hunchback’s eyes went to the sleeping child beside her; her right hand moved out and rested on its ragged clothes.

The man and woman who were approaching carried bundles, and their dress proclaimed them to be of slightly higher social standing than the group on the bank. The man who wore his hair cut short so that his pink and rather prominent ears could be seen, might have been a tradesman. The woman was plump and puffing with exertion; it was clear that she was finding the heat uncomfortable.

“Here’s sensible people,” she was grumbling, “taking a rest by the roadside. I declare I’ll do the same, for my feet won’t carry me a step farther until I give them a short rest.”

“Now come along, Kitty,” said the man. “If we’re to be in Tonbridge in time for the wagon there’s no time for dallying.”

“There’s time enough, and my feet won’t go a step further.” The fat woman was smiling as she plumped herself down on the bank, and her husband had no choice but to do the same, for it was too hot to stand and argue.

“God be with you,” said the fat woman.

“God be with you,” murmured Tom and his companions, but they did not look at the newcomers; they kept their eyes fixed on the opposite bank. Unlike the fat woman they did not wish for roadside chatter; but the fat woman was one who usually achieved that which she desired.

“A pretty child …” she began.

The hunchback smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“I’ve a weakness for little girls …”

“This … is a little boy,” said Nan, and her accent was unmistakably foreign.

“You sound like a foreigner,” said the woman.

“I am French, Madame.”

“French?” The man shot a suspicious glance at the party. “We don’t like the French much here.”

His wife continued to smile. “Lee says that when our King went and got married to a French wife the trouble started, and now look what she’s brought him to. That’s what you say, eh, Lee?”

“Where is she now?” demanded Lee. “In France … kicking up her heels and dancing the new dances, I’ll warrant. A fine wife she’s been to our King Charles and a fine brewing of trouble she’s brought him!”

“I’m sorry that the Queen should be French,” said Nan. “For myself I am a poor woman. My husband here and my child … with these two fellow servants, go to join our master. The poor in France are much like the poor in England.”

“There’s truth in that, I’ll swear,” said the woman.

“A master or a mistress says ‘Go here … Go there …’ and their servants must go … even if it is to service in another country. My husband is a valet to a gentleman. That is so, is it not, Gaston?”

Gaston agreed that it was so, in English slightly less fluent than that of the hunchback.

“And we all serve in the same household,” put in Nell.

“Ah,” said the man Lee, “there’s going to be a turnabout in this country ere long. Things will be different for some of us when the Parliament is victorious. We’re for the Parliament … as all the poor should be. Are you for the Parliament?”

“Please?” said the hunchback.

“For the Parliament,” said Lee in a louder tone.

“I do not always understand. I am not English. You will forgive me.”

Lee turned to Tom. “Are you French too?”

“No, I am English.”

“Then you’ll think as I do.”

“How old is the child?” interrupted Lee’s wife.

“He has two years,” said the hunchback. She had unconsciously laid her hand on the child.

“What a fine-shaped hand you’ve got,” said the woman. She studied her own gnarled one and its broken nails with a distasteful grimace.

“She’s a lady’s maid,” explained Nell.

“What! Dressing and curling the hair and sewing on ruffles. You’ll be used to high-life.”

“High-life?” said the hunchback. “What is that?”

“High society, balls and masques,” said Tom.

“Fine ladies and gentlemen making merry while the poor starves,” said Lee.

“I am sorry that that should be so,” said the hunchback gravely.

“’Tis no fault of yours. The poor stands together … times like these. Where are you making for?”

“We are joining our master’s household at Dover.”

“And all on foot!” cried Lee, “with a child to carry!”

“That’s how the rich look after their servants,” added his wife.

“We have to be there tomorrow,” said Tom, “to set the house in order. We’ve little time to lose.”

“A nice way to treat you!” the woman went on grumbling. “Walking all the way! Where have you come from?”

“Well …” began Tom; but the hunchback said quickly: “From London.”

“And carrying a child all that way!”

“The child is mine … mine and my husband’s,” said the hunchback. “We are glad to be able to have him with us.”

“Why,” said Lee, “you ought to get the stage wagon. That’s where we’re going now. To Tonbridge to catch the wagon.”

“Lee’s a much travelled man,” said his wife admiringly.

“Yes. I don’t mind telling you it’s not the first time I’ve travelled on the stage wagon. Once I went from Holborn to Chester … travelling the whole of six days. Two miles the hour and a halfpenny the mile, a wagoner to hold the horses and lead them all the way while you sat on the floor of the wagon like a lord. ’Tis a wondrous thing to travel. Hist! I think I hear riders coming this way.”

The hunchback shrank nearer to her friends as once again her hand hovered over the sleeping child. They were all silent for some seconds while the sound of horses’ hoofs grew louder; and soon a party of riders came into sight. They were soberly dressed and their hair scarcely covered their ears, thus proclaiming them to be soldiers of the Parliamentary forces.

“God go with you!” called Lee.

“God be with you, friend,” answered the rider at the head of the cavalcade.

The dust raised by the horses’ hoofs made the hunchback cough; the child started to whimper. “All is well,” murmured the hunchback. “All is well. Sleep on.”

“I heard,” said Lee’s wife, “that the King won’t hold out much longer. They say he’s gone to Scotland. He hadn’t a chance after Naseby. Best thing he could do would be to join the Frenchwoman in France.”

“Mayhap he would not wish to leave his country,” said Tom.

“Better for him to leave for France than the next world,” put in Lee with a laugh.

The child sat up and gazed at the Lees with an expression of candid distaste.

“All is well,” said the hunchback hastily. She put her arm round the child and pressed its little face against her.

“No, no, no!” cried the child, wriggling away.

“A fine temper,” said Lee’s wife.

“It’s so hot,” replied the hunchback.

“I see you spoil him,” said Lee.

“Let’s have a look at the little ’un,” said his wife. She took hold of the child’s ragged sleeve. The child tried to shake her off, but she only laughed, and that seemed to enrage the little creature. “You’re a spoiled baby, you are,” went on the woman. “You’ll never grow into a fine soldier to fight for General Fairfax, you won’t. What’s your name?”

“Princess,” said the child haughtily.

“Princess!” cried Lee. “That’s a strange name for a little boy.”

“It is Pierre, Monsieur,” said the hunchback quickly.

“That in English is Peter,” added Gaston.

“He does not speak the very good English,” went on the hunchback. “His words are not very clear. We talk to him sometimes in our own tongue … sometimes in English … and our English, as you see, Madame, is sometimes not very good.”

“Princess!” repeated the child. “Me … Princess!”

There was silence while all looked at the child. The Lees in puzzlement; the four companions of the child as though they had been struck temporarily lifeless. In the distance could be heard the sound of retreating horses’ hoofs. Then the hunchback seemed to come to a decision; she rose and took the child firmly by the hand.

“We must go,” she said. “We shall not reach our lodging by nightfall if we stay longer. Come, my friends. And good day to both of you. A pleasant journey and thank you for your company.”

The other three had risen with her. They closed about the child.

“Good day to you,” murmured the Lees.

The child turned to take a last look at them, and the big black eyes showed an angry defiance as the lips formed the words: “Princess. Me … Princess!”

They did not speak until they had put some distance between themselves and the man and woman on the bank. The hunchback had picked up the child so that they might more quickly escape.

At length Nell said: “For the moment I was ready to run.”

“That would have been unwise,” said the hunchback. “That would have been the worst thing we could have done.”

“If we could only make … the boy understand!”

“I have often been relieved because he is so young … too young to understand; and yet if only we could explain…. But how could one so young be expected to understand?”

The child, knowing itself to be the subject of discussion, was listening eagerly. The hunchback noticed this and said: “What will there be to eat at this inn of yours, Tom? Mayhap a little duck or snipe … peacock, kid, venison. Mayhap lampreys and sturgeon …”

“We must remember our stations,” said the hunchback.

The child wished to bring the conversation back to itself. The little hands beat the hunchback. “Nan … Nan …” said the child. “Dirty Nan! Don’t like dirty Nan.”

“Hush, dearest, hush!” said the hunchback.

“Want to go home. Want clean Nan … not dirty Nan.”

“Dearest, be good. Only a little while longer. Remember you are Pierre … my little boy.”

“Little girl!” said the child.

“No, dearest, no! You are Pierre … Pierre for Peter.”

“No Pierre! No Pierre!” chanted the child. “Dirty Nan! Black lady! Want to get down.”

“Try to sleep, my darling.”

“No sleep! No sleep!”

Two soldiers had rounded the bend and were coming towards the party, who immediately fell silent; but just as the two men drew level with them, the child called to them: “Me … Princess. Dirty frock … not mine … Me … Princess!”

They stopped. The hunchback smiled, but beneath the grime and dust her face grew a shade paler.

“What was it the little one said?” asked one of the soldiers.

It was the hunchback who answered. “Your pardon, Messieurs. I and my husband do not speak the English very well. Nor does our son. He is telling you his name is Pierre. That is Peter in English.”

One of the soldiers said: “I thought the boy said he was a Princess.”

The child smiled dazzlingly and chanted: “Princess! Princess! Don’t like black lady. Want clean Nan.”

The soldiers looked at each other and exchanged smiles. One of them brought his face near to that of the child. “So you’re a Princess, eh, young fellow?” he said. “I’ll tell you something.” He nodded his head in the direction of his companion. “He’s Oliver Cromwell and I’m Prince Charley.”

“Forgive, Monsieur,” said the hunchback quickly. “We mean no harm. We are walking to Dover to the house of our master.”

“To Dover, eh!” said the soldier. “You’re on the right road but you’ve many hours journey before you yet.”

“Then we must hasten.”

The second soldier was smiling at the child. “Listen to me, little ’un,” he said. “’Tis better in these days to be the son of a hunchback than the daughter of a King.”

“Ah, Messieurs!” cried the hunchback. “You speak truly. I thank God these days that I am a poor hunchback, for I remember there are others in worse case.”

“God’s will be done,” said the soldier.

“God be with you,” said the hunchback.

“And with you, woman. And with you all. Farewell, Princess Peter.”

The child began to wail as they continued along the road. “Me Princess. Want my gown. Don’t like dirty Nan.”

Again that silence; again that tension.

Nell said: “Can it go on? Shall we be so lucky every time?”

“We must be,” replied the hunchback grimly.

It was dusk when they came to the inn. They were glad of that, for the daylight was disturbing; moreover the child slept.

Tom went across the inn yard and found the landlord. He was a long time gone. The rest of the party waited uneasily beneath the hanging sign.

“Mayhap we should not have come here,” said Nell. “Mayhap we should have made beds for ourselves under the hedges.”

“We shall be safe enough,” murmured the hunchback. “And we’ll leave at daybreak.”

At length Tom called to them to come forward. The landlord was with him.

“So this is the party,” said the landlord. “Two women and two men and a young boy. I don’t make a practice of taking foot passengers … nor those that come on the stage wagon. My inn is an inn for the quality.”

“We can pay,” said Tom quickly.

“There’s comings and goings these days,” said the landlord. “We had a troop of soldiers in here only this day.”

Tom took out his purse and showed it to the innkeeper. “We’ll pay in advance,” he said. “We’re tired and hungry. Let us make a bargain here and now.”

“Very well, very well,” said the landlord. “What’ll you eat? It’ll be at the common table, I reckon, and that’ll cost you sixpence a-piece.”

Tom looked at the hunchback, who said: “Could we have the meal served for us alone? Mayhap we could have a room to ourselves.”

The innkeeper scratched his head and looked at them.

“We’ll pay,” said Tom.

“Well then … it could be arranged. Please to wait in the inn parlor, and you’ll be called to table in good time.”

He led the way into the parlor, and Tom went out with him to settle where they would sleep, what they would eat, and to pay the innkeeper what he asked.

There were several people in the inn parlor. The hunchback noticed this with dismay and she hesitated, but only for a second; then she went boldly forward holding the sleeping child in her arms, with Nell and Gaston on either side of her.

Several people, who sat at the tables and in the window seat, and who were talking together, called a good day to them. The eyes of a plump lady bedecked with ribbons went to the child.

“Looks worn out,” she commented. “Poor little mite! She fast asleep?”

“It’s a little boy.”

“There now! So he is! Have you come far?”

“From London.”

The rest of the people went on talking about the war; they were sighing for the good old days of peace and blaming “The French Woman” for all their troubles. There was one large man with short hair who had taken upon himself the task of mentor to the rest. He was explaining to the company why it had been necessary to wage war against the Royalists. His knowledge of affairs was imperfect, but those present who might have corrected him dared not do so.

“The Queen would make us all Catholic if she could,” he was declaring. “You, Sir, and you, Madam, and you, my comely wench. Aye, and you who have just come in … the hunchback woman and the boy there … she’d make us all Catholic if she dared.”

“We’d die rather,” said another man.

“Why,” went on the first, “on St. James’ day this Queen of ours walked afoot to Tyburn to honor Catholics who had died there. And I tell you, friends, by the gleam in her eyes it was clear she’d like to see done to some of us good Christians what was done to idolators at Tyburn gallows. If I’d been at Exeter I’d not have let her give me the slip. I’d have found her. I’d have carried her to London … aye, that I would. I’d have made her walk to Tyburn gallows … and it wouldn’t have been to honor idolators!”

“She’s a very wicked woman,” volunteered one of the women. “They say the French are all wicked.”

“It won’t be long,” said the large talkative man, “before we’ve done with kings and queens in England. Kings and queens have no place in England today.”

“If the King was to be killed in battle … or after,” said a short fat man, “there’d still be his children to make trouble.”

“I saw the Prince of Wales once,” said the beribboned woman. “An ugly fellow!”

“Well, that’s as may be,” said the woman with a smile.

“And what would you mean by that?”

“Oh … he was dark … dark to swarthiness … He had a big nose and a big mouth … He was a boy and yet …”

“Sounds as if you’re a Royalist, madam,” said the large man accusingly.

“Oh no, I wouldn’t say that. He was naught but a boy … Prince Charles … and he was riding through our town with his brother, young James. It would have been just before Edgehill, I reckon.”

“We nearly got those boys at Edgehill,” grumbled the man. “If I’d have been there …”

The woman was wistful. “No, he wasn’t really ugly … not when he smiled. And he smiled at me … straight at me and doffed his hat as though I were a lady of the Court. There was a woman with me who declared the smile and the hat-doffing was for her …”

“You’re bedazzled by royalty!” sneered the man.

“Not me! It was only the Prince himself. There were others there. Gentlemen … dukes … lords … Handsome they might be called, but it was the Prince … that boy … that dark and ugly boy … Mayhap it was because he was just a boy …”

“Tush!” said the man. “His Royal Highness! He’ll not be Highness much longer. It won’t be long before he’ll want to forget he was Prince of Wales and once heir to a kingdom that will have none of him. People will be ashamed to talk of kings and queens, I tell you. We’ll choose our Lord Protector and if he doesn’t please us we’ll rid ourselves of him and choose another. Royalty! I’d have the heads off the lot of them!”

“Except the prince of Wales …” murmured the woman.

Tom looked in at the door and beckoned to his party; gladly they followed him out of the parlor.

He whispered as the door shut on them: “We’re to have an attic to ourselves to sleep in. The landlord is having straw put up there now. Food is being prepared for us, and that we can have by ourselves in one of the small rooms. I have paid him well. I think he is a little suspicious of how we can pay for what we want; but his eyes glistened at the sight of the money.”

“Then let us eat quickly and retire to our attic,” said the hunchback.

As they walked across the hall they heard a man’s voice, shouting to a groom. It was a loud and arrogant voice. They were all straining their ears to listen.

“Come, boy! Where’s mine host? I’m famished. And I want a room … the best room you have …”

The innkeeper was bustling into the yard; they could hear the rise and fall of his voice as he obsequiously placated the newcomer.

“Come along,” said the hunchback; and they went into a small room where a meal of duck and boar was laid out for them, with ale to drink. The child awakened and sleepily partook of the meal. They spoke little while they ate, and before the others had finished—as the child had fallen asleep again—the hunchback said she would go up to the attic room with him and there she would stay till morning; for the two of them must not be separated.

“I’ll show you the way,” said Tom. “’Tis right at the top under the eaves.”

As they came out into the hall the arrogant newcomer was leaning against the wall shouting instructions and looking with distaste at his surroundings. His eyes flickered over the hunchback and the child; he paused for a second and then gave them a look of distaste. The hunchback hastily followed Tom up the stairs and, as she did so, she heard the drawling voice: “God’s Body! This is no inn! ’Tis an ale house. This is no place for the quality. Hunchback beggars and their brats stay here. Plague take you! Why did you not tell me, man?”

The hunchback did not look round as she followed Tom up the narrow staircase. Tom indicated a door and they went in. It was a long, low-ceilinged room; a dark room, and the thatch showed through a small unglazed window. On the floor were two piles of straw which would serve as beds. It was rough but it would do for a night.

“Go back to your food,” said the hunchback. “I will stay here with the child. All of you join me when you have finished, but first eat your fill.”

Tom bowed and when he had left her she laid the child on one of the heaps of straw and gently put her lips to the small forehead. Then she threw herself down beside the child. She was worn out with the day’s exertion. She laid her hand over her fast-beating heart. It should beat more peacefully now; here they would be safe until morning, and there were only a few more miles to Dover. Here they could sleep and refresh themselves, and at daybreak they would be on their journey again.

Suddenly the door opened and a groom came in. He hesitated. “Ah … I did not know there was anyone here. I have brought more straw.”

“I thank you.”

“There are four of you and the little girl?”

“Little boy,” she corrected him.

As she spoke she had laid her hand on the child; it was as though when anyone spoke of it she had to touch it, fearing that someone might try to snatch it from her. The man came over and looked down at the sleeping child. He stared, and she remembered how the woman on the bank had noticed her finely shaped hands.

“A little boy,” said the groom, “with the looks of a girl.”

“He is young yet, and I am told that he resembles his mother rather than his father.”

“He has an air,” said the groom. “He might be the child of someone of high degree.”

He was watching the hunchback in a manner which brought the flush to her cheeks, and in that instant, as the rich blood showed beneath the dirt, she was young and comely.

He lowered his voice. “Lady,” he said, “there are some hereabouts who would be loyal to His Majesty.”

She did not answer; her grip tightened on the child.

“Your hands are too fine, madam,” he said. “They betray you. You should keep them hidden.”

“My hands? I am a lady’s maid.”

“That would account for it, mayhap.”

“Mayhap! It does account for it!”

“Your hump has slipped a little, lady. If you’ll forgive my saying so, it is a bit too high. And you should bend over more.”

The hunchback tried to speak, but she could not; her mouth was dry and she was trembling.

“I was with the King’s army at Edgehill,” went on the groom. “I was with the little Prince Charles and his brother James. There was that about him—Charles, I mean—which made me want to serve him. Boy as he was, I’ll never forget him. Tall for his age and dark for an Englishman, and so ready to give a smile to a man that he didn’t seem like a king’s son. Just one of ourselves … and yet with a difference … He came near to capture at Edgehill … God bless him! God bless the Prince of Wales!”

“You’re a bold man to speak thus before a stranger.”

“These are days for bold deeds, madam. But you may trust me. I wish you Godspeed and a safe trip across the water.”

“Across the water?”

“You go to Dover, madam. You will cross the water with the child and join the Queen.”

“I have said nothing that should make you think this.”

“They say the Queen is the cause of the King’s troubles, madam. That may be so, but the Queen is devoted to the King’s cause. Poor lady! It must be two years since she fled from England. It was a few weeks after the birth of her youngest, the little Princess Henrietta.”

“This makes uneasy talk,” said the hunchback.

“You may trust me, madam. And if there is anything I can do to serve you …”

“Thank you, but I am only a poor woman who, with her husband and fellow-servants, goes to join her master’s household.”

He bowed and went from the room; and when he had gone she was still unable to move, for a numbness had seized her limbs. On the road, passing the soldiers of the King’s enemies, she had been less frightened than now. The walls of the attic became to her like prison walls.

When the others joined her, they found her sitting on the straw holding the child in her arms.

She said: “I am afraid. One of the grooms came to bring straw, and I am sure he knows who we are. And I … I cannot be sure whether or not we can trust him.”

The night was full of terrors. She shifted from side to side on her straw. The hump of linen hurt her back, but she dared not unstrap it. What if the hunchback were surprised without her hump! Had she been foolish in attempting this great adventure? What if she failed now? That virago, Queen Henrietta Maria, would never forgive her for exposing her youngest child to such dangers of the road. And yet there were times when it was necessary to take a bold action. The Queen herself had acted boldly, and because of that was at this moment in her native country where she might work for the King, her husband, instead of being—as she most certainly would have been, had she been less bold—the prisoner of the King’s enemies.

Anne Douglas, Lady Dalkeith, had had to find some way of disguising her tall and graceful figure, and the hump had seemed as good a way as any; and to assume French nationality had seemed imperative since the little Princess could prattle and her lisping “Princess” sounded more like Pierre than any other name. If it had only been possible to make the child understand the danger she was in, how much easier would this task have been! But she was too young to realize why she must be hurried from her comfortable palace, why she must be dressed as a beggar’s child, and that she must be called Pierre. If she had been younger—or older—the journey might have been less dangerous.

Anne Douglas had scarcely slept since she had left the Palace of Oat-lands; she was exhausted now, but even with the others at hand, she dared not sleep. The groom had made her very uneasy. He had said she could trust him, but whom could one trust in a country engaged in a great civil war?

It would have seemed incredible a few years ago that she, Anne Villiers, wife of Robert Douglas who was the heir of the Earl of Morton, should be lying in such a place as this. But times had changed; and it occurred to her to wonder where the King slept this night or where the Prince of Wales had his lodging.

She had made the decision suddenly.

It was two years since the little Princess had been born. The Queen had been very weak at the time, and before she had risen from her bed news had come that Lord Essex—who was on the side of the Parliament—was marching to Exeter with the intention of besieging the city. Henrietta Maria had written to him asking for permission to leave for Bath with her child; Essex’s reply had been that if the Queen went anywhere with his consent it would be to London, where she would be called before the Parliament to answer a charge of making civil war in England.

There had been only one course open to her—flight to France. How she had wept, that emotional woman! She had cried to Anne: “I must leave this country. If the Parliament make me their prisoner, my husband will come to my aid; he will risk all for my sake. It is better that my miserable life should be risked than that he should be in peril through me. I have written to him telling him this; and by the time he receives my letter I hope to be in France. The Queen of France is my own sister-in-law, and she will not turn me away.”

She was all emotion; her heart was ever ready to govern her head, and this, Anne knew, was in a large measure to be blamed for the King’s disasters; for, oddly enough, although the marriage of Charles and Henrietta Maria had begun stormily, they had quickly understood each other, and with understanding had come passionate affection. The Queen was passionate by nature; frivolous she seemed at times, yet how singlemindedly she could cling to a cause; and the cause to which she now gave her passionate energy was that of her husband.

“Take care of my little one, Anne,” she had said. “Guard her with your life. If ill befall her, Anne Douglas, you shall suffer a thousand times more than she does.” Those black eyes had snapped with fury as she had railed against a fate which demanded she leave her child; they softened with love for the baby and gratitude to Anne Douglas, even while she threatened her. Then, having made these threats, she had taken Anne in her arms and kissed her. “I know you will take care of my child … Protestant though you are. And if you should ever see the light, foolish woman, and come to the true religion, you must instruct my daughter as I would have her instructed. Oh, but you are a Protestant, you say! And the King will have his children brought up in the religion of their own country! And I am a poor desolate mother who must give up her newborn babe to a Protestant! A Protestant!” She had become incoherent, for she had never bothered to learn the English language properly. Anne knelt to her and swore that, apart from her religion, she would serve the Queen and obey her in all things.

Poor sad Henrietta Maria, who had come to England as a girl of sixteen, very lovely and determined to have her own way, was now an exile, parted from her husband and children. But with God’s help, there should be one child restored to her.

To Exeter the King had come, for he had not received his wife’s letter and believed her to be still there in childbed; he had fought his way through the Parliamentary forces to reach her. It had been Anne’s unhappy task to tell him that he was too late. Her eyes filled with tears now as she remembered him—handsome, even with the stains of battle on him, noble of countenance as he always would be, for he was a man of ideals; and if there was a weakness in that face, it but endeared him to a woman such as Anne Douglas. He was too ready to listen to the wrong advice; he was weak when he should have been strong, and obstinate when to give way would have been wise. He believed too firmly in that Divine Right of Kings which had grown out of date since the reign of Henry VIII; he lacked the common touch of Henry’s daughter, Elizabeth, who had been able to adjust her rule to meet a more modern way of life. Weak though he might have been, a ruler unfit to rule, he was a man of handsome presence and of great personal charm; and it was moving to see his devotion to his family.

With him to Exeter had come the young Prince of Wales, a boy of fourteen then, who had none of his father’s good looks, but already more than his father’s charm. He was rather shy and sweet-tempered. It had been moving to see him take the baby in his arms and marvel at the smallness of her.

Anne wept afresh; she wept for the handsome King who was losing his kingdom, for the Prince, who would be heir to his father’s lost throne, for the baby—the youngest of a tragic family.

“Poor little daughter,” the King had said, “you have been born into a sorry world. You must be baptized at once.”

“What name shall she be given, Your Majesty?”

“Let us call her Henrietta after my wife. But she must be baptized according to the rites of the Church of England.”

And so the ceremony had taken place in the Cathedral of Exeter on a warm July day two years ago; then the King had left for Cornwall where he pursued the war with some success.

Later, when the baby was three months old, he returned to Bedford House in the city of Exeter where she was caring for the child, but only for a brief visit, and Anne had not seen him since. The Prince came to see his little sister a year later. The child, fifteen months old, was not too young to notice the tall dark boy who made so much of her; she was old enough to crow with pleasure when she saw him, and weep bitterly when he went away. The Prince had had to leave in a hurry because once more the Roundheads were marching on Exeter. Remembering Henrietta Maria’s words, Anne had done her utmost to escape with the child to Cornwall, but her attempt to do so had been foiled. She had been surrounded by spies, and there had been nothing she could do on that occasion but shut herself and her servants up in the security of Bedford House and remain at the side of the Princess day and night.

From her exile in France an angry Queen, knowing that her precious child was in Exeter and that the town was being besieged by her enemies, had raved with fury against fate, the Parliament and that slothful traitress, Anne Douglas.

That was a cruel charge and Anne had suffered deeply. In vain did those about her tell her that she was foolish to attach such importance to the Queen’s reproaches. Did she not know the Queen!

It was said of Henrietta Maria that she regarded unfortunate friends blameworthy, even as traitors were. Anne tried to understand. Henrietta Maria was beside herself with grief, wondering what was happening to her child in a besieged city where there would be little to eat, where death stalked the streets and there would be constant dangers. Henrietta Maria was like a child; when she was hurt she stamped her foot and struck out at those nearest.

Anne had told herself she must remember the Queen’s grief and bear with her.

Sir John Berkeley, who had held the city for the Royalists, deciding they could hold out no longer, had surrendered the city on the condition that the little Princess and certain of her household should be allowed to leave Exeter; so they went, by the Parliament’s order, to the Palace of Oat-lands, and there they had been living for the last months at Anne’s expense as the Parliament refused to grant money for the Princess’s upkeep.

Oatlands, that royal pleasure house built by Henry VIII, had proved a refuge as pleasant as could be hoped for in the circumstances. But, since the day civil war had broken out in England, there had been no lasting peace for any member of the royal family; and there came that day when, leaving the garden and coming through the courtyard to the quadrangle with the machicolated gateway, Anne had met a messenger who brought her a letter from the House of Commons telling her that the Princess must be made ready to leave for London; there she was to join her sister, the Princess Elizabeth, and her brothers, Prince James and Prince Henry, in St. James Palace, where they would be placed in the care of the Earl and Countess of Northumberland.

Then Anne had made her decision. She would not again incur the anger of her mistress. She had long determined that she would never give up the child to any but the Queen or her family. The wild plan had come to her then. Henrietta Maria had fled to France; why should she not follow her? Surely she could disguise herself more successfully than the Queen had done. A woman with a child … a beggar woman? No! For beggars were sometimes set upon and treated badly. A humble servant and her child would be better; and for company she would take with her French Gaston, who would pretend to be her valet husband; and Elinor Dykes and Thomas Lambert, servants of the household, should come with her.

They would slip out of Oatlands Palace and none should know that they had gone. She would write a letter which should be sent back to the palace by another of her servants whom she would take with her for this purpose, informing certain members of her household whom she believed she could trust; she would give them permission to share the Princess’s clothes and some of her possessions among themselves, and warn them that they must give her three clear days before informing the Parliament that she and the Princess were missing. If they obeyed her, none would know of her flight until the fourth day; and by that time she should be safely on the water on her way to France.

It had not seemed so difficult; but how could she have foreseen the weariness of a gently nurtured lady after tramping the roads for three days; how could she have guessed that the little Princess herself, not understanding the danger, would insist on telling those whom she met on the road that the clothes she wore were not the fine garments to which she was accustomed, that her name was not Pierre nor Peter; but that she was the Princess?

Another day, thought Anne feverishly, and we shall be at sea. Only another day … but here we are in this attic, and the attic walls are like prison walls, for suspicion has been born in the mind of a groom.

They were awakened by a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard. It was dark in the attic; but Anne, starting up, saw a patch of starry sky through the window.

“Tom … Nell! Are you awake?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Hush, Tom!”

“Yes, Nan; we’re awake,” said Nell.

“What was that noise?”

“Only newcomers arriving, I doubt not.”

“It’s late … very late.”

“Can you not sleep?”

“I am thinking of that groom.”

“But he said he was loyal to His Majesty.”

“How can we know whether he was speaking the truth?”

“Do you think he suspected who the child is?”

“I am not sure. But if she had awakened and called herself ‘Princess’ we should certainly have been betrayed.”

They were silent for a while. Then Anne started up again. “Listen! Steps on the stairs!”

“’Tis new arrivals at the inn,” said Tom.

“But they are on the attic staircase. It leads only to us. I am sure they are there. It is the groom. He has betrayed us.”

The next seconds seemed like minutes. Anne held the Princess close against her. Little Henrietta began to whimper in her sleep. Tom was on his feet; the footsteps had stopped and they knew that someone was standing on the other side of the door.

Then there was a sudden nerve-shattering hammering against the wood.

Tom threw his weight against it. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

“It is your landlord.”

“What do you want of us at this hour?”

“Soldiers are here. They demand quarters. I have no room for them all.”

“Open the door to him,” said Anne, and Tom obeyed.

“Listen here,” said the landlord. “I’ve got to find room for the soldiers. I told them that the inn was full, but they wouldn’t have it. They demand shelter. Some of them have been drinking. Now there’s an outhouse you can have for the rest of the night. I often let it to passengers from the wagon. It would serve you well.”

“Cannot the soldiers use the outhouse?” asked Tom.

“I don’t want trouble at my inn. There’s a war raging in this country. In wartime we’re in the hands of the soldiery.”

Anne said quickly: “Let us go to this outhouse. I doubt not that it will suit us well.”

“Thank you. You are a wise woman. Come quickly. The soldiers are drinking in the parlor.”

He held his candle aloft and, gathering the sleeping child in her arms Anne, with Tom leading and Nell and Gaston taking up the rear, followed the man down the staircase. When they were on the lower landing, a door opened, and there stood the elegant man who had made such a commotion earlier that night.

“By God’s body!” he cried. “Cannot a gentleman be allowed to sleep? Comings and goings the whole night through! What is happening now, man?”

“Your pardon, your honor. It’s the soldiers. They’ve just come in. That’s how it is these days, sir. There’s nothing a poor innkeeper can do.”

He quizzed the party. “These hardly look like soldiers.”

“Nay, sir. Some poor travellers I took in, sir, and let them have the attic. Now the soldiers want it and …”

“So you’re turning them out into the night, eh?”

“No … no, your honor. They’ve paid for shelter and they shall have it. I am giving them an outhouse. ’Tis warm and comfortable and will seem cozy to such as they are, I’ll swear.”

With an oath the man shut his door and the party continued their descent. The landlord took them through the kitchens where, setting down his candle, he took up a lantern, and conducted them to the outhouse.

“You’ll pass the rest of the night in peace and comfort here,” he said. “You could not be more snug. See, there’s straw for you all and ’tis a warm night.”

“Can the door be barred?” asked Tom.

“Aye. You can lock it from the inside if you wish to.”

“This will suit us for the rest of the night,” said Anne quickly.

The landlord left them; and as soon as he had gone Tom turned the heavy key in the lock.

“I feel a little safer here,” said Anne; but she was still trembling.

They left early next morning as soon as the first sign of dawn was in the sky. All through the morning they walked, and in the afternoon they came into the town of Dover. Anne felt great relief as, looking out to sea, she caught sight of the Dover Packet-boat lying at anchor; the weather was undoubtedly favorable. Very soon her ordeal must be ended.

Henrietta was lively; she had ridden all the morning on Anne’s back, and if Anne was tired, she was not.

“Water!” she cried.

“It is the sea, my precious one,” Anne told her.

“Nan … want my own gown …”

“Soon you shall have it, little Pierre.”

“No Pierre! No Pierre!”

“Just a little while longer, dearest.”

“No Pierre!” chanted Henrietta. “Me … Princess. No Pierre! No Peter!”

“Let’s pretend for a little longer. Let it be our secret, eh?”

Tom said: “I wish the Princess would sleep.”

“She cannot sleep all the time.”

“No sleep! No sleep!” chanted the Princess.

“’Twould please me better if she slept as we passed through the town,” persisted Tom.

A man passed them. He gave no sign of having recognized them, but he was the elegant gentleman whom they had seen at the inn and who had opened his door as they had passed along the corridor.

None of them spoke, but each was aware of him. He turned slowly and followed them. At the water’s edge he called to a boatman in his arrogant manner. “Is that the Dover Packet lying there, fellow?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Then row me out to her, will you? These people will go with us.”

“Milord …?” began Tom.

The man shook his head impatiently.

When they were in the boat the baby Princess showed clearly her appreciation of the elegant gentleman, but he did not glance at her as he gave orders to the boatman in his cool arrogant manner.

“How’s the wind?”

“Set fair for France, milord.”

“Then the Packet will be leaving soon, I’ll swear.”

“Waiting but for the turn of the tide, milord.”

Now they were alongside and the party stepped aboard, obediently following the man who led the way.

He signed to Anne and led her and the child into a cabin. When they were alone, he bowed to her, taking her hand and kissing it. “You have done a marvelous thing, Anne,” he said. “The Queen will love you forever.”

“It was a great comfort to know that you were with us … though not of the party.”

“There were some uneasy moments. The worst was last night when I opened my door and saw you being marched down the stairs. Well, that is over. Stay in your cabin during the crossing, and remain disguised until you are safely on French soil. I must go now. Assure Her Majesty of my untiring devotion.”

“I will, John.”

“Tell her the Berkeleys will hold the West against any number of Roundhead oafs.”

“I’ll tell her, John.”

“Goodbye and good luck.”

Sir John Berkeley kissed her hand and that of the Princess. Then he quickly returned to the boat and was rowed ashore.

Not long after, the Packet slipped away from the white cliffs on its way to Calais.