Cover art
[Frontispiece: "THEY TOOK REFUGE WITH NURSE PATIENCE"
(missing from book)]
The Queen's Favourite
A Story of the Restoration
BY
ELIZA F. POLLARD
Author of "The Doctor's Niece" "The Lady Isobel"
"The White Standard" &c.
ILLUSTRATED BY FRANCES EWAN
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
1907
CONTENTS
CHAP.
- ["The King has come in to his own again"]
- [Newbolt Manor]
- [Somerset House]
- [New Friends]
- [May-Day]
- [A First Parting]
- [A King's Vengeance]
- [Arrested]
- [Old Newgate]
- [A Legend]
- [A Brave Woman]
- [A Faithful Friend]
- [The Hamlet of St. Mary's]
- [The Mystery cleared up]
- [At Court]
- [Under the Shadow of Newgate]
- [The Great Plague]
- [Lost]
- [On the Track]
- [A Great Sea-Fight]
- [London on Fire]
- [Found]
- [Home at Last]
ILLUSTRATIONS
["They took refuge with Nurse Patience"] (missing from book) Frontis.
["The commander of the company handed him a sheet of parchment"]
["I will give you your answer to-night," she said]
CHAPTER I
"The king has come in to his own again"
In a large, sombre apartment, in the palace of the Louvre, there was unusual commotion. The Queen Dowager, Henrietta Maria, was seated in a crimson gilt fauteuil, wearing her widow's black robes, for she had never cast off the mourning she had donned for her murdered husband, Charles I; and indeed she had unwillingly suffered any of her attendants to array themselves in brighter colours.
"Until he is avenged," she would say; "until his murderers have suffered what he suffered, if that be possible!"
Behind her, leaning on the back of her chair, was her young daughter, a girl of sixteen--that child who had never seen her father's face, who had been brought over to France by stealth in swaddling clothes, who had suffered all the miseries of exile, and shared all the poverty which her mother's position had forced upon them.
Everybody knows the story of how the queen kept this child in bed in winter, because they could afford no fire in their room. Possibly she did this to shame the king, Louis XIV, who denied the necessaries of existence to the daughter of Henry IV.
The princess was at the present time just passing from girlhood into womanhood. She gave promise of great beauty, which was to be fully realized. There was a triumphant look on her face; indeed, on the faces of all those present, for kneeling at the queen's feet was a messenger who had just arrived from Holland bearing the news that a deputation from England had waited on her son, Charles II, and had invited him back to England, entreating him to suffer himself to be placed upon that throne which had cost his father his life.
After the envoy had delivered his message, a great silence fell upon all present. The queen, for a few seconds, seemed incapable of realizing the truth. It is at this moment we introduce our readers to her court.
Suddenly a little voice broke the silence, and a childish figure, a girl of ten or eleven years old, sprang forward, and holding out with both her little hands a somewhat shabby white satin gown, she pirouetted into the centre of the room, and, dancing on the tips of her toes, sang gaily: "The king has come in to his own again; the king has come in to his own!"
The ice was broken: a general movement took place. A young woman in a tight-fitting black gown and a white cap sprang after the child and passionately shook her.
"How dare you; how dare you!" she exclaimed; but the child twisted herself free of her, and ran lightly to the Princess Henrietta, hiding herself in the folds of her gown.
"Let her alone," said the queen, "she has spoken for us all." And a smile such as had not been seen on that royal face for many a day crept over the widowed queen's countenance. Regaining her self-command, she said to the messenger still kneeling before her:
"I thank you for the haste you have made in coming to us, and I bid you return with equal haste to my dear son, and tell his majesty that all loyal hearts rejoice with him, and that we await but his command to join him in England. Until then we will abide here as patient and loyal subjects."
The messenger arose, and bowed low, saying;
"I have no doubt that the king will desire your majesty's presence as soon as he has taken possession of his kingdom." And with that he bowed himself backwards out of the room.
With the disappearance of the messenger etiquette slackened; there was much talking and not a little laughter. Suddenly the door leading into the anteroom was thrown open, and all the elite of the court of France, all those faithful followers of the Stuart cause who had escaped out of Cromwell's hands and taken up their abode at the French court, young and old, gay sparks of the aristocracy, and grey-headed men and women who had lost lands and fortunes in their master's cause, pressed forward. Their day had come at last; surely they would now reap the fruit of their devotion.
The queen rose and went into their midst with all that stately courtesy for which she was remarkable, and her young daughter, following her example, gave her hand to be kissed, smiling with that wonderful charm and look of gladness which was destined to fascinate so many hearts.
Once more the doors were thrown wide open, but this time heralds announced:
"Le roi, le roi!"
Queen Henrietta stood still, but, as the king entered, she advanced a few steps to meet him, curtsying deeply.
"Ma tante," he said, "I would have been the first to congratulate you, but news flies so fast, you have already heard what I would gladly have imparted to you myself."
"You are very good, my nephew," answered the Queen, "but sorrow has followed me for so long, that I can scarcely allow myself to hope that my dear son will succeed his martyred father in peace and without bloodshed."
"What matters that to you, ma tante? If blood has to be shed in a good cause, there is no regretting it; and there are those here present," he added, turning round and facing the courtiers, "who will not hesitate to give their lives for their rightful king."
A murmur ran through the crowd, and the whole assemblage bowed low in acquiescence. One voice rose above the others:
"His majesty speaks like Solomon; we are ready to shed the last drop of our blood for our royal master. Long live King Charles!"
People said that Queen Henrietta Maria had grown hard in her trouble. At the present moment the softening element of joy crept into her heart and brought tears to her eyes.
"Grand merci, grand merci to you all!" she repeated; and the king, taking her hand, led her to her seat, himself occupying the fauteuil which had been hastily brought for him.
A whispered word to Henrietta, repeated by her to the gentlemen of her household, and the crowd of courtiers disappeared, leaving the king and his aunt alone. Even Princess Henrietta and her little companion were dismissed.
What took place between the royal aunt and nephew was only known some years later; but the queen was well satisfied with the result of their conversation, for the strings of the king's purse were opened, and the poverty which so long oppressed her disappeared.
The princess and the child Agnes felt this change more than anyone. There was a mystery concerning Agnes; but mysteries about personages were very common in those days. In this great Civil War children had been lost, families had disappeared, no one quite knew who might be who.
When people questioned as to who this child was, the queen answered haughtily:
"Her name is Agnes Beaumont. Who she is and whence she comes I know; that is my secret, and must suffice all men."
It was on a cold winter's night nigh upon twenty years ago, and snow lay thick upon the ground, when Patience had found her way to the Palace of the Louvre, and begged and prayed, and almost forced herself into Queen Henrietta's presence. It was in the early days of the queen's widowhood. She had pawned all her jewels; she had sent all her money to the assistance of her son; and she herself was living a beggar on the bounty of the King of France, and that was measured out stingily. Poverty was in the air; the great rooms assigned to her in the Palace of the Louvre were bare and cold; and when Patience succeeded in forcing her way into her presence, she found the queen cowering over a few embers in the great fireplace, with the young princess, then only a child of eight years, gathered in her arms for warmth.
Approaching the queen, Patience knelt before her.
"Do you not recognize me, your majesty?" she said.
The queen looked at her.
"Yes, I recognize you," she said; "you come from my friend," and in a low voice she mentioned a name, adding:
"What of her?"
"Dead," answered Patience, "even as her husband died after the great battle, and with her dying breath she bade me bring you this." And opening back her cloak she showed, lying in her arms, a sleeping child of some eighteen months old.
"Why did you bring her here?" said the queen, throwing up her hands in despair. "What am I to do with her? We have scarce food for ourselves. How shall I feed her?"
"Have no fear on that score," said Patience, "I will feed her. Only let her live under your shelter, protected by your name; for there are those who, if they found her, would cast her out or do her some evil turn. You know that well. They have entered upon her possessions--they hold what by right is hers; therefore she must be cared for until such time as she can claim her own, or till you can give it to her."
"Then I wot she will wait a weary while," said the queen.
Whilst they were speaking, Princess Henrietta had approached the child, whose eyes were now wide open, and who was struggling to rise.
"Oh, how pretty she is! Look, Mother!"
And she said truly. She was a lovely babe, with soft, golden curls clustering round her little face, and large brown eyes. She was laughing, too--laughing with the merry gurgle of a happy babe--stretching out her little hands towards the princess. She looked the very child of joy, and yet she was a child born of bitter sorrow.
"She is like her father," said the queen. "I never knew a man more gloriously happy than he was; and she has the same look in her eyes."
"She never weeps; she never moans," said Patience. "Ah, madame, she will bring you sunshine and good luck!"
As she spoke she unwrapped the child and placed her upon the ground. A beauty, a perfect beauty she was, and the princess clapped her hands.
"Oh, you must keep her, Mother, you must keep her!"
"I have no choice in the matter. She is my dearest friend's child. Yes, I must keep her, Patience." And from that hour Agnes was the Princess Henrietta's daily companion.
This princess had also been born in sorrow and nurtured in it. She had no playfellows. She had led the dreariest life that any child could lead until this baby came; but from that hour her whole nature changed. She laughed, she played, she danced with her; there was noise, there was life, in that dark apartment. Whatever ills others had to bear, Agnes never suffered. Patience was always there, and Patience sufficed for her, and often for the princess too. They occupied a tiny chamber leading out of the queen's room, and this was their haven of rest, their playroom.
Sometimes even the queen would come in there and sit down and talk to Patience, not as to a subordinate, but as to a friend, and that is saying a great deal for Queen Henrietta Maria, whose pride and arrogance were proverbial.
Everyone was sure Agnes was of noble birth, because, as she grew older, she was brought up nobly and had the same teachers as the princess. They were neither of them overweighted with study; it was not the fashion in those days. They learnt French from their surroundings, a little writing, a little reading, a smattering of Latin, because the queen was bringing up her daughter as a Catholic, and she must needs follow the Mass in her Breviary. This sufficed; but they learnt dancing, and little songs, and thus a certain amount of gaiety emanated through them into the dark Palace of the Louvre.
This gaiety was in Princess Henrietta's blood. Was she not a granddaughter of Henry IV, that great lover of pleasure?
So these two children ignored the death-traps which lay under their feet, those oubliettes which had swallowed up so many men and women. They did not see the ghosts that others saw gliding along the passages, which led to mysterious chambers, down narrow staircases, ending they knew not where. They did not care. They would escape from Patience and play their games of hide-and-seek and touch-wood, their cries of childish joy ringing through the corridors and starting the echoes. Men would smile at them, and women shake their heads, but no one bade them be silent. Sometimes even the king in the distance heard them and would smile. "That is the wild Henrietta and her companion," he would say.
"Shall they be silenced, sire?" asked a courtier once.
"Nay, nay; it is good for them to laugh," he answered. "Their weeping days will come. It were a sin to silence them."
On this day, when the princess and Agnes were sent forth from the king's presence, they took refuge with Patience, and, curling themselves up on the window-sill, began to talk.
"I wonder if we shall have as good a time in England as we have had here!" said Agnes. "I feel as if I were going to lose you, Princess. You will be a great lady at court, and I am only a child and nobody. I wonder what this England is like! I have heard that the sun shines but little there. I do not feel much love for it or for the people. I never can forget that they killed their king, your father."
"If I cannot forget, I shall have to make believe I can," said Henrietta; "but as to what England is like, I know no more than you do," she added. "I was brought over from England just as you were, an infant in swaddling clothes, by my dear Lady Dalkeith, so we are equal there."
"Except that you know who you are, but I am only Agnes Beaumont, with neither father nor mother, nor kith nor kin, no one save Patience to care for me."
"We care for you, my mother and I," said the princess, drawing the child closer to her. "What more do you want?"
"Never to leave you," said the child passionately. "I would be your handmaid, your servant." And, as if a sudden fear had taken hold on her, she clung to the princess.
"You foolish child," answered Henrietta. "Of course you will always stay by me. Where should I be without my little Agnes?"
"But kings and queens, I have heard, cannot do what they will; they cannot even love where they will," said the child.
"That is true," answered Henrietta, "but you are only a child. Who will mind you? Besides," she continued thoughtfully, "you are Agnes Beaumont to-day, but you may be a great lady in disguise. Courtiers will crowd round my brother's throne; those who have been against him will be for him, now he is king, and you, the queen's favourite, my favourite, may find both kith and kin in your prosperity."
"I shall not care for those who forsook me when I was cast alone on the world." And Agnes tossed her beautiful head proudly.
"Why trouble?" said Henrietta. "Let us take life as it comes; we are so young. We are going to have a good time--a right good time!" And she wiped the tears from the child's face, kissed and hugged her.
At that moment the door opened and the queen came in. Her face, too, was radiant, and she brought with her a ray of sunshine, as if Nature itself shone upon her. She sat down beside the two girls and laid a hand on each of them.
"We shall soon be going to England," she said.
"Oh, Mother, tell us about England," said Henrietta. "We know nothing about it."
The queen's eyes filled with tears. "For ten years," she said, "I was the happiest and best-beloved woman in England. There was no man like your father, Henrietta: the greatest lover and the best husband. He gave me for my dower-house a palace on the Thames, upon which the sun always shone, from west and east, north and south, beneath whose windows the whole world passed, barges with pennons flying and with music playing all the live-long day, and oft far into the night. Ah, it was a glorious time! Who would have thought of the misery to come!" She put her kerchief to her eyes and wept audibly.
"It is over, Mother, it is over," said Henrietta, kneeling beside her.
"It can never be over," answered the queen. "Those joy days are ever present with me, not even when your brother has avenged your father's death upon his murderers shall I forget. My sun is dimmed for ever." And a look of hatred came over her face. "We will not talk of it," she continued, shrugging her shoulders in her quick French way. "You want to know about this England, children? Well, we shall go back to Somerset House. It is my own, given to me by my husband, and there we shall dwell. It is a beautiful place, full--as I have told you--of sunlight; very different from this gloomy Louvre."
"But we have been very happy here," said Agnes. "I fear our play-days are over."
The queen smiled and stroked the child's face. "You are growing a big girl, Agnes; we must think of something better for you than play, ma mie."
Patience coming in broke this strain of talk. She and the queen went to the farther end of the room together in consultation.
Indeed, for the next few months there was much planning and much talking. It was the month of May when King Charles went to England, and England became old England again in its festive gaiety. From the moment Charles set foot on English soil at Dover with his brothers the Dukes of York and Gloucester, and was met by General Monk and courtiers, who knelt to welcome him, England went mad concerning him. On the twenty-ninth of May, which was his birthday, he made his solemn entry into London. We are told the streets were railed, and windows and balconies were hung with tapestries, flowers were scattered in his path, and all was joy and jubilee. So he entered triumphantly that Whitehall where the king, his father, had suffered so cruelly. It was a strange metamorphosis. Those who had been the father's bitterest enemies now bowed before the son. They called him the "King of Hearts". From his people he would receive a "crown of hearts", they said; "the duty of all men would be to make him forget the past; he was to be the most glorious king of the happiest people. Such was his welcome!"
All this was reported to his mother, still living at the Louvre, waiting for her summons to go home, and the whole of that summer passed in joy and laughter. Princess Henrietta was courted by foreign potentates and even by kings, but the queen would not part with her.
"She has shared my troubles, she must share my joys; she must go home with me," she said.
In the autumn the queen set sail with her suite for England, and after what seemed to Agnes a weary journey by sea and land, they reached London, and were conducted through the city to Somerset House, the "Queen's House" as it was called.
Agnes kept close to the princess. Nothing Patience said to her was of any avail; she was determined; she set her lips and pushed her away.
"I will not leave the princess," she said, clinging to her gown.
"Let her alone," said Princess Henrietta; "she is my charge, Patience." So she kept her in her room, and they slept together that first night; yet, strange to tell, they knew not why, both fell asleep weeping.
"It is a bad omen," said Patience; "evil will come of it;" and she looked down sadly upon those two young faces wet with tears.
CHAPTER II
Newbolt Manor
"Well, Ann, all I can say is, that, though I hate turn-coats, I am thankful my father has ranged himself on the right side at last. Others are doing like him. We know full well that one of Cromwell's own daughters was against him. Fairfax and Falkland, those great and noble men, both fought for the liberties of England against their king. General Monk, who is bringing Charles home, was a republican; but times have changed. It needed a strong hand like Cromwell's to govern England without hereditary right, only with might. Richard Cromwell, good fellow though he be, could not do it, and he knew it from the first. He has had enough of ruling, he told me so but the other day; he is only too thankful to retire into private life, farm his own land, and smoke his pipe in peace. So we need not feel any compunction over the fact that our father has given in his adhesion to the king at last, and now I shall be at liberty to follow the dictates of my heart. I was too young to fight for our martyred king, but I am of age now, and will at once enlist in his son's service. Let us hope we may have our rightful king and our rightful liberties as well. I'm for King Charles! Hurrah!" And Reginald Newbolt took up his hat from the table beside him and tossed it gaily into the air.
His sister, Ann Newbolt, laughed at him as she echoed his "Hurrah!"
"I am glad of it," she went on; "you cannot conceive how glad, Reginald! You can never know what pain and grief the murder of our king has been to me. I think my father felt it sorely, and yet he has always held that it was a necessity."
"He had no hand in it," cried Reginald sharply.
"Not directly," answered Ann. "I believe he would not vote either for or against, which vexed our mother greatly."
"It was a mistake," said Reginald, his young face lighting up with a certain sternness. "A man ought to know his own mind: it should be either 'yea' or 'nay'. My father would have had me enlist in Cromwell's army, young as I was; but I would not, and, thank God, I did not! I can show clean hands and a loyal heart to Charles Stuart when he lands."
"Will you go up to London with my father?" she said.
"No," he answered, in the same stern voice. "I shall go alone, and lay my virgin sword at my king's feet."
His sister looked at him with intense love and pride. They were the only children of Colonel Newbolt, who had served the Republican cause throughout the Civil Wars so well that Cromwell had rewarded him with gifts of land and property which had belonged to old Royalist families, who had either disappeared in the struggle or been dispossessed. The most important of these was the Abbey de Lisle, a lovely estate in Westmorland, amidst the moors and fells, just bordering upon Yorkshire. The house had been an old monastery of great fame. Its chapel had been one of exquisite beauty a hundred years before, but under Thomas Cromwell's ruthless hand, in the reign of Henry VIII, when monasteries and abbeys were sacked, it had been reduced to ruins, and so remained, unroofed, with the grass growing up the nave and through the aisles. Ivy clambered round the delicate pillars, and moss lay thick on the steps leading up to the broken altar.
It had been bestowed by Henry on the De Lisles, and with it, as was believed by many, a curse had been inherited, uttered by the last monk who passed out of the monastery grates. It ran thus: "The abbey and its lands shall go from the De Lisles, even as it came to them, by fire and sword".
Now the prophecy had been fulfilled. Gilbert de Lisle, the last of his race, had fallen fighting for King Charles in the Battle of Worcester. He left no children--the race was extinct.
So Cromwell had bestowed the land and all that appertained thereto, the dower-house and the abbey itself, upon Colonel Newbolt, to be his and his heirs' after him. Thither he had brought his wife and children, had spent a considerable sum of money in restoring the house, which had been injured during the war; but the chapel remained a ruin--even that was a concession--and many blamed him for not razing it to the ground. Cromwell's soldiers had finished Henry VIII's vandalism, mutilated the few remaining statues, and broken to pieces the stained-glass window over the altar.
In the country around it was whispered that at midnight there were shadows seen coming and going, ghosts of the dead monks, whose tombs had been desecrated, but whose bodies still rested in the crypt below the altar, awaiting the great judgment day.
Reginald and Ann Newbolt had been little more than children when they came to the Abbey, and the very atmosphere of the place seemed to seize upon their imaginations. They felt kindly towards the dead monks and towards the De Lisles, whose portraits hung in the long gallery which ran the length of the quadrangle. They became, to their father's horror, Royalists. Reginald at fifteen refused to join the Parliamentary forces, though his father could have obtained for him a first-rate appointment. Had he been older, he would have gone straight over to the other side; but the final defeat of the king and his death prevented him from taking that step.
A year or two before our story opens the young man had gone abroad, had visited King Charles in Holland, and sworn allegiance to him. This was unknown to his father, and upon his return he had contented himself with following the natural course of events, fully persuaded in his own mind that when Cromwell should cease to rule England, the English nation would recall their rightful monarch.
His was not an isolated case. There were many young men--ay, old men too--in England in whom Charles's death killed republicanism and awoke once more the smouldering embers of loyalty.
As for Ann, she had not hidden her feelings any more than Lady Fairfax had done; she worshipped the martyred king. Their mother was a Puritan, of an old Puritan family, and the defection of her children was a source of infinite trouble to her. She ruled her house with Puritanical strictness. Morning and evening the whole family assembled for the reading of the Bible and for prayers. She herself dressed in the plainest attire, without furbelows or jewels of any kind. Her maids and the men who served in the house were clothed after the same fashion. Ann at one time sought to array herself something after the mode of the French court, with laces and ribbons, and with her hair curled; but her mother would not have it, and more than once she was sent to her chamber to dress herself decently; and so wisely Ann yielded to her mother, and wore the plain muslins and sober colours which marked a Puritan girl.
With her son Mistress Newbolt never discussed matters, for she knew that he would not yield to her one inch. He had told her once and for all, when he was quite a lad, that he was a king's man, and that he would never draw his sword in any other cause. He was her own son, as steadfast as she was, in holding fast by what he considered to be right. At the present moment she was deeply grieved at her husband's action in furthering the accession of Charles II.
It was of no use for Colonel Newbolt to reason with his wife, to show her that the kingdom could not be governed by such men as Richard Cromwell, and who else was there to govern it? The nation at large called for their sovereign, for their old race of kings; and he, Colonel Newbolt, hoped and believed that the new king had learnt wisdom in exile, and would govern with equity and justice. He said as much to his wife, but Mistress Newbolt laughed scoffingly. "Did you ever know a Stuart govern wisely?" she asked. "That man, Charles Stuart, will surely bring his mother back again and lodge her in Somerset House with her French people and her priests, where so lately the Lord Protector hath lain in state. Ay, the tide has turned, and you with it; but as for me, I stand by the good cause, as befits the daughter of one who fell at Dunbar."
So there was a sharp division in the house. Mistress Newbolt spoke little, but they sometimes heard her singing slowly and fervently in her own room to the old tune sung before the victory at Dunbar:
"O Lord our God, arise and let
Thine en'mies scattered be;
And let all them that do Thee hate
Before Thy presence flee".
Hearing her one day as they stood together at the window in the picture gallery, Ann said to her brother:
"If only she does not persuade our father to change his mind again!"
"She will not do that; my father's mind is fixed for once," answered Reginald. "He said only the other day, 'The great Lord Protector is dead; there is none to take his place; we can but trust the future to God. It were foolish for me to set my face against the new order of things. I should neither make nor mend, and I should probably lose all I have gained--my lands and my money'."
Ann bent her head. "Yes, that holds him," she said. "He loves this place; he would not part with it on any consideration."
"But suppose the rightful heir should turn up?" said Reginald.
"There is no rightful heir," answered Ann; "the last man died at Worcester, childless."
"Was he married?" asked Reginald.
"Oh, yes!" said Ann; "there is an old woman down the village who knew him, and saw his young bride when he brought her home to this very house, a lovely girl, she said, too tender to weather the storms of these rough times; so when her husband died, she, broken-hearted, died also."
"And we have stepped into their place," said Reginald; "at least, there is no one to reproach us with it. No one seems to have any claim except perhaps some distant cousins of the late De Lisles I once heard of."
"Have you ever tried to find out aught concerning these De Lisles?" asked Ann.
"Yes I have," answered Reginald, "for I have always had a sort of feeling against ousting people out of their rights."
"Ah, well! it would make no difference," said Ann, "for my father told me that the deeds which gave us this estate were well and securely made out to him and to his heirs for ever."
"For ever!" repeated Reginald, with a light laugh; "as if there could be a for ever in this world." And he turned on his heel and went his way across the quadrangle beneath the great porch, where Ann lost sight of him.
"If he did find a lost heir," said Ann, "he is capable of throwing up his inheritance, at least if he were the master, which he is not."
As Reginald swung down the broad avenue of lime-trees, he saw his father coming towards him. It vexed him, for they had but little in common.
Colonel Newbolt was a man who had risen from the people. He had displayed considerable military talents, which Cromwell had been quick to recognize and to make use of; so he had pushed John Newbolt, stirring up his ambition and throwing titbits to him as one does to a hungry dog, and Newbolt had responded. He was not a man likely to go back, or to suffer himself to be defrauded of what he had gained honestly, as he considered, therefore he now persuaded himself that the change in his political opinions was both desirable and lawful. His position had been, according to his lights, honestly won, both in the field and in Parliament, where he had taken his seat. It was but natural that he should desire to retain his place and wealth, and hand them down to his son.
He was glad that circumstances had enabled him to join hands with Reginald, and, as is often the case, his new loyalty was somewhat exaggerated, almost to bravado.
"Well, Reggie, will you be ready to ride to-morrow?" he asked boisterously, as he came up towards him.
"Where to?" asked the youth.
"Why, to London, of course, man! We must not be laggards. I would not miss the king's entrance into the city for a hundred pounds."
"I had not thought of going so soon," said Reginald; "but if you desire it, I will accompany you."
"I do desire it," said his father; "we will go together."
"As far as London," said Reginald; "but as for presenting myself with you before the king, I cannot do that; I have no place at court."
"Tush, tush, man!" said his father, "we will soon find you one."
"Thanks! but I am in no hurry," said Reginald; "nevertheless I will ride with you. I should like to see the pageant, and shout 'Long live the king!'"
A cloud had gathered on the colonel's brow. He perceived only too clearly that his son was unwilling to appear at court under his auspices, and he did not dare to press the matter, because, though Reginald was always respectful and in a general way obedient, the father was afraid of him. He knew it was a case of "so far and no farther".
"When are you thinking of starting?" asked Reginald.
"Not later than to-morrow early," said the colonel, "so see you are ready. You had better take two men for your own service, and I will take two for myself. Look to their clothes, their horses' harness, and their appointments altogether. I would not be behind my fellows."
"Am I to go as a Cavalier or as a Roundhead?" said his son.
"Roundhead!" answered his father furiously. "Who talks of Roundheads? Are we not all Cavaliers? Why, if you play your cards well, you may yet be Sir Reginald Newbolt."
"Nay," said Reginald, "there are many better men than we are, Father, who have won knighthood fighting for the king; they must come first, we after, if at all."
"Nonsense!" said his father; "if our new king picks and chooses like that, he will make a great mistake. Why, who are bringing him back? Not Royalists, but Cromwell's men. Let him remember that!"
Reginald shrugged his shoulders. "At least I should not put myself to the fore, if I were you, Father."
"You are a fool, Reginald. If I hold back I shall seem half-hearted, and that would never do. I shall ride and meet the king on his way to London, and join his escort. Will you come with me or not?"
"As far as London we will ride together," said Reginald, "but then we will part company. You are an old soldier; I am not yet sworn in."
His father looked at him askance. "Do you doubt me, Reginald?"
"Not for one moment," answered his son; "but in this matter I desire to stand alone. We can never tell, Father; I have a clean record, which may be of use to you."
The colonel laughed. "I don't think I run much danger. Why, there is scarce a man who is welcoming Charles to London who has not fought with the Parliamentarians. He would have to take a scythe if he were to sweep off the heads of all those who have fought against him. And there is the Treaty of Breda to protect us."
"You forget the clause," said Reginald.
"Tut, tut!" answered the colonel. "De Vere and a few others will be arrested; the rest will get off."
"Possibly," said Reginald, "but I doubt it."
At that moment the supper-bell rang out from the belfry, and father and son went together into the great hall, which had been the refectory of the monks. It was a beautiful place, with carved oak panelling and fretted roof; but Ann noticed as she sat beside her father that he was somewhat querulous that night, and drank deeper than was his wont.
"Has anything happened?" she asked Reginald after supper, looking at her father.
"Nothing that I am aware of," answered Reginald. "Good-night, little one!" And so they parted.
Father and son rode forth together the following morning on their way to London.
CHAPTER III
Somerset House
Somerset House, the English home in which Agnes now found herself, was very different from the magnificent but sombre Louvre she had left.
It stood almost in the centre of a great bend of the Thames, so that from its fine terrace could be seen, on one side the city of London, with its countless spires and its old bridge, on the other the king's palace and gardens of Whitehall and the great Abbey of Westminster.
Built by the Protector Somerset, it had been greatly improved for Queen Henrietta Maria, who had furnished it with consummate taste.
On its charming south front, looking out over the river, in full sunshine, were the queen's principal apartments: her presence-chamber, private sitting-room, and her bed-chamber, all protected by the guard-room. Her windows looked down on wide, trim lawns, in the centre of which was a basin and fountain, while beyond was a broad terraced walk, the walls of which were at each high tide washed by the Thames.
A handsome flight of steps led down to the river, where the queen's barge was moored. The Thames was a high-road full of life and movement, for every nobleman kept a splendid barge, rowed by many men in fine liveries.
Beyond the queen's apartment were the smaller rooms occupied by the Princess Henrietta and Agnes Beaumont, who, though she was but twelve years old, was raised to the dignity of maid of honour to the princess, thus establishing her right to be always beside her in private and in public. Agnes was tall for her age and slim; the golden curls of her childhood had darkened to a rich auburn; her features were delicate but very marked; her complexion fair, with a soft pink colouring which suited well with the brown eyes and dark, long lashes. She had been a beautiful babe, and now she was a fair girl, little more than a child still, but giving great promise of a beautiful womanhood.
Young as she was, there was a stateliness in her carriage which betokened high birth. More than once the queen laughed with Patience:
"We cannot hide her dignity if we would," she said; "she carries her head too high for common folk."
Patience smiled. "Well, well," she said, "her father did the same. The proverb says, 'Pride will have a fall'. Thank God she cannot fall much lower than she has!"
"Nay," answered the queen, "we will make of her a duchess. My son the king noticed her the other day and remarked upon her beauty, and he is no mean judge," she added with a light laugh.
But Patience flushed crimson. "I would sooner his majesty did not cast his eyes on her," she said in a low voice.
"Pshaw!" answered the queen, "she is but a child."
"A child who will be a woman before we know it," said Patience. "His majesty's court is too gay for such young fledgelings."
"Well spoken, Patience!" said a man's voice behind the queen. "Why, methinks my lord Cromwell's spirit still dwells amongst us in our own house. You will be a Puritan yet, Patience."
Patience made no answer, but bowed and went out.
Then the speaker, Lord Jermyn, took the queen's hand, kissed it, led her to a chair, and at a sign from her sat down beside her.
"Patience is right," he said. "I would keep those children away from Whitehall as much as possible. The king has had but a dull time of it in exile; he is making up for it now."
Henrietta shrugged her shoulders. "My nephew's court in Paris is no better," she said, "and there Henrietta, when she is Duchess of Orleans, will have to live, and probably Agnes will go with her."
"Time enough for that," answered Lord Jermyn. "Do not brush the bloom off the flowers sooner than need be. They are the prettiest couple at court, those two, in their young freshness. Have you spoken to the king concerning Agnes?"
"No, there's time enough," answered the queen. "It were difficult for the king to act at present. The estates have passed out of his hands, and he would raise a hornet's nest if he attempted to take them from their present owner."
"I think you are wrong," said Lord Jermyn; "the sooner such things are done the better. If his majesty cannot restore to her her rightful heritage, then he must create a new one for her."
"That is probably what he will do," said the queen. "These are early days, and his hands are full. His first duty is to do what he is doing, punish the murderers of his father."
"Ah, well! he is doing that without mercy," said Lord Jermyn, and there was a certain bitterness in his tone.
"Do you regret it?" asked Henrietta, looking up at him.
"I suppose it has to be," he answered. "But such men as Harrison and Carew are being raised to the dignity of martyrs; they die like men for the cause they believe in. There, we will not speak of it. I wish it were all over."
"I agree with you, my lord," said the young Duke of Gloucester, who had just come in. "I wish it were all over, this judging and this killing. I cannot pass in the streets but I see the scaffolds, and men dying thereon with such firmness and show of piety, with a semblance of joy in their sufferings." And the young Duke covered his face with his hands. "Mother, cannot you stop it?" he asked.
"Stop the avenging of your father's death! Nay, Henry, that I cannot do."
"Then, Mother, pray the king not to have the scaffold so near us as Charing Cross, or else I will go hence and never visit you. My Lord Jermyn, plead for me." And the prince hastily left the room, and, going along the gallery, knocked at the door of his sister's apartment.
It was Agnes who opened to him. She was startled at the pallor of his face.
"Is your royal highness ill?" she asked.
"No, Agnes, but I am sick at heart and I am sorely puzzled."
"Come in," said she, "and tell us what ails you."
The young duke entered, threw himself into an arm-chair by the hearth, covering his face with his hands. The Princess Henrietta came and knelt beside him.
"Tell me what ails you, Henry?" she asked.
"I would go hence, Henrietta, to that kingdom where my father wears an immortal crown; these earthly baubles are not worth the lives they cost. It is all so puzzling. What is truth? My Father died for it because he believed in his cause. These regicides who voted his death are as sure as he was that they are in the right. I was in the crowd to-day when a man was being dragged upon a hurdle to his shameful death. His face was placid and even cheerful. A low wretch called out to him, 'Where is your good old cause now?' and he answered with a smile, clapping his hand upon his heart, 'Here it is, and I am going to seal it with my blood.' And as he went on his way I heard him call out, 'I go to suffer for the most glorious cause that ever was in the world.'" As if maddened by the sight he had seen, the young duke rose, saying, "It is all wrong! It is all wrong! There is no right; I wish I were out of it!"
They soothed and calmed him, and he remained all the afternoon in the princess's apartment; but Patience did not like the look of him.
"He is sickening for something," she said.
Later, when he tried to stand he could not, his head was dizzy; so they carried him to his chamber and they sent for the leech. Perceiving he had high fever, they bled him, and said, "He will be well on the morrow."
Upon the morrow he was not well; indeed, the fever had gained upon him and his mind wandered. His sister Henrietta would have gone to him, but the leech would not permit it.
"We cannot tell what he is sickening for," he said.
A few days later the whole court was scared, for it was known that the Duke of Gloucester had been attacked by that terrible disease small-pox, which made as much havoc in high places as in low slums. That he had been up to the very last with the young girls, caused both the queen and Patience great anxiety. They were removed at once from Somerset House and taken to Hampton Court, that they might breathe fresh country air, and so rid themselves of infection. Matters went badly with the prince. The disease assumed its most virulent form, and within a fortnight his wish was granted; he had passed from earth to heaven.
And so the court for a time was thrown into mourning, and Henrietta and Agnes were not permitted to return until there should be no fear of any further infection. When the first shock was over they enjoyed beyond measure their country life; those beautiful gardens laid out by Cardinal Wolsey afforded them never-ending pleasure. True, it was winter time; but the ponds and lakes were frozen over, and after much pleading and the taking of many precautions they were suffered to go upon the ice under the care of some of the gentlemen of the court. Neither of them knew how to skate. Henrietta was timid and would not even try to go alone, holding on to her cavalier's hand, and sometimes hardly moving; but Agnes grew impatient.
"Look at that young man and the girl out yonder!" she said, pointing to a couple who were skimming over the lake like birds. "It seems so easy."
As she uttered the words the couple approached and heard her. The young man was handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes, and with a certain nobility of face. The girl was like him; there was no mistaking they were brother and sister.
"You are right. It is quite easy," said the girl, as she caught Agnes's last words. "Will you let us help you?"
"Oh, I shall be so glad, so very glad!" answered Agnes. "It is cold and stupid standing here and creeping about." And before Patience could intervene, she had given one hand to the girl, the other to the young man, and was off between them, slipping and sliding and laughing. But they steadied her and told her how to use her feet, guiding her gently, making it so easy for her that soon she began to feel at home, and with her natural boldness ventured to say:
"Now let me go, let me go alone!"
"You can't," said the young man; "better not try to-day."
"Oh, I must!" said Agnes, and so they let her go.
One step, two steps, then she staggered; but they caught her before she had time to fall.
"You will soon learn; children always do," said the young man.
"Child!" she cried; "I am not a child. I am over twelve years old, and maid of honour to Princess Henrietta Maria. Who are you?" And she threw up her head and looked him in the face.
His blue eyes laughed quizzically: "I am Reginald Newbolt," he said, "and this is my sister Ann. We are not grand people like you."
"I am not grand at all; I am nobody," Agnes answered, colouring. "I must go; Patience is signing to me, and Princess Henrietta is shivering on the side of the lake. Will you come again to-morrow and help me? I should like to be friends with you."
"We shall be only too glad," answered Ann. "We will come every day as long as the frost lasts. Now we will take you back to your people."
They took her hands and made her skate in time with them.
"To think I can go so well with you and not alone!" she said. "It is annoying."
"You need not fear," said Reginald. "In a few days you will go alone; you have the knack of it."
They reached the edge of the lake where the princess and Patience were standing.
"Oh, it is so cold!" exclaimed the princess, shivering; "and it is very imprudent of you to go off like that, Agnes."
"I am sorry to have vexed you," the girl answered; "but it was just lovely. Will you not try, Princess? This is Mr. Reginald Newbolt and his sister Ann."
Doffing his cap, Reginald bowed to the princess and Ann curtsied. Henrietta having recovered from her ill-temper, as she always did quickly, had seen that to all outward appearance they were gentlefolk. She gave them a stately bow, then repeated:
"Now we must go home, Agnes; I am frozen."
"I must take off my skates first," answered Agnes, and she sat down at the edge of the lake while Patience undid the straps. Then she rose.
The princess took Patience's arm and turned towards home. Agnes followed with Mr. Delarry, who said:
"You make friends easily, Mistress Agnes. Do you know who that young man is?"
"Did you not hear me tell the princess that he is Mr. Reginald Newbolt, and that it is his sister who is with him?" she asked.
"Well, they make a handsome couple," said Mr. Delarry. "Newbolt! Did you say this man's name was Newbolt?"
"Yes," said Agnes; "do you know them?"
"I know him after a fashion," answered Mr. Delarry. "His father is, I believe, Colonel Newbolt. He is, like many another, an old Parliamentarian who, to feather his nest, turned king's man and welcomed the king back. The young man is seeking a commission in the king's guards and will probably get it, to the detriment of other and better men."
Agnes's face clouded over. "I am sorry his father was on the wrong side," she said.
"You need not trouble, or you will have to be sorry for many," said Mr. Delarry; "but this young fellow is a new recruit, and never drew his sword in the late war. They say he refused a commission in Cromwell's army."
"I am glad of that," said Agnes, her face brightening. "There will be no harm in my skating with them to-morrow, will there, Mr. Delarry?"
"None whatever, if Mistress Patience sees none. He is a handsome fellow, Mistress Agnes, and will make a fine cavalier."
"I like handsome men," she answered, with childish glee; "and his sister too is pleasant, but she is prim."
"I hear her mother is a strict Puritan," said Mr. Delarry, "and that the colonel had much trouble in getting her to come up to London with his son and daughter. She will not show herself at court, much to his displeasure. Have a care, Mistress Agnes, or you will be turning Puritan too!"
"Oh, no!" Agnes answered, laughing. "I do not like them at all, at least the few of them I have seen in the streets. Patience has pointed them out to me; they are mostly dressed in black, with white ruffles and high hats; they look very stern. The women have black cloaks and white coifs. I like our own pretty clothes best, and our gay cavaliers with their broad hats and sweeping plumes."
Delarry smiled at her. "You are such a child, Miss Agnes, still. I thought you were to be a grown woman when you came to England."
"Oh, it is coming, coming very fast!" she said. "Good-bye, Mr. Delarry!" And she left him, and ran forward to join the princess.
"You talk to everybody," said Henrietta to her reproachfully. "I never knew such a child. What have you been talking to Mr. Delarry about now?"
"Only about my new friends," answered Agnes. "Oh, you will be nice, Henrietta, and skate with them to-morrow, won't you? They just fly over the ice. It is the most delicious sensation I ever knew. They say in two or three days I shall go alone, and then," she added mischievously, "let who can catch me."
CHAPTER IV
New Friends
On the following day Henrietta was nothing loath to have good sport with Agnes, and Patience was forced to yield to their desires. Down to the lake they went, found the Newbolts there, and after a little persuasion Henrietta ventured on the ice. They brought a chair for her, and she was content at first to let Mr. Delarry push her; but Agnes gave her hands to Ann and Reginald and went off. Presently she came back alone, so sure of foot was she; her figure was so light and easy.
"Do try," she said to Henrietta; "it is just lovely!" And the princess let herself be persuaded.
Other gentlemen and ladies joined them, and there was much laughter and many tumbles, but no one was hurt. The time passed quickly, until the winter day was drawing to a close, and still they were not tired.
"I should never be tired," said Agnes, her face rosy with the keenness of the air, and her eyes very bright.
This went on for well-nigh a week. The court party they were called; they were so happy. All the commoners made way for them as they went hither and thither, gliding over the ice. Indeed, people came from afar and stood on the edge of the lake looking at them.
The princess, Agnes, Ann, and Reginald, were the principal actors in that scene. The two girls, muffled in their soft furs, with their petticoats above their ankles, showing their pretty feet, were a sight to rejoice the heart, as the sight of all young things must be. The winter sunshine glinted in Agnes's bright hair, and lit up her dark eyes with the happiest, softest merriment.
"I never saw such a pretty creature!" said Reginald to Ann, when she had left them after the day's sport.
"Take care. You will be losing your heart to her!" said Ann, laughing.
"I have done that long ago," he answered. "The first time she looked at me she took my heart away with her. If I had not been a king's man before, she would have made me one."
"She is but twelve years old," said Ann, laughing; "you will have to wait long for her, Reginald."
"And the time will seem but short," he answered, "if I may but see her once and again. Do you know her name, Ann?"
"Agnes, I have heard; nothing more," she answered. "But that young man, Delarry, said casually that she had been the darling of the queen-mother and the princess ever since she was a baby. Nobody knows aught about her save the queen and Mistress Patience, who carried her over to France when she was almost in swaddling clothes."
"I was sure of it," said Reginald. "She is a child of one of the great old families; she looks it, my little sweetheart!" And from that time forth Reginald hovered round Agnes, and people laughed at her and called him her knight, and she was mighty pleased and made no little boast of her handsome cavalier.
It was all so open, so fresh, this budding love; without depth or passion, it had sprung up like the flowers, and like them was pure and serene. There was no past, no future for those young creatures; they lived just for the hour, as with flying feet they skimmed the ice, the fresh, sharp air cutting their faces. The joy of life was with them and upon them as it never would be again. They did not recognize how with each fleeting moment a joy-note sounded and died away. In after-years they would listen for the echo with that intense longing of hearts which have known unalloyed happiness; would they hear it again, or would it go from them for ever, with the flitting moments? Blessed are those who like them have heard it, whose lips have uttered the words, "I am so happy, so happy!"
They came like a song of joy to Agnes's lips as she went hither and thither with Reginald beside her. He, bending towards her, said with a note of triumph in his voice:
"I would this might last for ever, my little sweetheart----"
"For ever!" she repeated. "For ever! Why not?"
He had not the heart to cast a shadow on that joy. Why tell her nothing lasts for ever? And so he only answered, "Why not?"
On the morrow the order came: "Back to Somerset House; the air is purified; Christmas is coming; you must come back."
Before leaving, the princess sent for Reginald Newbolt and his sister, and they bade each other farewell. "It will not be for long," said the princess. "I will ask my mother, the queen, to make you one of her maids of honour, Mistress Ann; so you may live with us, for I have taken a great liking to you."
"I am afraid the queen will not favour me," was the quiet answer. "I have not been brought up after your foreign fashion. I do not know your ways or manners. I am a plain English girl."
"Oh, that does not matter at all! We have many English ladies in our suite, and the queen loves them well."
"But my mother would not let me dwell in the queen's household; she says it is godless," said Ann, colouring deeply; "it would, I think, break her heart."
"Ah well," said Henrietta carelessly, "you must please yourself if you are so over-strict."
"Say rather, I must obey my mother," answered Ann; "but nevertheless I am grateful to you and thank you." And she stooped and kissed the princess's hand. So they parted.
As she was going out Patrick Delarry met her. He was an Irishman who had been with the queen in France, and of earthly possessions had few; but he was a true Irishman, full of jokes and fun, taking things lightly even as the Stuarts did, and, because of this very carelessness, the noble sweetness of Ann had attracted him.
They met in the corridor leading to the grand staircase. He paused, bowed before her, saying, "This is no farewell, Mistress Ann; we shall meet in London."
"Maybe we shall; maybe we shall not," returned Ann. "The princess is very good and desires to give me a place at court, but my mother would not hear of such a thing; she is strict in her conduct, and has brought her children up as strictly."
"I am sorry," said Delarry, "but I daresay she is right. Still, that will not prevent our meeting, Mistress Ann. Your father is serving the king; your brother will have a commission in the Guards; surely you will mix in good society?"
"I greatly fear not," answered Ann. "My mother says that young maidens should remain at home, and that the court is full of snares."
Delarry laughed. "It is pretty bad," he said, "but you will remember that if you owe your duty to your mother, you owe it also to the king, your master. If he bids you attend upon his sister, surely you will not refuse. Somerset House is not Whitehall."
He spoke with significance, and Ann coloured slightly, for she knew well that the king's palace was far too gay and frivolous a place for young maidens who respected themselves.
"If I am summoned to Somerset House," she said, "and my father desires I should go there, I hope my mother will let me, for the princess is very sweet to me and my heart inclines towards her. As for little Agnes," and she laughed lightly, "I do not think we shall lose sight of her. My brother has lost his heart to her."
"That is very evident," said Mr. Delarry; "she is a pretty child."
"I must bid you adieu," said Ann. She curtsied and went quickly on her way down the corridor. Delarry stood a second and watched her till she disappeared.
"A pretty Puritan maiden; I didn't know they were so smart," he thought. "It will not be my fault if we do not meet again before long, Mistress Ann." And so he too went his way.
That same afternoon the princess and Agnes, with Patience, entered the royal coach, and were driven back to Somerset House. They were neither of them very cheerful, and the way seemed long and cold, for the air was heavy with snow ready to fall. London looked dark and sombre when they entered it, with only the great torches flaring as the torch-bearers held them on high in front of the coach to guide the driver through the narrow streets of the city. The courtyard of Somerset House was also lit up; but it was a sad home-coming, nevertheless, and the queen-mother welcomed them with tears.
"I do not know how it is," she said to her daughter. "I loved this country once and I was happy; now I am miserable here. I would go back to France; this death of your brother is an evil omen."
"Nay, Mother, do not go just yet," said Henrietta. "We have come home at a bad season of the year. You tell me that the spring is lovely in England; let us wait and see;" then, sitting before the fire, she and Agnes told her what good sport they had at Hampton Court, and they spoke of Reginald and Ann.
The queen frowned. "Patience is over-indulgent to you," she said. "You have no right to make the acquaintance of strangers, especially of these upstarts. You say the father is Colonel Newbolt; he was one of Cromwell's men. Now, because it suits himself and his purse, he is a king's man. To-morrow, if it suits him, he will be the people's man again. I am sick of it all."
"Do you not think it well, Mother, to encourage these people to become faithful lieges to the king?" said Henrietta.
"Faithful!" said the queen, with a mocking laugh. "I have ceased to look for faithfulness anywhere. As soon as you are married, Henrietta--and that will, I trust, be before long--we will go back to France. Your brother's court does not suit me, and his friends do not suit me. Your brother, the Duke of York, is enamoured of Clarendon's daughter, Ann Hyde, and there has been much scandal--a secret marriage. It has set the people talking. I tell you I am sick of it all. There is a vulgarity which savours not of kings in the whole tone of England now."
Her daughter did not answer her; she could not--she did not understand what was amiss. She was but a girl still. When she was a woman she understood better.
Fortunately it was nearly Christmas time, and so that season brought a certain amount of gaiety and brightness. They were not accustomed to make as much of it in France as in England, where, then as now, everyone rejoiced, everyone made merry. It had gone out of fashion to a great extent during the Commonwealth, but people were glad to go back to their old ways and drag the Yule-log into the great hall. It was a good season for the poor, when before great fires bullocks and sheep were roasted whole in the streets. There were mummers, and morris-dances, and all manner of sports.
To Agnes's great disgust a week or two before Christmas she received a letter from Ann, telling her that they were going away down to their country place, because their mother could not abide in London. She was willing to feast the poor in the country and those who needed help, but the frivolities of London did not suit her, and she would not stay there. Indeed, she was afraid her mother would not let her come back, which grieved her sorely, for she loved her friends, and would have gladly served the Princess Henrietta.