Lucy was ailing. The rigorous life of a prisoner did not suit her. She had been accustomed to too much comfort. She had grown thinner since her incarceration; she would sit listlessly at her barred window, looking out on the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and every time she heard the bell toll she would be seized with a fit of shivering.
Ann looked after her as well as she could, but Ann too was frightened. She remembered the day, over six years ago, when the Parliament had beheaded the King. She wondered if the same fate was in store for them.
Their jailer would tell them nothing. He would bring their not very palatable fare each day, and they would eat it in their cell. There were no sweetmeats for Lucy now; worse still, there were no lovers.
Jemmy often flew into a rage. He was a bold boy and a spoiled one. He demanded that they be set free.
He told the jailor: “One day you will suffer for this. My father will see that you do. I will kill you dead with my sword, and when my father is King again …”
The jailor listened in horror. He had not heard such words since the close of the war, and to think that he had under his care the son of Charles Stuart—bastard though he might be—overwhelmed him with astonishment at the importance and responsibility of his task in guarding these prisoners.
The jailor had a son who helped him in his work—a youth in his teens. Lucy’s interest was slightly stirred at the sight of him, for he was a good-looking boy; but her attempts to fascinate him were half-hearted; she missed her ribands and laces, her sweetmeats and her comfortable lodgings. She was almost always tired and listless; there was about her an air of bewilderment. She, who had always been so healthy as to be unconscious of her health, was now made uncomfortably aware of many minor ailments.
All the same she made the young man conscious of her fascination, and when his father was not present he would smile shyly at his pretty prisoner and exchange a few words with her. He even brought in some sweetmeats for her, and a blue riband to tie about her hair.
Ann thought: One night I shall doubtless find him sneaking in to lie on the straw with her. Will she sink so low?
But that did not happen, for it was quickly realized that Lucy was no subtle spy. She was merely one of Charles Stuart’s mistresses and, said those in authority, if we are going to keep all such women under lock and key, we shall soon have no room in the Tower for others. What harm can this woman do? She is nothing but a stupid, wanton creature. Why should we waste good victuals on Charles Stuart’s mistress and his bastards? Send them back whence they came, and warn them not to come to England again.
So it was arranged, and a few months after Lucy’s arrival in England she found herself, with Ann and the children, on the way back to Holland.
Henrietta Maria and her daughter had once more retired to the country and only made very brief appearances at state functions.
It was clear that the fortunes of the Stuarts were at their lowest. Cromwell, determined to fight the “Lord’s battles,” had sent his Ironsides to join with Marshall Turenne against the Spaniards who, he declared, were “the underpropper of the Romish Babylon” which meant that the Protector was fighting with France. How could the royal family of France honor the enemies of their ally, the Protector? All Henrietta Maria and her daughter could do was remain in obscurity, while it was impossible for any of the Stuart men to set foot in France. In desperation Charles, James and Henry joined forces with the Spaniards. Charles had been reported wounded when fighting in Spain, but this rumor had proved to be false. A few months later James and Henry were actually in Dunkirk, which was in the hands of the Spaniards, and was taken after a siege by the French.
During this period Henrietta Maria could do little but lie on her bed and weep bitterly. In vain did Henriette try to comfort her mother. The Queen saw the dissolution of all her high and mighty schemes.
When an invitation came for the Princess to attend the fête given by the Chancellor Seguier, Henriette was loath to go, but her mother insisted.
“My child,” she said, “I grow sick and ill, but you must go. What will become of us, I wonder. And, my dearest, whatever has happened, you are still a princess. You have your position to uphold, and the King and Queen will never forget what is due to you; I am sure of that.”
But afterwards Henrietta Maria wished with her daughter that Henriette had never gone to the Chancellor’s fête, for Mademoiselle was present and she was determined on this occasion to assert her rights.
As the party left the ballroom for the banqueting hall, very deliberately she stepped in front of Henriette.
This was noticed by many, and the next day the whole Court was buzzing with the news. Etiquette was one of the most serious topics of the day—Queen Anne would have it so; and this seemed a matter of major importance.
Mazarin and the Queen called Mademoiselle to their presence and demanded an explanation.
Mademoiselle was haughty. She was sure, she said, that she had the right to enter a room before the Princess of England.
“She is the daughter of a king, Mademoiselle,” said Anne sternly.
“Your Majesty, the Kings of Scotland always stood aside for the Kings of France, and Charles Stuart is not even a king of Scotland. He is King in nothing but in name.”
“This is most distressing,” said the Queen. “I am annoyed with you.”
“Your Majesty, I did not wish to make too much of the matter. To tell the truth, I caught her hand as we passed in, and to many it would seem that we walked together.”
Philippe, who had been listening while studying the rings on his fingers, cried out suddenly: “And if Mademoiselle did step before the Princess of England, she was perfectly right to do so. Things have come to a fine pass if we are to allow people who depend on us for bread and butter to pass before us. For my part, I think they had better take themselves elsewhere.”
Louis, who had been giving only half his attention to the dispute, was startled by his mother’s sharp cry of protest.
Louis was not really interested in the question as to which of his cousins stepped aside for the other. Greater matters concerned him. Since Madame de Beauvais had initiated him into the doux scavoir he found no pastime to equal it. He would be grateful to Madame de Beauvais for the rest of his days; he would always feel tender towards her, but his desires strayed elsewhere. There were three beautiful nieces of Cardinal Mazarin: Olympia, Marie and Hortense. Louis, who had been violently in love with Olympia—quickly married off to the Count of Soissons—had now transferred his affections to Marie. He was eager to marry her. She was after all the niece of the Cardinal and she bewitched him. Louis could not think very much about his thin little cousin, who was only a child, when his thoughts and feelings were so deeply involved with the fascinating Marie.
All the same, he was sorry for the little Henriette. She and her mother were out of favor now because of foreign affairs, and it was certainly not the fault of the Princess. Philippe was wrong to speak of her so slightingly, for what he had said would surely be carried hither and thither until it reached the ears of the desolate Queen and her little daughter.
So Louis joined his mother in reprimanding Philippe, who slunk off in some annoyance to go and find his favorite de Guiche and tell him what had happened, to complain that Louis and his mother conspired together to humiliate him, and to receive de Guiche’s assurance that he was the most charming and clever of princes even though he had had the misfortune to be born two years later than his brother.
Louis went on dreaming of the beauty of Marie Mancini.
Love! What a pastime! What a pleasure! He would not of course wallow in it as did his cousin, Charles of England. Louis must have more dignity; he had so much to remember, so much to live up to. He was no wandering exile. That was why he would try to persuade his mother and the Cardinal to agree to his marriage with Marie. Then he could enjoy legitimate love, which would be so much more gratifying since it would not involve a lack of dignity.