 | Her majesty the queen |  |
4. BOOK IV.
1. I.
BEDFORD HOUSE IN EXETER.
The winter of 1643-44 dragged its slow steps
along,—a dreary time to us in camp, for the Guards
were now part of the regular army; and the coming of
spring was hailed by all with rapture. Regard it in
what light you may, war is disgusting when it means
“winter-quarters.” You mope in your tent, with the
rain dripping, dripping; no movement, sunshine, or
adventure cheers you; and the jests and old stories
become so wearisome at last! Even Harry's charming
good humor failed to cheer me.
For a long time now we had not uttered the name
of Frances Villiers, nor had we even seen her. Harry
never went near her, and I remained as faithful to my
resolution. Such was the singular result of the love of
two men for a woman. Neither would speak to her,—
poor damsel!
So the winter passed away. The king and queen
held their court at Oxford, undisturbed by hostilities.
Protracted negotiations filled up the time; but these
came to nothing: arms, and arms alone, it was seen,
spring both sides prepared to renew the struggle.
The queen's condition forbade her to remain near
her husband in the exciting time which approached.
She was near that period when the holy claims of maternity
render serenity, absence of anxiety, and physical
quiescence necessary. It was a long time, I heard
afterwards, before the king could persuade the queen
that a journey to the west was essential. She consented
to this with sobs and tears, and it was the saddest of
faces that was seen through the window of the royal
coach as it set forward, escorted by his majesty, one
April day, towards Abingdon.
I was one of the small troop of Guardsmen detailed
to accompany the king and queen. Half of the troop
preceded and half followed the three carriages which
held their majesties and the ladies of the queen's
suite. And among these ladies was Frances Villiers,
—calm, earnest, beautiful, devoted, as I had always
seen her.
More than once on the journey my eyes encountered
her own, but, after the first quiet and gracious salute
which the young lady bestowed upon me in response to
my own, no evidence of recognition was given on either
side. The fair one cared naught for me, or that passionate
love of hers for the queen dwarfed every other
sentiment.
At Abingdon their majesties parted,—the queen's
face streaming with tears, and the king's voice trembling.
For the last time I witnessed that profound and
almost passionate devotion of these two human beings.
They clung to each other for a moment; the wet faces
queen, and she leaned her head, like a suffering child,
on the bosom of Frances Villiers, watching through
tears the retreating figure of her husband.
I did not return with the king, but remained with
her majesty, in obedience to her commands to that effect.
The queen was pleased to say to his majesty, in my
presence, that I had proved myself one of the most
faithful and devoted of her servants; and I was commissioned
by the king to bear a letter from him immediately
to Sir Theodore Mayherne, formerly court
physician, returning with the great doctor to the queen
at Exeter.
On the next morning, accordingly, I set out for the
residence of the physician, a country-house in the
neighborhood of Salisbury, and, having the good fortune
to evade the enemy's horse, found him, and delivered
the king's note.
Sir Theodore Mayherne was more like a thunder-gust
than before; scowled terribly at me as I stretched my
weary limbs in an arm-chair; and his long gray hair
was tossed about his leonine head in a more eccentric
manner than ever.
“Here's a pretty kettle of fish!” he roared. “A
pretty pother her majesty is raising! This is no time
to be bearing children! Children! To be plagued
with them, when cutting throats is the fashion!”
I knew my host by this time, and only laughed.
“So the note I bring you, Sir Theodore, is a summons
to attend the queen?”
“A summons? Yes, it amounts to that. Read!”
I took the paper, and read these words:—
“For the love of me, go to my wife.
“There it is!” thundered the leonine personage, as
I gave him back the king's letter. “`C. R.,'—Carolus
Rex! The time comes when men are stripped of their
trappings: here is a plain man who wants a doctor
for his wife!”
“So the worthy Sir Theodore Mayherne is one of
the godly?” I said, laughing. “I did not know that.”
“One of the devilish—if I belonged to the party of
such rogues!” growled the physician. “Curse every
one! If there's anything I despise more than a stuck-up,
ruffling, dice-rattling court popinjay, it is a psalm-singing,
puritanical, hypocritical rascal. Now I'll go.”
This eloquent speech seemed to relieve Sir Theodore
amazingly. He ordered his carriage, put a change of
linen in a portmanteau, swallowed a hasty meal, and—
his groom riding my horse—we set out for Exeter. I
will not stop to repeat the eccentric physician's talk on
the way; and yet it was admirably entertaining. Never
have I seen so queer a mixture of traits. In the midst
of a tirade of withering scorn and denunciation of
something or somebody, he would burst out with a roar
of laughter, go on in a strain of the richest and broadest
humor, snatch a bottle of wine from the pocket of
the coach, thrust the neck into my very mouth, and,
slapping me on the back, salute me with, “Ho, my
learned Theban! drink! drink!” then take a sip
himself, thrust the bottle back, and begin denouncing,
storming, growling, laughing again. Never was such
great faculties of head and heart been hidden beneath
so strange an outside.
Thus the journey passed, and we reached Exeter,
where the queen was to await Sir Theodore. We found
that she had just arrived, and had taken up her residence
in Bedford House, a large and commodious
edifice, where there was ample room for herself and
her suite.
What was my astonishment, as the coach of Sir
Theodore Mayherne drove into the court-yard, to see
Sir Geoffrey Hudson, the dwarf, whom I had last encountered
near Oxford, come walking forth gravely
from the royal apartments! I afterwards learned that
he had been ill throughout the winter, had finally
recovered and left the house of the headsman, and on
the very day of the queen's departure from Abingdon
had presented himself before her, and been received as
if naught had happened; and here the pigmy was ushering
the great physician and myself into the queen's
presence.
Her majesty was seated in a large apartment, attended
by only one or two ladies. Her appearance was feverish
and excited.
“Ah, here you are, Mayherne!” she exclaimed.
“Welcome! you come promptly.”
“It is the duty of a physician, madam. What's
the matter now?”
The growl had lost none of its force. The physician
scowled at her majesty Queen Mary as he would have
done at the wife of his groom.
For response the queen blushed, and said,—
“I have a fever. Parting with his majesty was a
terrible trial at such a time as this.”
“Well, why did you part?”
“He required me to do so; and you know, Mayherne,
a wife must obey her husband.”
She smiled sweetly as she spoke: the feverish face,
with the sparkling eyes and the red cheeks and lips,
was very beautiful.
“Required her!” growled the physician. “As if
with that face a woman doesn't rule!”
“What do you say, Mayherne?” asked the queen,
feverishly.
“I say your majesty is sick.”
“That is great intelligence, truly! Oh, I am very
sick indeed,—sick in mind and body. I am afraid I
shall go mad some day.”
“Your majesty need not fear that,” growled the
cynical personage. “You have been so for some
time.”
“Out on your abuse of me!” exclaimed the queen.
“You are as fierce as a wolf, Mayherne. Feel my
pulse.”
She extended her hand to the physician, who gazed
at her with a singular mixture of satire and tenderness.
“I'll go through no such farce as feeling your pulse,”
he said. “To what advantage? You are a woman,
and your ailment is one that most women have at one
time or another,—fever, fits of depression, nervousness,
hysterics, fear of mice and spiders. Send away
these handsome young maidens around you, madam!
Lady Morton can stay, if she chooses: if she doesn't
object, I don't. This is a simple ailment, in which
Send off the maidens!”
The maidens had already scattered in dismay from
the apartment. They had an awful dread of the sardonic
Sir Theodore, who always managed to say what
shocked them. I had witnessed this interview from
the doorway, through which the young ladies now
vanished. I closed the door, and know nothing further
of the interview.
Early in June was born, at Bedford House, the Princess
Henrietta Anne.
A fortnight afterwards, her majesty, in her weak and
prostrate condition, was informed that the Earl of
Essex, in command of the parliament forces, was rapidly
approaching Exeter with a view to capture mother and
babe,—the queen to be escorted to London to be tried
for treason.
Strange and tragic drama! One would think that
Fate might have spared the pale young mother clasping
the few-days-old babe to her bosom and fondling it.
The poorest rests there, and is surrounded by care and
tenderness. This mother—so much poorer in another
sense of the word—was to hear the tramp of soldiery
growling curses and threats against her; was to narrowly
evade death; and, more than all, was to be parted
in those first sacred moments from her babe!
Make me a tragedy, O poet! I make none: I record
simply the memory of what I've seen.
2. II.
I AM SENT WITH A FLAG TO LORD ESSEX.
The rumor of Lord Essex's approach was speedily
followed by the appearance of his cavalry vanguard on
the high hills northeast of Exeter.
I was looking from an upper window of Bedford
House, when I saw clear cut against the sky the figures
of armed men, on spirited horses; and these descended,
followed by others. In a few minutes a column of
light dragoons was defiling into the plain.
I went at once to give information of the enemy's
approach to her majesty, and she commanded that I
should be introduced into her sitting-room, where she
lay upon a couch, holding her babe resting upon her
right arm, passed beneath the little one's neck. The
attitude of the queen was exquisite, and her pale face
was quite illuminated by the charming smile of the
mother who looks at her babe.
“You have something to communicate, Mr. Cecil?”
she said.
“Yes, your majesty; 'tis my duty; and yet I shrink
from performing that duty.”
The queen smiled.
“I am brave, I think, sir; not happy in my fortunes,
it may be, but not unnerved yet. Speak, Mr. Cecil.”
“The enemy are in sight, your majesty, approaching
Exeter.”
She closed her eyes, and her lips moved. I think it
was in prayer.
“God's will be done!” she said, a moment afterwards;
“and I expected this intelligence. Oh that I
had some of the brave friends of the king to go and
meet them!”
Her face flushed, and from the beautiful eyes darted
a sort of fire. It quickly died away.
“I must banish these feelings,” she murmured; “I
am no longer anything but a poor mother trying to
escape with my child.”
Some moments passed in silence. The queen was
evidently reflecting.
“I must send and parley with Lord Essex,” she said,
at length; “the woeful days have come upon me, and I
must act as I best may.”
I advanced a step and bowed low.
“If your majesty will permit me to be so bold as to
offer myself—”
“Yes, yes! This is not the time for ceremony.”
And, rising to a sitting position, the queen clasped
her babe to her bosom, and said,—
“Yes,—go to my lord Essex; I will give you a line
as your credentials. Inform him of my condition; say
that I am very ill, and that I crave his permission—
hateful, odious term!—Oh, it is too much!”
Her eyes flashed, and her voice shook.
“This is folly,” she murmured: “yes, yes,—ask his
august permission that I may retire with my child from
Exeter before the place is invested. I will go to Bristol
or Bath. I cannot bear, in my present condition, the
alarms of a siege.”
With a feverish hand she wrote a line on a portfolio
which Frances Villiers, at a sign from her, brought and
held before her. This she gave me hastily. Half an
hour afterwards I was spurring at full speed out of the
city, waving a white scarf upon my sword's point, to
indicate my errand.
3. III.
LORD ESSEX.
A mile from the city I nearly ran into the column
of dragoons, whose commander, seeing me approach,
ordered a halt. He was an officer in the uniform of a
colonel, and said, coolly,—
“You bring a flag of truce, sir. Is it for the surrender
of the city?”
I shook my head. “A missive for Lord Essex.”
“From whom?”
“From her majesty the queen.”
The officer reflected a moment. “Give me the
missive.”
“I am ordered to deliver it into the hands of Lord
Essex.”
“Lord Essex is not here present.”
“Doubtless, sir, he can be found nevertheless.”
“You refuse to deliver your credentials to myself?”
“I obey my orders.”
“Right, sir. You are a soldier. Two troopers to
Five minutes afterwards, I was again on my way,—
passing a long column of cavalry. Behind these appeared
foot-soldiers. The force was heavy.
At last the men drew rein at the foot of an eminence,
upon which I saw a group of mounted officers, and the
tall figure of Lord Essex, whom I knew by sight, was
seen in the centre of the group. I rode up to him and
saluted. He gazed at me with attention, evidently
recognized my Guardsman's uniform, and said,—
“You are from her majesty, sir?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” he said, gravely.
“I have a missive from her majesty for the hands
of your lordship.”
“Give it to me.”
He extended his hand, and I presented the queen's
letter, at sight of which I saw a cloud pass over his
brow.
“This is a wretched business!” he muttered. “I
know the contents of that paper, and I do not wish to
read it.”
His chin sunk upon his breast, and his brows were
knit together.
“Her majesty has given birth to a daughter, has she
not, sir?” he said, in a low tone.
“Yes, my lord.”
“A handsome child?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What name does she propose to give the princess,
sir?”
“Henrietta Anne, if I do not mistake, my lord.”
Lord Essex uttered a deep sigh, and slowly opened
the letter, which he perused thoughtfully, folded up,
and placed in his breast.
“I was mistaken: this paper is merely your credentials,
sir, and her majesty asks simply a verbal
response.”
I bowed, and waited.
“I am loath to give it.”
He spoke in tones of deep depression, and I gazed
at him attentively. The nobleman and the soldier
were contending in him, fiercely.
“It is not possible,” I said, “that your lordship
can refuse the request I come to make,—namely, that
her majesty may be permitted to retire with her child
from Exeter before the place is invested? She is extremely
feeble, since the princess is but a few days old,
and the privation and excitement of a siege might be
fatal to both mother and babe.”
As I spoke, an expression of great pain came to the
face of the general.
“Cursed war!” he muttered; “why did I ever embark
in it?”
“Your lordship said—”
“That I am powerless,—utterly powerless! I can do
nothing! But now came my orders from the people
in London! The crop-eared—bah! whose fault is it
that I'm here but my own?”
His teeth were set together as he spoke.
“Return to her majesty, and say,” he added, “that
Lord Essex, if he were untrammeled, would send her a
guard of honor and his own coach to convey her
parliamentary forces, cannot grant her request to leave
Exeter.”
“Your lordship cannot possibly—”
“Act like a ruffian? Yes, sir! I am not Lord
Essex; I am a servant of these people, and these are
the orders from my masters!”
He flirted at me, rather than presented me with, an
official-looking document which he drew from his pocket.
I glanced at it, and saw that it was an order to seize
the queen and escort her to London, where she was to
be tried by parliament for treason in levying war upon
England.
The sight of the paper filled me with indignation.
“And your lordship will not disregard this outrageous
order?”
“I cannot.”
“And yet your lordship commands here: the civilians
yonder are a poor set!”
“Sir, I am a soldier: I obey orders!” he growled.
“And her majesty will be tried for treason?”
“You see,” he said, coldly, pointing to the paper.
“And his majesty, if he be captured, will he too
be tried for the same offense,—the penalty of which is
the axe of the headsman?”
Lord Essex turned pale. “Let us terminate this
interview, sir!” he said, almost hoarsely.
“As your lordship will!” I said, unable to control
my indignation. “For my part, I know the side that,
as an English gentleman, I'll adhere to!”
A fiery glance replied to this covert insult; but Lord
Essex immediately made me a ceremonious salute.
“Each gentleman decides for himself, right or
wrong, sir,” he said, austerely. “Say to her majesty
the queen that I am pained to refuse her request, in
consequence of orders which I am not at liberty to
disobey. I am ordered to convey her to London to be
tried for treason, to which is attached the death-penalty;
and I shall probably invest Exeter before midnight.”
I looked keenly at Lord Essex. Was this a notice
to the queen to escape? I could not determine, and,
bowing, turned my horse's head to ride back.
“A moment, sir,” said Lord Essex, approaching
me. “Is her majesty in bed?”
“On her couch, my lord.”
He hesitated.
“In a condition to be moved?”
“Scarcely,” I said, guardedly.
“Because—”
And Lord Essex looked at me, leaving the sentence
unfinished. Then he saluted, turned away, and with
my escort I rode back, soon entering Exeter again.
4. IV.
THE FATE OF A QUEEN.
The result of my mission showed that her majesty
could expect no favor from Lord Essex; and preparations
were begun with a view to her escape.
There was no choice but to leave the babe behind;
and it was long before her majesty could be brought to
this cruel resolution.
“My poor child!” she sobbed, with tears streaming
from her eyes, “how can I leave you,—perhaps for
months,—perhaps for years? Oh, I cannot, cannot!”
She hugged the baby to her bosom, with passionate
sobs, and covered its small face with kisses.
“It breaks my heart to leave you!” she sobbed; and
then she began to prattle baby-talk to it, holding it
tightly to her bosom, and looking at the little round
face through her tears.
There was no alternative, however. The child could
not possibly accompany her on the arduous journey
she must make. And that attempt to escape was a dire
necessity. Once captured and taken to London, her
fate would decide the fate of the whole conflict. With
his queen in the hands of her relentless enemies, the
king would yield his crown rather than see her blood
flow. She must escape,—leaving her child, against
whom no order of seizure had been issued. Perhaps a
kind Providence would soon enable her to secure possession
of her suite left with the princess would tenderly care
for her.
Night came, and the queen had formed her resolution.
She would take one cavalier, one lady of her
suite, and her confessor, and steal forth on foot. All
her preparations were rapidly made. Her money and
jewels were placed in a casket; the whole party were
disguised in plain clothes; and, remembering Lord
Essex's intimation that the place would be invested
before midnight, I hurried the arrangements for the
escape. In spite of everything, however, it was nearly
daylight before the party left Bedford House. I was
witness of the parting between her majesty and her
child. I cannot dwell upon it!—'twas agonizing. With
a burst of tears, she at length tore herself away, leaving
the baby in charge of Lady Morton and Frances Villiers,
and, leaning upon my arm, for I had been selected
to accompany her majesty, went forth, a lonely fugitive,
—worse still, a poor mother without her babe.
We passed the city gates, which were guarded by a
sentinel. He permitted us to pass, regarding us, in
our plain clothes, as country-people. Already in the
east a faint streak of dawn was seen; and at every
moment, as we hurried on, I expected to encounter
some part of the hostile force. As yet none appeared.
Had Lord Essex delayed his advance for many hours
after the time announced by him,—“before midnight”?
I like to think so.
We pressed on. The light in the east grew brighter.
All at once a dull sound issued from beyond a clump of
woods which we were traversing, and I said, quickly,—
“That is the enemy, your majesty! We must seek
some place of concealment.”
“Oh, very gladly!” the queen murmured; “my
strength is wellnigh exhausted.”
I saw a hut in the wood, not far from the road. The
windows had been torn from their hinges, and the
desolate appearance of the place indicated that it was
uninhabited.
“Here is a hiding-place, your majesty,” I said;
“lean your full weight upon my arm, and endeavor to
hasten.”
The queen panted, and I could feel her leaning
heavily upon my arm. She clung to me, almost exhausted,
and her head half fell upon my shoulder.
“Oh, I cannot go farther!” she murmured; “my
strength is quite exhausted. Save yourself!—go, leave
me! I will die here.”
I drew her on rapidly.
“Come, your majesty!” I said; “here is the hut.”
“I can go no farther.”
“Then I at least will die with you.”
“No, no! I will try—”
And she tottered on. The gleam of arms was already
visible through the woods, and I heard the close tramp
of the soldiery.
“A few more steps, and we are saved!” I said.
The queen went on with faltering steps, leaning
heavily upon me, and we all reached the hut. As we
entered it, the head of the enemy's column emerged
from a bend in the woods. Had they discovered us?
I knew not; but there was the chance of having eluded
their observation. The hut was empty, save that a pile
an opening, begged her majesty to lie down, and covered
her with the straw. The maid of honor and father
confessor rapidly concealed themselves in the same
manner; and, lastly, I made myself a burrow beside
her majesty, and hastily covered my person, leaving
only a loophole to look through: then we lay still.
I had scarce concealed myself, when the enemy's
column began to pass within a few yards of the hut.
They were burly, begrimed, close-cropped pikemen,
who uttered rough jests to each other as they tramped
on by the hut; and many of them turned their heads
and looked in, as they passed.
Suddenly the talk of some of the men attracted my
attention; and I listened with a sinking heart.
“We are going to catch the Canaanitess at last!”
said one, with a laugh.
“The Jezebel!” said another. “It was she who
brought arms and money from over seas to help the
malignants!”
“We will have her before night,” said a third.
“Parliament has offered fifty thousand crowns for her
head. She'll be in London soon, to be tried for
treason; and then hey for the fine sight on Tower
Hill! The axe is sharpened already, and Gregory
Brandon will make short work of her, the painted
French —!”
Oaths, imprecations, and ribald jests finished the
sentence, which was only a specimen of their talk.
The queen lay perfectly still. The column tramped
on. The day broadened; the hours passed on. Still
the army continued to defile by, no doubt slowly investing
prey.
It was not until night that the troops ceased to pass.
I then cautiously emerged from my place of concealment,
and, in a low voice, inquired of her majesty how
she felt.
“Oh, so weary!” she murmured; “but, thank God,
we have not been discovered.”
“The enemy have passed on, your majesty.”
“Doubtless Exeter is invested.”
“Yes, madam.”
I could hear the queen weeping quietly; then there
came in a murmur, interrupted by a sob, “My poor
babe!”
“Do not grieve for the princess, your majesty,” I
said: “she is quite safe, and will not be molested.
And now I will go reconnoitre.”
The result was discouraging. The vicinity was filled
with rabble followers of the army, whose bivouac-fires
sparkled in wood and field. More than once dusky
figures passed near the hut; and finally I was compelled
to hastily re-enter my place of concealment.
There, in the pile of straw, the queen and all of us lay
until the next evening,—without food, surrounded by
the enemy,—not daring to move. I have often thought
since of that terrible time, vainly asking myself how
this poor mother, just risen from her sick-bed, sustained
that ordeal of fasting. It remains incomprehensible.
Was it the fever of excitement which bore her up?
At length the welcome shades of night came, and the
vicinity of the hut seemed free at last of enemies. I
assisted the queen from her place of concealment, and
was almost comic. The worthy priest was covered
with straw, and the fair maid of honor looked utterly
woe-begone.
There was no time now to lose. The queen's destination
was Plymouth, where she hoped to find a
harbor of refuge; and, tottering on, she managed to
proceed, with the support of my arm, over the road
trampled to a quagmire by the horses of the army-wagons.
At an humble house I managed to secure
some food for the party; we then hastened on as
rapidly as the queen's exhausted condition would permit;
and thus passed the long hours of the night. Towards
morning we found ourselves in Dartmoor Forest;
here another deserted hut gave us shelter, and, to our
great satisfaction, several ladies and gentlemen of the
queen's suite, who had escaped in disguise by different
gates of Exeter, joined her, and cheered her by intelligence
of her babe's well-doing.
Towards evening we ventured forth again, determining
to run the risk of encountering scouting-parties.
We had scarce started, however, when the tramp of
hoofs was heard behind us, and through the twilight a
horseman was seen coming on at full gallop.
I drew my rapier, and turned to meet the new-comer,
resolved to supply her majesty with a horse.
“Halt!” I ordered, as he drew near; but the rider
came on at full speed. I presented my weapon at the
animal's throat and prepared to seize the bridle, when
suddenly I recognized the dwarf Geoffrey Hudson.
“Ho! ho!” I said; “'tis you, then!”
“With a horse for her majesty,” said the pigmy,
with a bullet to procure it.”
And, walking gravely with the bridle of the tall animal
thrown over his arm, the pigmy approached the
queen, made her a formal salute, and said,—
“I beg your majesty to accept my horse: my cloak
will serve your majesty for a cushion.”
He threw the right-hand stirrup over the saddle,
spread his velvet cloak—a mere baby garment—over
all, and, holding the bridle for the queen to mount,
made another low salute.
“You are a faithful friend, Geoffrey,” said the
queen, smiling sadly; “and indeed I am exhausted.”
I hastened to assist her majesty to mount, and she
uttered a sigh of relief. The poor weary foot in its
half-worn slipper was thrust into the stirrup, I took
my place beside her majesty's rein, and then the whole
party advanced rapidly through the gloomy Dartmoor
Forest towards Plymouth.
It was a strange and silent march, and a strange
party. A queen and a bevy of noble young ladies, in
rough clothing, worn and dusty; gentlemen, once
ornaments of the court, in the garb of plowmen;
and in front of all, striding on with grave dignity, a
pigmy being,—the dwarf,—whose appearance was that
of a babe, save that at his side he wore a good sharp
sword.
We reached the vicinity of Plymouth, but there discovered
that the place was dangerously favorable to
parliament. It was necessary to proceed still farther,
in the direction of Falmouth; and, emerging from a
wood, we perceived a large castle crowning a promontory.
curiously at our party.
“What castle is that?” I said.
“Pendennis,” was the brief response. A second question
drew forth the information that a gentleman of
the royal party commanded at the castle. We hastened
on joyfully, were received with enthusiasm upon announcing
ourselves, and at last her majesty was in a
place of refuge.
“The news from Exeter, sir?” she said hastily to
the officer commanding.
“It is regularly invested by Lord Essex, your majesty;
but his majesty the king is said to be advancing
by forced marches to relieve the place.”
As he spoke, the officer looked curiously forth.
“What is the matter?” the queen inquired, with
sudden agitation.
“A courier, your majesty, from the way he rides.”
And, soliciting permission to leave the apartment, the
officer went to meet the man. In fifteen minutes he
returned, bearing a dispatch.
“For your majesty,” he said, presenting it with a
bow.
“Is it possible? How was my presence here discovered?”
“The courier entered Exeter just as the enemy approached
the place, and, discovering from some one of
your majesty's suite that you had left the city to go
westward, followed you, heard of you by the way, and
has reached you with his majesty's missive.”
“His majesty!” cried the queen; and she hastened
to open the letter.
As she read it, her pale face flushed with happiness;
then she turned pale, and let the letter fall in her lap.
“Oh, I cannot! I cannot!” she exclaimed.
As she uttered these words, her eyes encountered my
own.
“He commands me to sail for France!—to leave
England!—him!—my babe! Oh, no! no! I cannot!
I will not!”
And the queen began to tremble, her eyes filling
with tears. Brushing them away with one of her
thin hands, she rose and went to the chamber prepared
for her. An hour afterwards she summoned me to her
presence, and said, in a broken voice,—
“I sail for France to-morrow,—there is a ship in
Falmouth harbor, sent by my son, the Prince of
Orange.—His majesty orders me to go,—mark me,
orders me to go! I dare not disobey him!—My heart
is breaking!—Oh, my child! my child! my poor,
poor little deserted babe! I will not! Oh, no! no!
I cannot! Who would ever think me aught but a
wretched, heartless mother! But my husband—he
commands me, saying in that letter there that my capture
loses him his crown.”
The poor queen rose, wildly clasping her hands.
“But to leave my child! my little one but a few
days old!—my little babe that looks at me already
laughing from her eyes, as though she loved me even
now! Oh, what can I do?—My heart is broken!—I
can never leave her;—but the king,—his crown—I
will—obey my husband!”
The queen tottered, and I caught her in my arms as
she was falling.
5. V.
THE COURAGE OF A WOMAN.
Twenty-four hours after this scene, the queen, accompanied
by her suite, had embarked for France.
A leaden torpor seemed to weigh her down. She no
longer sobbed, cried, or exhibited indeed any emotion
whatever. Seated upon the deck of the vessel, she
looked back towards the English coast, in the direction
of Exeter; and we who stood around her dared not
intrude upon that august despair.
Others less ceremonious, however, were speedily to
appear upon the scene.
The vessel containing her majesty was making straight
for the port of Dieppe, on the French coast, and had
long left the English headlands behind, when through
a slight mist there appeared indistinctly the outlines of
several sail,—cruisers, it was feared, under the flag of
the parliament.
The commander of the queen's vessel carefully reconnoitred
through his glass, and then, closing it, announced
that this fear was correct. His only hope now
was to pass them unseen, or uncared for, and he crowded
on all sail for that purpose.
Suddenly an ominous “boom” echoed from the fog,
and a cannon-shot passed in front of the vessel, dipping
and disappearing.
It was the signal to stop. The commander looked
at the queen.
“That is an order to heave to, your majesty,” he
said.
“Well, sir?” said the queen, in a low, monotonous,
apathetic voice.
“I await your majesty's orders.”
“My orders?”
“Shall I proceed, or obey the signal, your majesty?”
“Proceed.”
The vessel continued its way, dancing upon the
waves, now rising before a fresh gale, and dashing the
foam from her cutwater.
Suddenly a second shot came, and this time it passed
over the deck of the vessel.
“This is becoming somewhat dangerous for your
majesty,” said the captain. “What shall I do?”
“I am ordered by my husband,” said the queen, in
the same low, monotonous voice, “to leave England to
avoid capture, and sail for France.”
The officer bowed low.
“Your majesty's order agrees with my own wish. I
will then continue my way.”
“Do so, sir.”
A third cannon-ball passed like a sea-gull at the instant,
and one of the sailors who was leaning over the
gunwale was hurled, a mangled corpse, into the sea.
The captain looked at the queen.
“Go on, sir,” she said, coldly.
The pursuers now commenced a rapid and continuous
cannonade. The balls passed to the right, left, and
through the rigging of the ship. At every instant those
the chasing vessels seemed to gain on her moment by
moment. Ever nearer and nearer came the now frightful
roar of the big guns; the cannon-balls of the enemy
skimmed the deck, or tore their way into the hull.
The captain hastened to the spot where the queen sat
beside the helmsman. His face was flushed now, and he
had evidently had aroused in him the ire of the sailor
who sees his craft in danger of destruction.
“Shall I return the fire, your majesty?” he asked.
“I hate to see my ship cut in two by these people,
and I have a gun that will send back a good ball
and make them keep a little farther off, perchance.”
The queen raised her dull eyes.
“You wish to fire?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“I forbid it. Time would be lost. I wish to escape.”
The captain saluted.
“Your majesty's order will be obeyed, and any others
she may give.”
He waited.
“You desire my orders, sir?” the queen said, still
in the same apathetic voice.
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Set every sail.”
“It will be dangerous, your majesty. Look! yonder
comes a storm.”
He pointed to an inky cloud, heralded by gusts
which struck the vessel, almost drowning the roar of
the cannon.
“Set every sail, in spite of the storm,” the queen
replied. “I am ordered to escape.”
“And if the enemy come up with us, or disable my
vessel,—what orders then, your majesty?”
“Fire the powder-magazine and blow up the ship,”
said the queen. “I do not mean to be taken.”
And she sank again into apathy; but the expression
of her countenance indicated clearly that she was profoundly
in earnest in giving the order.
The captain saluted and turned from the queen. At
the same instant a cannon-ball cut the mainmast in two,
and it fell over the side, with sails and rigging. The
ship shuddered through every timber, and the huge
mast, held by the rigging, became an enormous battering-ram,
hurled at every instant against the vessel's side
by the waves now lashed to storm.
“I think the time has come, your majesty,” said the
captain. “We shall be captured in thirty minutes, if
we do not sink.”
“My order remains unchanged,” the queen replied,
coldly.
“Your order—?”
“To blow up the ship.”
Suddenly a cheer from the crew was heard. The
captain turned quickly. A mile to windward, three or
four vessels were rapidly bearing down, and the French
flag was plainly made out. They quickly approached,
and the crew uttered a second cheer. The parliamentary
ships had drawn off, and a gun only at long intervals
now indicated that they had given up the pursuit.
The queen had not moved or spoken. As the storm
drove the disabled ship towards the French coast, now
in sight, she continued to gaze out upon the waters
towards England with the same despairing apathy. It
reached a cove in the rocky coast. There the queen
entered one of the boats, and was tossed on the summit
of the great waves towards the shore. All at once the
boat grounded, and I leaped into the sea. The queen
rose at my signal, I took her in my arms, after the
sailor fashion, bore her to shore, and deposited her
upon the rocks wet with spray and sea-weed. The rest
landed, and, with the members of her suite, the queen
wandered along the shore, seeking shelter from the
storm. This we found in an assemblage of fishermen's
huts; and a messenger was sent thence to the château
of a gentleman in the vicinity to announce the presence
of the daughter of Henry IV. on French soil.
The intelligence spread like magic, and the rude
fishermen's village was soon crowded with the coaches
of the neighboring nobility, eager to succor the English
queen thus thrown upon French hospitality. She left
the village in one of these chariots, and was graciously
pleased to signify her wish that I should occupy a seat
in the same vehicle.
“Well, Mr. Cecil,” she said, as the coach rolled on,
“God has mercifully preserved us.”
She spoke in the same sombre voice; but I could see
tears in her eyes now.
“From the storm, your majesty, and the enemy:
that is doubtless your meaning?”
“Yes, and from my wicked self too. I have been
thinking of my child, and of my sinful order to blow you
all up in the ship. I had no right to give such an order;
and yet I gave it calmly and meaning it. I can now
accuse myself of want of moral courage to master my
me at the same time from my enemies and from myself.”[1]
Her head sank as she spoke, and gradually tears gathered
in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.
“My poor husband!—my poor, poor little babe!”
she sobbed. “Oh, when, when shall I ever see them
again?”
Her majesty afterwards used nearly these same expressions in
speaking to her friend Madame de Motteville, as may be seen in that
lady's Memoirs. “I did not feel any extraordinary effort,” she said,
“when I gave the order to blow up the vessel.”
6. VI.
MY PROMISE.
These events took place in the month of July, 1644.
In the autumn of the same year I was back in England,
bearer of a private dispatch from her majesty,
then at the baths of Bourbon, to his majesty the king,
then in the neighborhood of Oxford.
I need not speak in these memoirs of my brief stay
in France at that time, any more than I did of my
sojourn in the Low Countries. This volume strives
to depict incidents occurring on English ground; and
accordingly I pass to the moment when I again trod
the beloved soil of my home-land.
The times I found more than ever “out of joint.”
The struggle between king and parliament had steadily
become more bitter and envenomed. It was now a
Exeter with her majesty, disastrous events had taken
place for the royal cause. Early in July was fought the
great battle of Marston-Moor, where, against the protest
of my lord Newcastle, his highness Prince Rupert
attacked the enemy and was badly beaten. Later in the
same month, York surrendered to the parliament. In
October the king sustained a second defeat on the old
ground of Newbury, and, save that Lord Essex was
defeated in turn with the force he commanded in
Cornwall, no gleam of light came from any quarter
to cheer the adherents of his majesty. Shut up in the
city of Oxford, deprived of the consolation of the
queen's presence, seeing all around him evidences of
failing fortunes, the king had little to cheer him, and,
when I saw him first after my return, seemed plunged
in melancholy.
He received me in private audience, and questioned
me minutely as to the health, spirits, and surroundings
of the queen. I informed him upon all points, and
gave his majesty a detailed account of her strange
adventures at Exeter and on the sea. As I spoke, his
pale cheeks filled with blood, his eyes flashed, and he
exclaimed,—
“'Twas like her! Brave and true! brave and true!”
His majesty was pleased then to express his satisfaction
with the humble part I had borne in the escape of
the queen, to declare his confidence in me, and to dismiss
me with expressions of his royal regard.
As I issued from the royal presence, Harry met me,
arm in arm with the gay young Frank Villiers, whose
blue eyes gave me friendly welcome. We all went to
old friends received me with an ovation, and during
the winter I remained at Oxford, dreaming of Frances
Villiers and wondering where she then was. The victim
still of my old passion, I could not banish her from
my mind. But I never spoke of her to Harry, fearing
to arouse old memories. He was equally reticent:
her name was never uttered by either of us. I knew
not whether he still pined for her, and could only resolve
to adhere to my resolution not further to prosecute
my suit.
Spring came, and both sides assembled all their
forces. Fairfax was appointed general-in-chief of the
parliamentary troops. Under General Fairfax nominally,
but in reality over him, was the cold, resolute,
ardent, explosive General Cromwell. He it was who
now came to put the coup de grâce to his majesty's
fortunes. Intellect governs the world; and 'twas the
brain of that single man that shaped the history of
England. Of the loose and disjointed armies of parliament
he made one great engine: the troops became
inspired with his own indomitable will to conquer:
his pikemen marched to battle chanting uncouth
psalms, despising death and wounds, raised by that
afflatus above care for life. In the person of the
plain countryman whom I had met at Mr. Hampden's
in Buckinghamshire, now become the supreme
ruler of the minds and hearts of his men, the troops
had found their master and the name that led them
to victory.
'Twas a strange fanaticism, that of the puritan soldiery
then,—those “Independents” advancing remorselessly
it: 'twas grotesque, but terrible too. I pass on to events.
June of the dark year 1645 arrived, and the flags of
king and parliament fronted each other on the soon-to-be-famous
ground of Naseby.
Harry and I were lying in our tent on the night
before the battle, and, as the long hours went on, we
remained awake, talking of a thousand things. At last
our talk came to concern one subject alone,—Frances
Villiers and the love we bore her. Harry laughed
rather than replied to me, and I loved him more than
ever for that. Convinced that his passion was unchanged,
and penetrated to the heart by that great
wealth of brotherly love which thus surrendered the
dear object to his rival, I saw in his laughter but a
new evidence of his noble delicacy, but proof of the
fact that he wished to make light of his great sacrifice.
The thought brought tears to my eyes.
“You shall not find me less magnanimous than
yourself, brother,” I said.
“Pooh, Ned!” was his gay reply, “ go on and court
the fair one. Why not?”
I rose on my elbow from the camp-couch, and, with
flushed cheeks, said, in a low tone.—
“I will not! Never will I utter word of love whilst
I am my brother's rival!”
Harry laughed aloud thereat, and said,—
“Suppose I go under to-morrow, old fellow?”
“No matter!” I cried: “I have promised! Whether
you pass unharmed or fall, my word is given: until I
obtain my Harry's permission I swear I will never utter
love-word to Frances Villiers!”
As I spoke, the sudden sound of a trumpet was heard
without, and footsteps hastening to and fro, mingled
with the neighing of horses. A sergeant put in his
head.
“To horse, gentlemen!” he cried; for it was the
fashion in the aristocratic corps of the Guards to observe
this courtly and very unmilitary mode of address.
Harry sprang up. “What's the matter?” he cried.
“The enemy's horse threaten the train,” was the
reply.
The trumpet sounded more shrilly the call “Boots
and saddles!”
In ten minutes we were mounted, and, commanded
by Prince Rupert in person, were moving rapidly to
the point of danger.
The parliament horse had indeed advanced to attack
the king's trains, but at our appearance they gave up
the design, and retreated, skirmishing, to their main
body again.
The day dawned as we fell back; and soon the sound
of martial music indicated that the camps were astir.
The king was forming his line of battle. As the sun
rose he was ready.
The disastrous day of Naseby had come.
7. VII.
THE LAST HOPE OF THE KING AND OF THE CECILS.
I shall speak but briefly of the tragic combat of
Naseby. For long a curse seemed to weigh on the
very name, to me; even now, I wellnigh shudder when
'tis pronounced.
The king commanded his army in person,—Prince
Rupert leading the right, Sir Marmaduke Langdale the
left. On the enemy's side, Fairfax was the general-in-chief;
and his right was led by General Cromwell, his
left by Ireton.
Rupert opened the battle, as was habitual with him,
by a cavalry charge. He rushed upon Ireton, and to
that resolute officer I found myself personally opposed.
A brief sword-encounter followed, and I was near disarming
him.
“Surrender!” I cried.
“Never!” was his gallant reply.
With a sweep of his broadsword he cut the feather
clean from my hat, and it is probable that I would have
fared badly in the encounter, when a trooper ran his
weapon through his thigh, and he was taken prisoner,
still fighting and refusing to surrender, like the brave
man he was.
Rupert had meanwhile pushed on, driving the enemy's
left before him. It was the strange fate of this headlong
cavalier to defeat the enemy always at the outset,
victory. Such was the event now at Naseby. The
enemy's left was routed and driven. The prince could
fight, but could not command: he stopped to summon
the enemy's artillery to surrender before charging it;
thus precious time was lost, and the golden moment
passed. A deafening shout from our left and rear
attracted all eyes to that quarter.
The spectacle was terrible.
As Rupert charged, the king had advanced his whole
line, leading it in person. Mounted upon a superb
charger, his head bare, and waving his hat, his majesty
rode in front of his line, exposing himself to the heaviest
fire, and calling upon his troops to follow him. They
responded with cheers, and in a moment the opposing
lines clashed together. Before the royal charge the
parliament forces gave back, as before Rupert; but
suddenly there appeared upon the scene that terrible
new element, the “Independent” pikemen of Cromwell.
These now advanced, slow and stern as an incarnate
Fate. Nothing stood before the surging hedge
of steel; the triumphant royalists were first checked,
then forced back, then broken wellnigh to pieces: the
whole left wing of the king was crushed by this irresistible
weight of pikes.
We saw this, we of the Guards, from a distance, and
heard the fierce shouts. Prince Rupert understood all,
and his eyes blazed as they witnessed the spectacle. I
was near him, and our eyes met.
“Go to the king! go to the king!” he cried, “and
say I will be with him instantly!”
I saluted, and wheeled my horse.
“Stay! Take Hans with you. You may be shot.
Say I will come instantly.”
And, turning to the gigantic corporal who always rode
near him, the prince exclaimed,—
“Go with him.”
At the word, the huge black-bearded Hans thundered
to my side.
“I gome mit you,” he said, drawing his sword, and
putting spur to his horse. Without a word, I went
back at full speed, and we were near the king, when I
saw my companion reel.
“You are shot!” I cried.
“Hilf Himmel!” escaped from the giant's lips. Then
he raised his huge hand to his breast, threw back his
head, and, falling from his horse, was trampled under
the iron hoofs.
I had no time to aid him, even had not a glance told
me that he was dead. I spurred straight to the king,
who was fighting in the midst of his men. He saw me
coming, and exclaimed,—
“Where is the prince?”
“He bids me say he will be with your majesty
instantly.”
“I fear 'tis too late; the left wing is broken.”
The tumult drowned his voice, and the king continued
to fight personally, like a private soldier, careless
of all peril. I was near him, and now witnessed a
still more tragic event. The hedge of steel slowly
moved, as on a pivot, and enveloped the king's left.
Stern and menacing swept round the immense wall of
pikes, and through the smoke I saw their commander,
the thenceforward terrible General Cromwell. He sat
statue could be stiller, and he resembled rather a bronze
or stone figure than a man. From time to time his lips
moved, and a brief command seemed to issue from
them. Otherwise the man was even fearfully cold and
immovable,—a Fate incarnate.
Suddenly Rupert appeared, and I wheeled my horse
and joined my comrades. Without a word, and seeing
all at a glance, the prince charged straight on the hedge
of steel. It did not move: the horses impaled their
chests on the sharp steel points, but made no opening.
Then I knew that all was over: the terrible wall was
closing around us; nothing was left for the followers
of the king but to die, sword in hand.
I had faced that conviction, and set my teeth close
for the event, when Harry, covered with dust and blood,
rushed past me on his superb courser.
“Come on, Ned!” he shouted, waving his sword,
and laughing; “there's time yet ere sunset to drive
these carles back!”
I spurred to his side.
“The day is lost, brother, but we can die here,” I
said; and we charged side by side.
A moment, and all was over. A pike pierced the
chest of Harry's horse, and the animal reared and
fell backward. At the same instant my own horse was
wounded and recoiled. Harry's sword cut the air; I
heard him utter a defiant shout; then he was hurled to
the ground, and a pike was driven into his breast.
The awful sight unmanned me, almost. A second
cry—of agony this time—burst from my lips. I seemed
to see for an instant, through the cloud of smoke, the
the last time. Then a hot iron seemed to pass through
my breast,—a bullet had struck me,—and I reeled in the
saddle. My bridle was violently grasped by the pikeman
in front of me; I could make no resistance; but
suddenly my horse tore away from his assailant, turned,
and lashed out with his heels; the man was hurled back
by the iron feet, and I found myself—faint, reeling,
senseless almost—borne, at a swift gallop, back to the
king's line.
I ran almost against his majesty. He was bareheaded;
his eyes flamed. With clothes covered with dust and
grimed with smoke, and cheeks which seemed on fire,
he drove into the midst of the combatants, waved his
sword above his head, and shouted, in hoarse tones,
which echo still in my memory,—
“One charge more, and we recover the day!”
A roar drowned his voice, and there was scarce more
than a feeble cheer in response to his shout. The day
was decided: all felt that Cromwell's terrible pikemen,
advancing resistless as fate, would bear down all before
them. No further stand was made; and the royal
forces were seen on all sides retreating in disorder
from the field.
I was tottering in the saddle, and through the mist
before my eyes I could see but little. I made out,
however, in that cloud, one face, over which was
spread the pallor of despair. It was the face of the
king, who had checked his horse and sat looking with
a sort of stupor upon the scene before him. He sat
thus for a moment only. Two noblemen seized his
bridle and bore him from the field at a gallop.
Unconsciously I followed; leaning upon my horse's
neck, faint and dying almost, I went on at full speed.
After that I remember only confused cries, the clash
of arms, the roar of guns in pursuit. Then green woods
were around me, the noises died away, darkness seemed
to descend upon me, and I lost consciousness.
8. VIII.
BACK TO CECIL COURT.
When I fully regained my senses, and realized my
actual whereabouts, I found myself lying in my bed at
Cecil Court, with the eyes of my father and Cicely
fixed upon me.
“Thank God!” exclaimed my father, drawing a
long breath, “the fever has taken a turn at last.”
Tears came to his eyes, and Cicely threw herself,
sobbing for joy, upon her knees, and pressed my thin
hand to her lips.
From that moment I began to convalesce, and was
soon informed of my own adventures after the battle.
Frank Villiers had come up just as I was falling from
my horse, and had managed to secure a hospital-wagon
flying wildly from the field. In this I was placed. A
considerable sum in gold had bribed the driver to
convey me to Cecil Court. I had arrived raging with
fever. For months my life had been despaired of, for
a bullet had passed through my chest; but finally youth
brink of the grave.
It was to find the arms of my father and sister around
me, but to realize that the royal cause was lost, and
that our brave, our dear Harry was forever taken from
us. His last charge and his fall had become known at
Cecil Court, and the woeful duty devolved upon me
now to relate the particulars. I did so, in the midst
of sobs, and with a great gush of tears from my own
eyes. Father and sister wept in silence. Cicely drew
close to me, kissed me, and murmured,—
“You alone are left us.”
Months passed on, and I grew stronger. Finally I
left my sick-bed and began to totter about the house.
A hopeless sadness had taken possession of me. I
scarce gave a thought to the fate of the cause I had
fought for, thinking only of my brother and his dying
face.
A languid interest in public affairs came finally to
dispute this possessing thought. Naseby had ended
the struggle. Soon thereafter Prince Rupert surrendered
Bristol, for which, 'twas said, the king had disgraced
and banished him. Then his majesty took
refuge with a remnant of force at Oxford. Then he
fled to Newark, delivering himself up to the Scottish army.
It was not until late summer that I was able to leave
the house and move slowly about the grounds at Cecil
Court. No one molested me. Sir Jervas Ireton's
flaming loyalty to the parliament had secured him an
official appointment in London; and no one in the
vicinity seemed disposed to harass the poor wounded
moment, I would not be arrested. I was therefore
anxious to leave Cecil Court and not compromise my
father. Whither I should go was a difficult question.
But I could find a refuge somewhere. And it was just
at the moment when I heard that Sir Jervas Ireton
was coming down from London that an unforeseen incident
occurred which was to send me forth again upon
the stormy waters of that troubled epoch.
9. IX.
I GO TO CHARLECOTE AND MEET WITH AN ADVENTURE.
The incident which I shall now relate leads me to
speak of a spot connected with a very great writer. I
mean Charlecote, the residence of the Lucy family,
near Cecil Court,—Charlecote, where Will Shakspeare
was seized by Sir Thomas Lucy for trespassing on his
park and shooting deer.
As this adventure has been discredited of late days
by some persons, I will stop here in my narrative to
briefly record the actual truth. 'Twas vouched for to
my father by no less a personage than Will Shakspeare
himself. And this is the story told by the great playwriter,
laughing over his wine at Cecil Court. The
knight's gamekeeper, a huge, black-bearded individual,
had really seized him, he said, whilst trespassing one
moonlight night on Charlecote Park to shoot the deer.
of Stratford, and the affair was a mad frolic; but it
speedily became serious. Shakspeare shot and killed a
stag with his old matchlock, and alarmed the gamekeeper.
At his approach the party fled; but Shakspeare's
foot caught in a root, and he fell. Thereupon
the gamekeeper darted upon him, pinioned his arms
without difficulty, as he was a mere boy and powerless
in his opponent's hands; and, after a night's imprisonment
in the gamekeeper's lodge, he was conducted
before Sir Thomas Lucy, who had been notified of the
fearful outrage upon his rights of landed proprietor.
My father described the account given him by Shakspeare
as excellently entertaining. The irate knight,
Sir Thomas Lucy, he said, sat in awful state in his
great hall at Charlecote, and listened in stern silence
to the animated harangue of his gamekeeper. There
was no doubt of the youth's guilt: he had been caught
in the act, and the dead deer lay on the floor. The
knight gazed on the beardless culprit, burst forth at
length into an address full of rage, and swore that but
for the respectability of his father, John Shakspeare, he
would put him in the stocks. He was finally discharged,
the knight declaring his intention of proceeding
regularly against him for trespass. And, not liking the
aspect of affairs, Shakspeare determined to go with one
of his wild companions to London. He did so, began
writing for the stage, acquired great fame, and when
afterwards he met Sir Thomas, now a gray-haired man,
said, laughing,—
“See, Sir Thomas! 'tis your fault that an excellent
poacher has become but a poor writer of plays!”
Such had been the incident which attached an historic
interest to a plain old manor-house. 'Tis the
fate of places and personages connected with great men
to become famous. Doubtless, outside of Warwickshire
no one had ever heard of Charlecote had not a
scapegrace shot deer there and afterwards written King
Lear and Hamlet.
Well, to come back now to myself and my own
adventure at Charlecote.
Lady Lucy, the wife of Sir Thomas, son of the old
knight, was my firm friend; and one of the first houses
I visited, as soon as I rode out for exercise, was Charlecote.
It was a beautiful day of summer when I
entered the great park and walked my horse slowly
up the long avenue of century elms and oaks. The
old park was exquisite, and quite charmed the eye.
The Avon makes a bend there, and runs through the
grounds, sweeping around the base of a grassy hill.
Some stately swans were sailing majestically upon the
surface of the stream, deer were seen stealing away
through the vistas in the trees, and the rooks were
cawing dreamily in the summits of some great elms,
where they had built their nests, year after year, for
more than a century, 'twas said.
I approached the old mansion,—which was of the
Elizabethan style, with stone groins and shafts, lofty
casements, and armorial bearings cut over the gate,—
entered the little court-yard, where beds of brilliant
flowers delighted the eye, and, giving my horse to a
groom, entered the great hall, with its rows of family portraits
in stiff ruffs and powder, and thence to Lady Lucy's
drawing-room, where I was received most graciously.
Sure, naught on earth is more charming than the
sympathy of woman. Lady Lucy smiled with an exquisite
sweetness as she greeted the poor pale soldier,
pressed my hand with affectionate warmth, and an hour
passed, full of sunshine and sympathy.
At last I rose to go, and had taken my hat and
gloves, when the door, which stood ajar, was thrust open
by some one, and I saw a child standing on the threshold
and looking in furtively. It was a little beauty,—
a girl with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and profuse brown
curls, about two years of age, and full of health and joy.
I was about to ask the name of this child, for Lady
Lucy had none, when her ladyship rose hastily, exclaiming,—
“Run away, my child! You must not—”
The caution came too late. The little girl ran to the
lady, caught a fold of her dress, looked furtively at me
for a moment, then gradually approached me, grasped
with her tiny hand the feather trailing from my hat,
and, raising her brilliant brown eyes to my face, said,
in baby patois,—
“What dat is?”
“It is a feather, my child,” I said, smiling. “And
now, can you tell me your name?”
Instead of doing so, the little one continued to
regard with the deepest interest the plume depending
from my beaver.
“Your ladyship has a charming little relative there,”
I said, smiling; “but do you know I have not yet had
the honor of an introduction? A sweeter face I never
saw, I think, with its bright eyes and curls.”
Before Lady Lucy could reply, the little maiden
seemed suggested by the word “curls,” which I had
used: it was a baby lyric, delivered with baby pronunciation,
and was word for word what follows:
And she had a little turl [curl]
Wight in de middle of her for'wid;
When she was good,
She was vewy, vewy good,
And when she was bad she was ho'wid!”
“There, there, my child! the servants have taught
you these foolish songs,” said Lady Lucy; “that is
enough! Run away now!”
“Not before I know the name of my little friend,”
I said, puzzled by Lady Lucy's persistent avoidance
of that point; and, smoothing the child's curls, I
asked, smiling,—
“What is your name, little one?”
“Henwietta Anne.”
The name struck me suddenly. It was that of the
queen's child born at Exeter. I looked quickly at
Lady Lucy.
“Do not ask me anything!” she exclaimed. “You
are a friend of the good cause—I rely upon you; but
this is not my secret: not even to you may I—”
“You may venture to tell Mr. Cecil our secret, Lady
Lucy,” came in low tones from without the door: “he
has seen the princess before,—soon after her birth, at
Exeter.”
And Frances Villiers, mild, calm, queenly, with her
air of unmoved sweetness, glided into the room and
saluted me.
10. X.
THE FLIGHT FROM CHARLECOTE.
This unexpected encounter with Frances Villiers
astonished me beyond words; but the young lady
soon explained all, and I shall sum up her explanation
in a few sentences.
The king, when informed of Lord Essex's advance
upon Exeter to seize the queen, had hastened by
forced marches to relieve the place. This he had
effected. Essex retired before him, and the king,
entering the city, embraced at Bedford House the
poor child, to whom he gave the name Henrietta
Anne, as the queen desired. Compelled then to take
the field again, he left the babe at Exeter, in charge of
Lady Morton and Frances Villiers; and there the child
remained until the decisive battle of Naseby. Thereafter
she was not safe; and, as Lady Morton was very
ill, Frances Villiers took entire charge of the child,
flying first to the house of one friend of the royal cause,
then to another. Thus, in course of time, she took
refuge at Charlecote,—the Lucy family being relatives
of the Villiers and warm friends of the king. Here
the young lady and child had now been for many
months; but the time had come when they would be
compelled to seek a more secure hiding-place. All
this Frances Villiers related in her calm, composed
voice, which made the strange romance of the whole
the world.
“And what, if I may ask, is your intention now, Miss
Villiers?” I said.
“To leave Charlecote, and, if possible, England, sir.
This neighborhood is not safe. There is a Sir Jervas
Ireton in the vicinity, who has gained information,
'tis said, of the presence of the princess. He will aim
therefore, as he is a flaming zealot, to seize the child
and deliver her up to parliament; and to avoid this
we must resume our wanderings.”
She spoke in her sweet, calm accents, looking tenderly
at the child. Something exquisite appeared in
her eyes:—was it the sacred maternal instinct? I think
that is in all women.
“But whither will you go?” I said.
“I have nearly resolved—I may say quite resolved—
to try to take the princess from the country,” she replied.
“But you will be arrested on the way.”
“Not if a good disguise be assumed, sir. I think I
might elude the king's enemies.”
“A disguise! what?”
“That of a beggar-woman and child.”
The plan seemed wild and impracticable. How
could this delicate young lady trudge through half
England on foot, with a child nearly two years old
toddling on beside her or borne on her back? But
as Miss Villiers spoke further, and developed her
scheme,—as, with cheeks glowing now with love and
devotion, she unfolded her resolve,—it began to assume
a new shape; I gradually passed to her side; and, despite
the opposition of Lady Lucy, it was decided,
attempt should be made, and that I should accompany
Miss Villiers.
Against that, I must do her the justice to say, the
young lady fought hard. Wholly destitute of primness
and prudery, she was yet a person who never forgot
the strictest rules of propriety; and it was long before
I could prevail upon her to consent to my companionship.
At last, however, she yielded,—Lady Lucy insisting
that if the attempt was made I must accompany
them; and it was determined that we should set out,
as soon as night had fallen, on the next evening.
I returned to Cecil Court to arrange my disguise
and prepare for my journey. I was all excitement and
agitation. Thus fate had once more thrown me with
the woman whom I loved more than I loved my own
life. I was to accompany her as companion, friend,
and defender, if necessary, on a long and perilous
journey, which would throw me into hourly contact
with her. I was to look into her eyes, hear the accents
of her voice, feel the pressure of her hand, and throughout
all I was to conduct myself as a friend, and only as
a friend. For I recalled my promise to poor Harry,
that I would never without his permission utter a word
of love to Frances Villiers. He was dead: that permission
could never be accorded: my best course,
therefore, was to remain away from temptation;—
and here I was to be thrown, every hour, day and
night, for days, weeks, it might be months, with the
woman whom I loved with my whole soul, between
whom and myself rose nevertheless that impassable
barrier, my solemn promise given to the dead!
Returning to Cecil Court, in a mood of greater
agitation than I had believed possible, I set about
procuring my disguise for the journey. This was
easily effected: the cast-off livery of a serving-man
supplied me with just what I required; and then, shutting
myself up with my father in the library, I revealed
my intent.
He warmly commended the design,—instead of opposing
it, as I had feared. Miss Villiers, he said, was
a true heroine, and the project was not so wild as it
seemed. He would provide me with gold for the
journey, and pray for my welfare. But we must
hurry: that man Ireton was coming, and would nose
out something.
All things having thus been arranged, I retired, not
to sleep, however, but to lie awake and think of Frances
Villiers. The morning came, and the day dragged on.
The sun slowly declined, and, retiring to my chamber,
I assumed my disguise. I descended then, embraced
Cicely, who started back in affright as I entered,
pressed my father's hand, and was just issuing forth,
when Sir Jervas Ireton was seen galloping rapidly up
the avenue.
No time was to be lost; and I ignominiously fled out
of the back door. My horse had just been saddled,
and was about to be brought. I leaped upon him, put
spur to his side, and went at full speed across the fields,
leaping fences and ditches, towards Charlecote.
Had I been seen? I could not answer that question.
I either saw or fancied that I saw some troopers
who rode in the suite of Sir Jervas Ireton hastily separate,
gesticulating and pointing me out. This might
no time was to be lost. I went on at full speed,
stopped for nothing in the way, and, reaching the
grounds around Charlecote, galloped up the long avenue
to the house.
Lady Lucy met me at the door, and I hastily informed
her of the danger. I had probably been perceived.
If Ireton had knowledge of the presence of
the princess at Charlecote, he would have intelligence
enough to suspect that I had gone to give warning
of the danger. He would thus press forward at once.
No time was to be lost. Where was Miss Villiers?
The young lady replied to the question in person.
I could scarce realize that it was the elegant and highborn
maid of honor who now stood before me in the
dingy and tattered garb of a beggar-woman. The disguise
was perfect. The slender figure of the young
girl was a shapeless bundle of rags; her beautiful hair
had been remorselessly shorn; a huge hood covered
her head and scarce allowed her face to be seen; and
the fair skin had been pitilessly stained with some dye
which brought it to resemble the weather-beaten complexion
of a beggar-woman.
The princess had been metamorphosed in a manner
equally perfect. The little figure was bundled up in
an old gown and tattered cloak. On the delicate feet
were coarse shoes. It was not an aristocratic young
dame and the daughter of a king I saw before me,
but a mendicant and child in the last stage of poverty.
“Your disguise is excellent, Miss Villiers,” I said,
hurriedly; “but we have no time now for compliments.
Sir Jervas Ireton is coming!”
And I related, in brief words, my escape from Cecil
Court. I was still speaking, when Lady Lucy uttered
an exclamation. I looked through the window, and
saw the burly personage thundering straight up the
avenue, followed by his men.
“We must separate,” I said, “and endeavor to
leave the house instantly.”
Miss Villiers inclined her head. Save a slight color
in her proud cheeks, there was no indication of emotion.
“Endeavor to leave by the side court,” I said,
hastily. “I will go out by the rear gate and join you
on the road to Stafford, where the three elms crown
the hill.”
The rendezvous was a well-known spot, and I knew
Miss Villiers could not mistake it. She disappeared,
with the princess, towards a side door; and, running
to the rear of the house, I reached my horse, which
stood there, just as a trooper galloped around and
approached.
The incident was far from unacceptable. It was gall
and wormwood to me to skulk away thus before the
enemy of my family. I went up to the trooper, who
was an open-mouthed clodhopper, seized his bridle,
and, before he could realize my design, caught him by
the throat and dragged him from the saddle.
As I did so, he woke as it were from his astonishment,
and uttered a loud shout. I picked up his musquetoon,
which had fallen near him, dealt him a blow
on the head, which silenced him, and, leaping on my
horse, gained the dense foliage of the wood.
Sir Jervas Ireton appeared suddenly, spurring furiously
the house, another spectacle made my heart beat fast.
I saw Frances Villiers, in her disguise of a beggar-woman,
with the princess bundled up in a ragged
cloak on her back, quietly pass out of the house by the
side door, take a path which led to the wood, and
gain its shelter entirely unmolested.
Her enemies had either not seen her, or did not suspect
for an instant that their prey was thus escaping
them. Whatever the explanation may have been, the
young girl with her precious burden had passed safely
through the very midst of her enemies. Without further
apprehension, I leaped a low place in the park
wall, turned my horse loose, knowing that the intelligent
animal would find his way back to Cecil Court,
and rapidly ran in the direction taken by Miss Villiers.
In ten minutes I had joined her. I assisted her over
the wall; we hastened on by a path which I knew perfectly
well. Darkness quickly descended, and, taking
the young lady's hand, I led her on until we gained a
country road.
“Yonder is the north star, Miss Villiers,” I said,
“and this is the road to Campden. Give me the
princess.”
I took the child in my arms and walked on steadily.
“Every step we take now brings us nearer to
France!”
11. XI.
ON THE HIGHWAY.
I look back on that journey with Frances Villiers and
the little princess to the sea-coast as the most remarkable
passage in a life filled with singular adventures.
Trudging along on foot, or securing places in some
chance conveyance,—the cart of a countryman going
to market, or other humble vehicle,—we went upon
our way, the young lady, the princess, and myself,
and thus passed safely through the torn and distracted
realm until we were in the southern shires and neared
the Channel. The land was all laid waste, and an inexpressible
disquiet and unrest filled the face of every
one. War had come to overthrow the old peace and
happiness of merry England. On all sides dismantled
houses, torn-down fences, and deserted villages marked
the presence of that cruelest of all demons, the demon
of Civil War.
The war was virtually over; but the land had not
settled to rest again, for the triumphant side had
divided into two factions, the Presbyterians and the
stern Independents, the latter led by Cromwell now;
and 'twas a question whether a new struggle, more
violent than the first, would not ensue. From this
general sketch, however, which might lead me into
political and historical disquisitions, for which I have
no fancy, I pass to my personal adventures.
I have said 'twas a strange passage in my life, that
journey; and my relations with Frances Villiers made
it stranger still. A lover who had sworn to utter no
word of love, but whose passion was no secret from its
object, was journeying with the one dearest to him;
and the singular character of that journey threw him
incessantly with his companion. Over long miles of
heath, through great woods, across desolate moors, by
day and by night, we traveled in company; and all
this time it was only as friend to friend that we addressed
each other. The child walked sometimes, but
was generally carried upon my back or in my arms.
This I insisted upon; though more than once Frances
Villiers compelled me to yield her charge to her, and
the delicate and aristocratic girl would, for hours,
against my protest, bear the child in a bundle upon
her own shoulders.
More than once we were suspiciously gazed at by
chance wayfarers wearing the colors of the parliament;
and twice roving parties peered into wagons wherein
we rode, but without finding good reason to stop us.
'Twas in this latter manner that much of the way was
traversed. The poor and humble proved themselves
our best friends; and often, as we went on slowly, we
heard, from some yeoman in a smock-frock, earnest
wishes expressed for the happiness of the king, now
routed and a fugitive. The only danger was from
the princess, who had been dressed as a boy and in
rags,—to her huge disgust,—and called Pierre. When
asked her name by these poor people, she babbled the
word princess, however, and we were often in great
trepidation.
“That is the manner in which he pronounces his
name,—Pierre,” the young lady would say; and an opportune
diversion of the conversation would do away
with further danger.
At last we reached the sea-coast, and, leaving the
young lady and child in a fisherman's hut, I went to
reconnoitre, and discover, if possible, the means of
crossing the Channel. The result was extremely discouraging.
The coast was thoroughly guarded, and
no vessel of any description could pass to France without
being stopped. I returned with this discouraging
information to Miss Villiers: we took counsel together,
and finally came to the resolution of boldly proceeding
to Dover and taking the packet which ran at stated
periods across the Channel.
We proceeded, therefore, along the coast, reached
Dover, and luckily found the packet just about to set
sail.
“Come,” I said, in a low tone, as we mingled in the
crowd, “we will go boldly on board, and I will undertake
to answer all questions.”
We had just reached the deck, when the commander
gave the order to take in the plank leading to the jetty.
“Have all the passports been examined?”
I shrank back with the young lady and child into a
corner.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the reply of the person addressed,
a rough-looking personage in a broad hat.
The next moment the plank was drawn on board,
the cable was unslung from the wharf, and the packet
moved under full sail out into the Channel, heading
towards France.
I was still shrinking low, with my companion, in my
corner, when the man in the broad hat passed near me,
and said, without turning his head,—
“I was groom in the Guards once, sir. I know
you, but am not the man to betray you. Many a
friend of the good cause is leaving the country. Go
down in the aft cabin, and mix with the crowd.”
I hastened to follow this friendly advice, and we
were soon lost in the mass. On the same evening we
were on French soil, and set forward, without stopping,
for Paris.
Three days afterwards, Queen Henrietta Maria, in
an apartment of the Louvre, was holding in her arms
the poor child whom she had last seen at Exeter, sobbing,
and covering her with kisses.
Such was that singular adventure. I look back to it
now, when my hair grows gray, with more pleasure
and satisfaction than to all else I had part in during
the great English civil war.
12. XII.
MY PARTING WITH FRANCES VILLIERS.
I remained in France until the ensuing spring, performing
the duties of private secretary to her majesty.
Then there came to me a great longing to return to
England. I was ill at ease in the Louvre. The splendid
French court jarred a discord upon my feelings.
Frances Villiers.
Does that last statement appear strange? 'Tis true,
nevertheless. To be near her was torture; alternate
torpor and fever possessed me. Loving a woman with
my whole soul, and yet bound to the dead by a solemn
promise never to speak, I found my heart agitated and
torn, my very health giving way.
The queen came to my relief. She summoned me
to her private apartments one morning, and, extending
towards me a packet, said, with deep sadness,—
“I wish you to convey this to his majesty, Mr.
Cecil.”
I bowed low and took the letter.
“He is at Holmby House, in Northamptonshire,”
said the queen. “Escaping from Oxford, to take
refuge with those people at Newcastle, he has been
sold by them,—sold, for the sum of four hundred
thousand pounds! And—oh!—it is infamous!—it is
infamous!”
And the queen burst into a passion of tears.
“Bear with me,” she faltered, at length, through
tears and sobs. “I am only a poor woman! I will
try to be calm.”
And, passing a handkerchief across her eyes, she
added, more composedly,—
“The parliament people hold him a prisoner, not
knowing what to do with him. The Presbyterians and
odious Independents differ. I would have him decide
the matter by leaving the country and taking refuge in
France. Bear him this letter, Mr. Cecil: it contains
my prayer that he will make the attempt. Do not let
you in your journey!”
She covered her face with her hand, and attempted
to speak again, but no words came; and I retired
respectfully from the apartment, leaving her majesty
bending over the little princess Henrietta and weeping.
On the same night I had assumed my disguise and
was on the road to England. A last interview with
Frances Villiers had gone near to unman me. At the
moment of parting, when 'twas doubtful if we should
ever meet again, she permitted her feelings to show
themselves; and 'twas this which made my heart sink.
Let me pass briefly over this, and say simply that
something had at last touched her. Was it that long
journey we had made together, sharing a common danger,
and ever beside each other? Was it the womanly
heart yearning at last, now when the queen was in
safety, for some refuge for itself? I know not: I can
only say that, as I held her hand at parting, the beautiful
eyes dwelt upon my face for an instant with an
expression which I could not misunderstand, and her
voice died away in a sob.
“Good-by,” she murmured, smiling through her
tears, and gazing at me with blushes in her cheeks.
“We may never meet again; but I pray God to bless
you and watch over you!”
A strange, delicious thrill passed through my heart;
my face flushed. I bent down and pressed my burning
lips to her hand. Before I could speak,—Heaven
be thanked!—she had left the apartment; and as she
disappeared I heard a low sob.
| Her majesty the queen | |