He had always been afraid of his sister, afraid of her passionate courage as well as her frequent tears. She could not be reconciled to their way of living as he could have been. He could have forgotten that he was a prisoner if she would do so.
“But no!” she cried passionately. “You must not forget. You always remember who we are, and above all you must remember Papa.”
At the mention of his father’s name the little boy was always moved to tears. When he was in bed at night he would make a pact with himself: “I will not think of Papa!” And to his prayers he added “Please God guard me this night and do not let me dream of Papa.”
He was Prince Henry, but no one but his sister Elizabeth ever referred to his rank. To the servants and his tutor he was Master Harry, and his sister, instead of being Princess Elizabeth, was Mistress Elizabeth. It was said that they were to be made to forget that they were Royal Stuarts. Elizabeth was to be taught button-making and Henry shoe-making, that they might eventually become useful members of the Protector’s Commonwealth.
“I would rather die!” cried Elizabeth, and indeed it seemed that if grief and melancholy could kill, Elizabeth would soon be dead.
Mr. Lovel, the little boy’s tutor, whispered to him when they were alone that he was not to be afraid. The Protector’s bark was worse than his bite, and he uttered these threats in order to humiliate the little boy’s mother and brothers.
So, with Mr. Lovel to teach him and to give him comfort in secret, Henry could have borne his lot; but his sister was always there to remind him of what they had lost.
She, who was older than he was, remembered so much more of the glorious days. He scarcely remembered his mother; his father he remembered too well. Charles, James and Mary he had scarcely known, and his youngest sister, Henriette, he had never seen at all. Moreover he was physically stronger than Elizabeth, who had broken her leg when she was eight years old and had remained in delicate health thereafter; she grew paler and thinner, but her spirit of resentment against her family’s enemies burned more fiercely every day.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered to her now, “Elizabeth, do not weep so. Perhaps we shall be happy at Carisbrooke.”
“Happy in prison!”
“Perhaps we shall like it better than Penshurst.”
“Shall we enjoy living in that very place where he lived just before … just before …”
Henry’s lips trembled. It would be impossible to forget Papa in the castle where he too had been a prisoner.
Elizabeth said: “They took Papa there before they murdered him, and now they take us there.”
Henry was remembering it all so clearly as they rode along. He was sure that he would have more vivid dreams in Carisbrooke Castle. Perhaps he would ask Mr. Lovel to sleep in his room. Elizabeth would be angry with him if he did so. “You are afraid to dream of Papa!” she had cried scornfully, when he had told her of his fears. “I wish I could dream of him all through the days and nights! That would be almost like having him with us again.”
Now the little boy was crying. He remembered it all so vividly, for it had happened only a year ago when he had been ten years old. One day—a bitterly cold January day—men had come to Syon House, which was the prison of his sister and himself at that time, and they said that the children were to pay a visit to their father.
When Elizabeth had heard this she had burst into bitter weeping, and Henry had asked: “But why do you cry? Do you not want to see Papa?”
“You are too young to understand,” Elizabeth had sobbed. “Oh, lucky Henry, to be too young!”
But he was no longer young; he had ceased to be young that very day.
He could remember the sharp frosty air, the ice on the water; he remembered riding beside the frozen river and wondering why Elizabeth was crying since they were going to see their father.
And when they had arrived at the Palace of Whitehall, Henry had felt his father to be a different man from the one he had known before, and in his dreams it was the father he saw on that day who always appeared. Henry remembered vividly every detail of that last meeting. He could see his father’s face, lined, sad, yet trying to smile as he took Henry on his knee while the weeping Elizabeth clung to his arm. He could see the velvet doublet, the pointed lace collar, the long hair which hung about his father’s shoulders.
“So you have come to see me, my children.” He had kissed them in turn. “Do not weep, beloved daughter. Come, dry your eyes … to please me.”
So Elizabeth had dried her eyes and tried to smile; their father had held her tightly to him and kissed the top of her head. Then he had said: “I must have a little talk with your brother, Elizabeth. See, he is wondering what all this is about. He says, ‘Why do you weep, when we are together thus? Is it not a time for rejoicing when we are together?’ That’s what Henry thinks; is it not, my little son?” Henry nodded gravely. “We wish to be with you more than anything,” he had said. “Papa, let us be together now … and always.”
His father had not answered that, but Henry remembered how his arms had tightened about him.
“My little son,” he had said, “grave events are afoot. In these times we cannot say where we shall be from one day to another. I am going to ask you to remember this meeting of ours in the years ahead. I want you to remember what I say to you. Will you try to do that?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Then listen carefully. These are two things I have to say to you, and although you are but ten years old, you are the son of a King, which means that you have to remember much more than other boys. These are the two things I wish you to remember, and if you are ever tempted to forget them, think of this moment when you sit on my knee and your sister stands there trying not to weep, because she is older than you are. The first: You have two brothers. Never allow any to put you on the throne of England while either of them lives. The second is this: Never renounce the Faith of the Church of England in which Mr. Lovel has instructed you. There! That is what your father asks of you. Will you do these things for me, and if any should try to turn you from the wish to obey me, remember this day?”
Henry put his arms about his father’s neck. “Yes, Papa. I will remember.”
And shortly after that time he had grown up. He had begun to understand. He knew that the day after he had sat on his father’s knee and made his solemn promise, men had taken the King outside the banqueting hall at Whitehall and there, before the eyes of many people, had cut off his head.
That was the specter which haunted his dreams—his beloved father, a father no more, but a headless corpse, those kind eyes glassy, staring and smiling no more.
If he could only forget his father’s death, if he and Elizabeth could only escape from his father’s enemies and join their mother, how happy he might be! He did not mean that he would forget his promise to his father; that he would never do. But he would be happy in his love for his mother and his brothers and sisters, and he would then be able to forget that last interview, those brooding eyes, so kind and tender and so heartbreakingly sad.
Perhaps one day Elizabeth would help him to escape as she had helped James. She had reproached James for not escaping before. She had mocked him for his cowardice. “Were I a boy and strong, I’d not long remain the captive of that beast Cromwell!” she had declared. And at last James had escaped and gone across the sea to their mother and brother Charles, who was the King of England now.
After they had been taken back to Syon House following that last interview, Elizabeth had changed. Then young Henry had seen his sister devoid of all hope.