CHAPTER 1
THE QUEEN'S QUEST
When I consider the caprice and arrogance of Buckingham, I pity the young king, who, through false council, is needlessly showing himself and his kingdom in such extremity. For anyone can start a war when he wishes, but he cannot so easily end it.
— from a letter written by Peter Paul Rubens to a friend upon the occasion of Charles I and Henrietta's marriage negotiated by the Duke of Buckingham
Dover, England
February 1642
It was a rare English day, a day to ride to the hunt with Charles beside her, a day to play blind man's buff in the gardens with the children. Not a day for parting. Sky and water should be gray on such a day as this, that hated, dreary English gray her soul despised. From the ship's deck Queen Henrietta Maria shouted into the wind, 'God save you, mon amour, mon cher ami,' then louder, blowing kisses with her free hand, 'mon cher cœur.' Flying fingers sent sparks of color from her rings to light like jeweled butterflies in the sun-sparked harbor. With the other hand she clutched her favorite sad-eyed spaniel to her breast. The thrum, thrum, thrumming of his heart answered the frenzy of her own.
Mon amour, mon cher cœur. Words for whispering in the King's ear, two beating hearts, one body, in the curtained bed of state at Whitehall or in the lodge at Richmond, or the tented pavilion in the forest glade where two of their children had been conceived. Her French endearments always pleased him.
In everything she strove to please him, save one. Once he had said to her, 'You must remember, madame, that your son will someday be king. Do not fill his head with popery. It will only cause him great trouble.' Afterwards she had taken pains to see that the children's religious instruction took place outside his hearing.
This parting, this voluntary exile was Henrietta's plan to help with Charles' 'great trouble.' By the tall window, whilst Edward Hyde and the lords plotted with the King how best to put down the Scottish rebellion, Henrietta had hovered over her embroidery. She listened and watched. In their cocked eyebrows and conspiratorial glances, she had read an unfathomable circumstance: Charles needed money desperately. The royal treasury had been depleted by the uprisings in Ireland — and other things — and only Parliament could levy new taxes. Parliament refused. And yet, although Charles would not face the truth, Henrietta had gleaned enough to know that this Parliament would never fund another army for Charles Stuart — not as long as he had a Catholic queen. Nor would London's militia, the Trained Bands under the control of the Puritan Commons, likely take up arms against the enraged Presbyterian barbarians gathering on the border. Not even for their king.
On the shore the Master of the King's Guard muttered something in the King's ear. Charles continued waving, not turning to leave. She leaned against the rail, throwing kisses with both hands now, remembering her own part in beggaring the treasury: The beautiful palace at Somerset House, the gilded chapel with Master Rubens' grand painting, her retinue of Capuchins in their gold-threaded hoods. And Inigo Jones' elaborate masques at the Banqueting House — oh what fun it all was. Her enemies said she was too extravagant, but she had given England a court of glory to rival any in Christendom and she would not repent it. The last scrape from the treasury had gone to support her mother's extravagance when Cardinal Richelieu and Louis banned her from France and dear, kind Charles took her in.
Charles had been as pleased and proud as she at all the beauty and music and art until the day came that he shook his head and declared, 'Edward Hyde says the treasury is diminished, dear heart. We must not seem to be quite so extravagant,' and added he was going to have to recall Parliament, reminding her that in England only Parliament could raise taxes. He had few peerages left to sell and no more fees to levy. Some of the Lords had even gone to the Tower to keep from paying the ship-money levy, which they claimed was an illegal tax. That was more than a year ago. Shortly after he'd packed her mother and her extravagant household off to whatever duchy on the Continent was willing to harbor Maria de' Medici.
A strong-backed seaman shouldered the last chest as a royal footman handed it off. 'Lift the plank. This is the last of the lot,' he called as the chest tilted forward.
'Fais attention! It is the property of the crown.'
The captain cast a baleful eye on the seaman. She should not have said that. Parliament's spies were everywhere. He might request the chest be opened for inspection.
Henrietta smiling sweetly said, 'It is a gift from the King for the Dutch court. I promised his Majesty I would see to it personally. I wish it carried to my quarters.'
'As you wish, your majesty.' The captain nodded to the seaman, who took a firmer grip and moved on.
Her gaze turned once again to the shore. He was still here. Watching, waiting to see the ship safely out of harbor. In the months since Wentworth's execution, he'd been more melancholy than usual. It took much persuasion to make him see the necessity of her journey. He needed his wife by his side more than ever, he'd said wearily. But with years of practice she had learned how to bend him to her will and therein, according to her detractors, lay much of the problem. 'The King, he is pecked by a French hen.' She suspected that was not the worst they said in their gossipy broadsheets.
The ship rocked gently. The little spaniel yipped and squirmed. Henrietta handed it off to her maid. The sails filled. She leaned into the wind, willing it to cease, her eyes seeking to store up the sight of him on the shore. His mount snorted and pranced, impatient to be off. The same stiff breeze that teased her hair from out its ermine hood brushed the King's great hat, whipping its feathered plume. With her left hand she touched the pendant at her throat as though the touch of it could harden her resolve, strengthen her courage as much as any saint's medal.
Non. Restore the plank. Unload it all. Take everything back to Whitehall. Who will see that James reads his Vulgate catechism and Elizabeth remembers to take her medicine and Prince Charles learns all the things a king needs to know? Who will kiss Baby Henry's bald little pate and tuck him into his cradle? What if something happens and I never see any of them again? What if my ship sinks ... what if, God forbid, the King's enemies. ... She made the sign of the cross and mouthed a prayer to the Holy Virgin.
The captain shouted some words Henrietta didn't understand. The men on board coiled the cables in readiness for casting off.
Non. S'il vous plaît. Non.
As the ship inched its way out of the harbor, Charles waved from the shore. Closing in around him, the mounted guard prepared to depart.
She had not been separated from Charles these sixteen years, not since Lord Buckingham's death when Lucy Hay had taught a frightened, lonely girl how to replace the ill-fated George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, in her husband's affections and confidence. And now she was faced with the consequences of the unpleasant truth that, like Buckingham, she had not always given wise counsel.
Act the man, my lord, she had goaded Charles when Parliament spoke against him in a way no sovereign should ever tolerate. He did nothing — until they plotted to impeach her, saying she was a malignant influence on the King and should be sent back to France. Act the man, my lord. So, in a gallant, but futile and ill-timed gesture, her Dearest Heart had ridden to Westminster with five hundred men at arms to arrest John Pym and five of the plotters — only to return a failure. 'The birds have flown,' he'd mumbled dejectedly. 'They were warned.'
Warned. A traitor in their midst. Some said Lucy Hay had warned her cousin, Lord Essex, one of the five conspirators. But Lady Carlisle would never betray her for a cousin. Of all the English ladies-in-waiting assigned to her, Lucy Hay had remained her friend and the only one she trusted. Now, Sir Edward Hyde on the other hand — Henrietta had never trusted Sir Edward Hyde. He played the middle. But Charles trusted him, so she had held her tongue. These same flown birds waited in the bushes, emboldened by their King's humiliation, and she was abandoning her Dearest Heart to calumny such as this?
The wind grew more biting. Lord Denbigh, Charles' friend and her noble escort, bowed before her. 'Your majesty,' he said, 'your apartments are in readiness. The Princess Royal and your ladies have already gone below.'
'Un moment, my lord,' she whispered, unable to divert her gaze from the riders on the shore. Lord Denbigh removed himself to a respectful distance.
The King's black stallion pulled up short and turned again. Her husband's eyes would be searching for her. She leaned over the rail and waved both hands. 'Je t'aime,' she whispered knowing he could not hear her now. 'Je t'aime, mon amour.' She watched until the riders were out of sight and then, feeling as lost and alone as when she had first set foot on England's shore, she followed her servants below.
'Put the carved chest at the foot of my bed,' she said to the French footman who, like Genevieve, her Lady of the Bedchamber, Buckingham had allowed her to bring from Paris eighteen years ago. Although Genevieve was no lady, not in any real sense, she was the best dresser the Queen had ever had and the only woman she trusted completely. Henrietta had learned no sooner than she'd set foot on English soil that the high-born English ladies with their vipers' tongues and averted gazes would never do her any good service.
Except for Lucy Hay.
Lady Carlisle had been her only true friend from the beginning. Henrietta had overlooked her Presbyterian attachment until it became apparent Lucy would never convert, not even for her Queen, and Henrietta knew to whom her allegiance was pledged. When she'd left the court of France as a bride of fifteen, Buckingham had obtained papal consent by promising King Louis and the Queen Regent of France — as well as the Holy Father — that her marriage would improve the lot of all Catholics in England. She had the documents to prove it. But what did Puritans care for papal documents? Or even for the Church of England? They had shut Archbishop Laud in the Tower, and in a breathtaking act of arrogance, rivaling the fallen angels of Heaven's insurrection, Parliament had dared to threaten their Queen because she worshipped at the altar of the one true Church. No. She could no longer suffer a Presbyterian in her chamber. Not when her other ladies would attend her at mass.
Taking the little yapping dog from Genevieve, she crooned. 'Mitte, n'ayez pas peur, mon petit ami. I am not afraid.'
Not afraid. But suddenly very lonely. At the very least she should have brought Jeffrey Hudson with her. The dwarf always cheered her. When they got to Den Haag, she would ask Lord Denbigh to send for him.
Surveying the cramped quarters, her first gaze sighted her favorite gilded mirror and silver backed brushes gleaming on a cloth of gold. A sting of tears threatened behind her eyelids as she lifted her favorite memento, one of Van Dyke's miniatures of Charles, and raised it to her lips. The tears spilled when she saw the circle of stones arranged on her bedside table — each inscribed by a childish hand, except for the smallest stone inscribed in the King's flowing hand. Charles must have supervised the accoutrements. She could envision him, helping to collect the stones, instructing the children, then guiding Henry's tiny fingers to scrawl his name.
She turned quickly away, saying brusquely to hide the tears in her voice, 'No. Henri, don't put it there. At the foot of the bed. Strap the chest to the bedpost so it will not slide.'
'As you wish, your majesty,' he said, his long-suffering expression never changing. The two servants exchange pitying glances. She wasn't fooling anybody. Of course he would have bolted it well. Both he and Genevieve knew what the chest contained.
'I wish to be alone now,' she said, dismissing the pair. She lay down on the bed, her little brown and white spaniel curling into a ball beside her, closed her eyes and tried not to think of the task that lay ahead of her. She tried not the think of the children she had left behind. After a while the rocking of the ship lulled her into a troubled sleep.
Had Henrietta Maria remained on deck for just a little longer, she would have seen the silhouette of a lone rider in a large plumed hat, riding the high cliffs above Dover. He shielded his eyes as he scanned the sea until the ship that carried his wife away became only a speck on the horizon.
At the Queen's feet, secured in a hidden compartment beneath her silk chemises, the glory of the crown jewels slept in darkness.
CHAPTER 2
LADY HAY'S ELEGANT SALON
In spite of masks and hoods descry
the parts denied unto the eye
I was undoing all she wore,
and had she walked but one turn more,
Eve in her first state had not been
more naked or more plainly seen.
— From the seventeenth-century poet John Suckling's 'Upon My Lady Carlisle's Walking in Hampton Court Garden'
Lucy Hay née Percy, Countess of Carlisle, and England's most celebrated salonnière, cast a critical eye over the elegant little banqueting room at Syon House. It was not the standard to which she had become accustomed when she was lady to the Queen, but considering the growing scarcity of servants and the food shortages, it was a good enough show. Dozens of candles glowed in their crystal chandelier lighting a buffet table piled with sweetmeats and savories and spiced wines. A couple of ladies and a few silk-stockinged gentlemen perched on elegantly carved chairs, silk skirts and brocade doublets sighing against damask upholstery. The salon was gradually filling up, albeit with her second-tier guests, some of whom had endured the three-hour trek from London by boat.
Lucy's favorite poets and musicians had gone to join the King. Robert Herrick was still in town and a decent fellow she had sometimes seen at court, but clerics — even Church of England clerics — didn't really fit her little soirees. Her favorites of all the King's poets, William Davenant and Sir John Suckling, had been exiled by Parliament for treason — good Lord how she missed them. Thomas Carew had frequented her salon once or twice, but as a favorite of the Queen's he would not likely still be in London.
Soon after leaving court, she had established her own salon in Westminster and a reputation as a hostess whose entertainments were coveted. Once when she had given a masked event, Henrietta had even shown up. But this night the Queen was not likely to grace Lucy's salon with her presence; she had escorted Mary, the Princess Royal to the Netherlands to meet her new husband. Whitehall was deserted, the King having first decamped to Hampton Court before fleeing to York. Most of the courtiers had likewise scattered with them, including the Queen's favorites, Henry Jermyn and Lucy's youngest brother, Henry Percy.
But literary and artistic repartee were not high on her agenda this night. This occasion marked a very personal anniversary for Lucy. Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Strafford had met his death one year ago today thanks to the calumny of Parliament and a cowardly monarch. She did not wish to be alone. She could never forget, neither could she forgive, though she knew why Charles had signed the death warrant. It was an act of appeasement, an act that he hoped would save his Catholic wife from a Puritan Parliament's condemnation. But it had not; nor was it like to, and Lucy's dearest friend — and England's wisest counselor — had died for nothing.
When Thomas Wentworth lost his head, Lucy lost a lover and protector. When Henrietta Maria fled London, Lucy lost a friend — from looking around this assembly a lot of friends, she thought. She blamed the King for those losses. He was a weak sovereign and growing weaker by the day whilst Parliament was going stronger. With the court failing, her protector gone, the country hurling headlong into war, Lucy Hay, Countess of Carlisle had to see to her own self-preservation. But tonight, there was still music in her salon and a few lingering courtiers, a resplendent remnant who failed to notice the royal tide had receded, depositing them like so much driftwood on a bleak shore.
The smell of exotic fragrance perfumed the air. The few ladies present were resplendent in shades of the King's favorite blue satin, their royal allegiance proudly on display. One of them stood up from the harpsichord now and bowed. The jack-o-dandies applauded politely, then turned to talk of court politics, flattery and flummery.
Lucy Hay whispered behind her fan to another Lucy gathered at her intimate little soirée, the only other woman who was not dressed in blue satin. Lucy Hay was bedecked in a gown of burgundy brocade — let those present conclude what they would from her choice. Lucy Hutchinson, wife of Parliamentarian Colonel John Hutchinson, was dressed in a sober brown velvet, with a wide collar of exquisite white Flemish lace. When Inigo Jones mocked Lucy Hutchinson's plain dress as the uniform of the enemy and thus a viper in their midst, Lucy Hay retorted that she had it on the highest authority that the young woman was a brilliant scientist and a Latin scholar and besides the Earl of Anglesey spoke highly of her.
