“Mam is a loving mother,” James had said; “she is fond of us all, but she has one real passion—her faith; and where that is concerned she is a regular tornado. Stay firm, brother. Those are Charles’ commands, and he is the King. You promised our father. You do well to remember your promise, and in this you are in the right.”
He knew that his sister Mary, the Princess of Orange, had placed herself on his side. He was certain that Elizabeth would have supported him had she been alive; Elizabeth would have died rather than break her word to her father.
“And so will I!” declared Henry on his knees. “And so will I. I swear it, Papa. I remember. I will remember.”
And when his mother railed against him, he shut his eyes tightly and thought of that man in the velvet jacket and lace collar with the hair falling about his shoulders. “Never forget what I ask, Henry….” He heard those words in his dreams. “Papa … Papa …” he sobbed. “I will remember.”
Sometimes his little sister Henriette came to his bed and sat beside it, holding his hand.
She wanted him to be happy. She did not know whether she ought to obey her mother and try to bring her brother into the Catholic faith; but when she heard that Charles had commanded his mother not to molest Henry, she knew what she must do.
She soothed Henry; she did not say much—it seemed so wrong to speak against her mother—but Henry knew that his brothers and sisters without exception were on his side; and he continued to hold out.
Henrietta Maria was growing impatient. She would sit glowering at her youngest son, tapping the floor with her foot, her eyes hard.
Obstinate fellow! she thought. What an unhappy woman I am! My children will not obey me. They flout me. They are fools. Had Charles become a Catholic he might have stayed here. He might have been helped to regain his kingdom; who knew, Mademoiselle might have married him. But this obstinate clinging to heresy … it is ruining my life! What an unhappy woman I am!
It was true that Anne of Austria was protesting against the celebration of the rites of the Church of England in the Louvre; it was true that she was ready to help Henrietta Maria in her battle for little Henry’s soul; but no one in France was ready to go to war with the Protector of England to help the King regain his throne. Still, Henrietta Maria liked to believe that this was so.
And now the boy had dared, without his mother’s knowledge, to dispatch a letter to his brother, the King; that was because she had dismissed his tutor Lovel—an evil influence if ever there was one.
Henrietta Maria now had Charles’ reply to Henry in her hands, and she fumed with rage as she read it.
“Do not let them persuade you,” Charles had written, “either by force or fair promises; the first, they neither dare nor will use; and for the second, as soon as they have perverted you, they will have their end, and then they will care no more for you … If you do not consider what I say unto you, remember the last words of your dead father which were ‘Be constant to your religion and never be shaken in it’; which, if you do not observe, this shall be the last time you shall hear from
Dear brother,
Your most affectionate
Charles II.”
Her own family banding against her! It was more than a mother could endure. She would not be treated thus. She would settle this matter of her youngest son’s religion once and for all time.
She waited until they had dined that day; then, as they rose to leave the dining chamber, she went to Henry and embraced him warmly.
“My son,” she said, “how grieved I am that I should be forced to deal so severely with you, but it is my love that makes me do it. You must know that well.”
“Oh, Mam,” said the little boy, his eyes filling with tears, “please understand. I gave my word to Papa.”
“Please … please, Henry, don’t talk to me of Papa. There are some days when the memory of him hurts me more than others. I knew him more than you did, child. We had years together before you were born. Any grief you have felt for Papa is a small thing compared with mine.”
“Mam … then … it is because of him, you understand …”
“You are weary, my son,” she interrupted, “of being talked to on this matter. God knows I am weary of it too. Let us shorten the trial. Go to your apartments now and I will send the Abbé Montague to you.”
“Please, Mam, there is nothing I can do. Do understand me when I say …”
“Go now, my son. Listen to the Abbé, and then give me your final answer.”
“It can make no difference.”
She pushed him gently from her, wiping her eyes as she did so.
He went to his apartment where the Abbé came to him; wearily he listened, and again and again he reiterated his determination not to swerve from the faith in which he had been baptized, not to break his word to his father.
“This is going to hurt your mother, the Queen, so deeply that I fear what the result will be,” warned the Abbé.
“I cannot heed the result,” answered the boy. “I have only one answer to give.”
So the Abbé left him and went to Henrietta Maria who was with her youngest daughter; together they were stitching an altar cloth for Chaillot.
“Your Majesty,” said Montague, “I fear I have only bad news for you. The boy remains obstinate. He clings fast to heresy.”
Henrietta Maria rose to her feet, letting the altar cloth fall to the floor.
Her daughter watched the purple blood disfigure her face as, clenching her hands together, she cried: “Very well! This is the end then. He shall see what it means to flout God … and me. Go to him. Tell him that he shall see my face no more. Go at once. Tell him that. Tell him I can bear no more sorrows. I am weary. I am going to Chaillot to pray … for there only can I find peace.”
“Oh, Mam!” cried Henriette. “Mam, what are you saying? You cannot mean this.”
“I do mean it. I never want to see his face again. I want to forget I bore him.”
“But, Mam, he swore to our father. He swore. You must understand.”
“I understand only that he wishes to flout me. I shall make him repent this ere long. Go to him at once, Abbé. Give him my message. The ungrateful boy! He is no child of mine!”
Henrietta Maria flung herself out of the room; Henriette slowly picked up the altar cloth; then she sat down on the stool and covered her face with her hands.
Was there no end to these troubles which beset her family?
After a while she rose. She must go to Henry. Poor Henry, who had dreamed so often of reunion with his family!
She went along to his apartment. Montague was talking to Henry, whose face was white; he looked stricken yet incredulous. It was clear that he could not grasp what the man was saying; he could not believe his mother had really cast him off.
“Just think what this will mean,” Montague was saying. “If your mother renounces you, how will you live? How will you supply your table with food? How will you pay your servants?”
“I do not know,” said Henry piteously. “I cannot understand!”
“Then go to the Queen; tell her that you will be her very good son, and she will have a proposal to make which will set your heart at rest.”
“I fear, sir,” said Henry in a quavering voice, though his lips were determined, “that my mother’s proposals would not have that effect upon me, for my heart can have no rest but in the free exercise of my religion and in the keeping of my word to my father.”
James came into his apartment while Henriette was wondering what she could do to soothe her brother. When James heard the news he was astounded.
“But our mother cannot do this!” he cried. “I will go to see her. There has been some mistake.”