“Lucy,” he would say, “I am like a man with an affliction of the eyes. They don’t focus together; consequently I have two pictures of every scene—two views, you see, and of the same affair. That’s very disturbing. Then I begin to wonder whether there are not many versions of the same picture, and whether the man with whom I have been so fiercely arguing has not as true a picture as mine. Lucy, you are not listening. You are wise, my love, for I am sure I talk much nonsense.”
She wanted to please him; she wanted to show her gratitude. She would not look at other men—or hardly ever. He noticed this; he had a quick appreciation of such things, and he thanked her gravely.
He introduced her to his brother James who was not quite fifteen years old.
James liked to talk to Lucy; he talked often of his recent escape. To Lucy he would talk of it again and again, for she did not mind, and would appear to be interested on every occasion. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him and he was so very proud of himself.
“To tell the truth, Lucy,” he told her on one occasion, “I escaped because I dared stay no longer. There were messages from our mother, and she was ashamed of me for not managing to get away. Elizabeth—that is my sister—was also ashamed. She used to say: ‘If I were a boy I should have found some means to escape.’ But it was not easy, Lucy. We were at St. James’ Palace where old Noll Cromwell had set guards to watch everything we did. They said they were going to make apprentices of Elizabeth and me, so that we could earn our living with our hands.”
“So you ran away,” said Lucy.
“Yes, I ran away. How I wish the others could have come with me! It was not possible, though, for the three of us to escape. Elizabeth was not strong enough. She was never strong after she fell and broke her leg. And Harry was not really old enough. He’s only nine now. We made plans, but only one of us could get away in safety. So we planned a game of hide-and-seek. I was to run and hide, and so was Henry. Elizabeth would look for us. I ran back to the guard and pretended to hide; then Harry came running out and asked a guard to lift him to the top of one of the porches where Elizabeth would not easily find him. While they were doing this I managed to slip away to where my valet was waiting for me with horses. I changed my clothes and dressed up as a woman, Lucy. I nearly betrayed myself by raising my leg and plucking at my stocking as no woman would. But we got to Gravesend and so I went to Middleburgh and Dort and finally here.”
“It was a wonderful escape,” murmured Lucy.
“I’m glad you think so, Lucy.”
His eyes were admiring; he was almost as fond of the ladies as his brother was; and perhaps, thought Lucy, when he was older he would be quite as fond. But, she decided, although she liked him very much, he would never have his brother’s charm.
Yes, she was happy during those warm days of summer, and before September she knew that she was going to have a child.
Lucy grew large and there was speculation throughout the Court of exiles. Men and women made bets with one another. Whose child is this, they asked—Charles’ or Robert’s? Who could be sure of Lucy?
Lucy heard the gossip; so did Charles.
“It is your child,” she told him. “It could not possibly be that of another man.”
He nodded gravely; whether or not he believed it she was not entirely sure. He would never say that he doubted her word. He would consider that most ungallant. Moreover she might weep, and there was nothing which distressed Charles more than the tears of women. They could upset him more, it was said, than bad news from England. And what did it matter whose child Lucy carried? The Prince would acknowledge it as his, for, considering his relationship with the mother, he would feel it to be most unchivalrous not to do so.
There were some who remembered his grandfather, Henri Quatre; and they declared that the resemblance between these two—in character, not in appearance, of course—was great. Both were great lovers of women and treasured conquests in love more than those of war; both were blessed, or tormented, by the ability to see many sides to all questions and disputes; both were easygoing and good-natured almost to a fault. Henri Quatre had been a great soldier and an even greater King. Those who wished the Royal House of Stuart well, hoped that Charles had inherited more from his maternal grandfather than these qualities.
There were times during those summer months when a deep melancholy would show itself in the Prince’s face. The news from England was disastrous. Charles shut himself up with the letters his father sent from England.
He thought of the kindly man who had not, to his cost, possessed that gift of tolerance towards the opinions of others, but who had nevertheless been a loving father. He read the words Charles I had written.
“An advantage of wisdom you have above most Princes, Charles, for you have begun and now spent some years of discretion in the experience of trouble and the exercise of patience. You have already tasted the cup whereof I have liberally drunk, which I look upon as God’s physic, having that in healthfulness which it lacks in pleasure …”
Charles had to face the truth. He knew that his father was the captive of his enemies. He feared greatly that he would never see his face again.
He thought of his family: little Henry and Elizabeth, prisoners of the Parliament in St. James Palace; James here with him after a miraculous escape; little Henriette—his dear Minette—after an equally miraculous escape, in Paris with his mother; and lastly, Mary, his eldest sister, whose hospitality he now enjoyed.
War was raging in England; war was raging in France; and both these wars were civil wars, the rising of the common people against their royal rulers.
What did the future hold for him—the penniless, exiled Prince? He could not say; and, because he was never one to trick himself with false beliefs, he dared not think.
He would go to Lucy; they would sport and play together. He thanked God for love, which could always enchant him, always make him forget his troubles. Lucy was a delight; he must be thankful for the gifts he had, for though he was a Prince without a kingdom and heir to a throne which would be denied him, he had certain gifts which would always bring him favor with women. So he would plunge into pleasure and try to forget his melancholy state.
News came from England, which set a gloom over the Prince’s Court.
Charles Stuart, King of England, stood convicted, attainted and condemned of high treason; and the penalty for high treason was death.
They would not dare! it was said.
But all knew that Cromwell and his followers had little respect for kings. To them, Charles Stuart was no ruler anointed by the Lord; he was a man guilty of treason to his country.
The Prince had lost his gaiety. He shut himself away from his friends. Even Lucy could not comfort him. His thoughts were all for the noble, kindly man. He thought of Nottingham, where his father’s followers had tried in vain to raise the royal standard, and how the wind blew it down and seemed determined, so fiercely did it rage, that the King’s colors should not be unfurled. An evil omen? it had been whispered. He thought of the skirmish at Copredy Bridge which had decided nothing and had led to the disaster of Marston Moor. He remembered the last time he had seen his father; it was in Oxford almost four years before.
And what could he do now to save his father? He was powerless; he depended on others for his very board. He was a beggar in a foreign country; his entire family was reduced to beggary. But at least he was a Prince, heir to a throne, and Cromwell would never feel at peace while he lived.