Charles the King (32 page)

She looked at him, the colour fading from her face, and after a moment she asked him, “And if things are worse, where must I go then?”

“You must go to France,” Charles said gently. “You must go where I know you will be safe and cared for and beyond the reach of our enemies.”

“No,” Henrietta said suddenly. “No, I am not going to France or anywhere else and leaving you again. Very well, Charles, I will go to Exeter though I think it's unnecessary, and have the child, and then I insist on rejoining you
whatever
the situation—you must promise me that. I am not going to take refuge abroad and leave you to fight on alone. If anything happened to you I would rather die with you than live without you …”

Charles drew her close into his arms; he sensed the hysteria in her voice. It was too shrill and emphatic to be normal. He decided not to argue with her. He had no illusions about the length of the separation which was in front of them, or even that eventually it would take Henrietta across the Channel. He was in desperate straits, short of ammunition and supplies, his funds swallowed by the expenses of his army and his court. And he was facing the fresh Scottish troops, fully armed and equipped, and the well disciplined forces raised and trained by Cromwell, and these numbered many thousands.

As he comforted her, stroking her hair and agreeing that Exeter was the furthest she should go from him, Charles knew that Sir Ralph Hopton could not protect her for ever. His troops would be needed, and there were too few to spare an adequate force for the defence of a sick and pregnant woman who would make a most valuable hostage if she were captured. She was infinitely more precious to him than his eldest son and heir or his other sons and daughters—the most precious human being in the world, without whom he would lose his will to fight and live. Looking at her tenderly, smoothing the dark soft hair away from her face, Charles thought in agony how inexpressibly he loved her. Everything in that face, small and pointed, with the determined little chin and the big luminous eyes, now red and shining with tears, the generous mouth, the delicate bones and fine brow, everything he saw and touched was as familiar to him as his own reflection in a glass. And his knowledge of her, physical and mental and emotional, only increased the enormous satisfaction of his love.

For a moment, tortured beyond bearing by the coming separation, he hid his face in her hair and wept silently.

“No further than Exeter,” she insisted, “promise me …”

“No further than Exeter,” he whispered, his face averted from her. They spent the evening quietly by the fire, his arms round her shoulders and their hands entwined, talking of their daughter Mary, who was quite at home in Holland, though still too young to consummate her marriage, reminding each other of things in the past which were sweet and gay to remember. He talked of the wonderful masques she had given each New Year's Eve, staged in the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall until he decided the smoke of the torches would spoil his splendid Rubens ceiling. And so he had built a pavilion for her instead and hung the walls with cloth of gold and priceless tapestries. They talked of visits to the theatre, of concerts and receptions and picnics at Hampton Court and Oatlands after a morning's hunting. The past came back and sheltered them, and for those few hours they hid behind their memories. When they talked of Rupert, it was of the gangling youth of sixteen who had come for a few weeks' visit and stayed for two years. They even talked of Buckingham, and laughed over their old quarrels.

That night Henrietta stayed in the King's apartments, and for the fourteen days that followed before she left him, neither she nor Charles mentioned Exeter again.

Chapter 12

April the 18th was a beautiful day; the sun, which had hidden behind massed clouds of low driven rain for so many weary months, blazed down upon the little town of Abingdon, a few miles beyond Oxford, and the air was full of the bright scent of an English Spring. On the outskirts of the town, a train of carriages was moving slowly down the road to the Vale of the White Horse, escorted by a company of armed men under the command of Harry Jermyn, the Queen's staunch friend.

Jermyn was taking her first to Bath, where it was hoped that the curative waters would help her health, and then to the stronghold of Exeter, where her child would be born. Charles had said good-bye to her in private, wrapping rugs round her in the heavy coach because she complained of the cold, settling the cushions behind her head, kissing her limp hands and trying to warm them between his own.

She was so ill that he hoped the full significance of their parting had escaped her; she was wracked with pain, her limbs were swollen, and she cried continually. For a moment he held her and said the word which he had dreaded saying for so long, and when he said it, he stammered pitifully.

“Farewell, farewell, my dearest love …”

Her hands clung to him, suddenly strong, and twisted round his neck, and he heard her sobbing and felt her tears wet on his face.

“Farewell …”

Her ladies came crowding round the carriage and Charles stepped back, holding his head down to hide the anguish which reflected the hysterical cries coming from the coach. He spoke to Lady Newport as she climbed into it.

“If you love me, care for the Queen.”

He went back to the small company of Cavaliers who waited a little distance from the procession, and mounted his horse. His two sons, the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, had come with him from Oxford; they had said good-bye to their mother the evening before. Charles had wanted to part with her in a privacy that excluded even their children. As he watched, the carriages and their escorts began to move forward down the westward road, raising a screen of dust. He had seen her for the first time on a Spring morning nineteen years ago, a little, dark, pretty child of fifteen who was already his wife by proxy, and now, with a lifetime of experience and a family of children he had taken leave of her, and he watched the procession growing smaller until all trace of it was lost down the long road and nothing but the settling dust remained.

He turned his horse's head, and without speaking, rode slowly back to threatened Oxford.

On July 2nd, the two largest armies to be seen in England since the days of the Wars of the Roses, faced each other outside the City of York at a place called Marston Moor. Twenty-seven thousand Parliament troops, of which fourteen thousand were Scots Covenanters, confronted the eighteen thousand men who fought for the King that day, and by the end of it, when a full moon rose over the battlefield, four thousand of the King's men had fallen and the rest had fled or been taken prisoner. Oliver Cromwell's cavalry had charged headlong against Rupert, and for the first and last time in the war, Rupert had met his master. Nothing held before that charge; the Royalist horsemen wheeled and galloped back in hopeless confusion, and nothing Rupert could do by personal example rallied them again. By ten o'clock that night, the sound of a great hymn of thanksgiving rose over the silent ground, and from his tent at the rear, Oliver Cromwell stood up and sang in triumph with his men.

He had been shot in the neck, and the dirty bandage round his throat was soaked with blood; he seemed unconscious of pain, his heavy face was streaked with grime and sweat, and there were powder burns above his eyes where the shot which had wounded him had exploded within inches of his face. His Commander, the Earl of Manchester, was with him, so was the Covenant Commander, David Leslie, and they sang with him. God had smitten the unbeliever; Jehovah's wrath had levelled them like chaff, and lo—how were the mighty fallen! Thousands of fanatics sang the victorious psalm of the armies of Israel, and the powerful voice of Cromwell filled the tent. Manchester did not finish the hymn. He was an obstinate and rather stupid man and displaying his emotions embarrassed him. He admired Cromwell, and secretly feared him; but in moments like this, when the great General roared out his vulgar hymns, he felt able to despise him a little. Gentlemen did not behave like that. Gentlemen did not rejoice so crudely over the defeat of a brave enemy, Manchester had seen their bravery close to that day, and whatever he thought of Rupert, the Prince had fought like a madman among his flying cavalry, barely escaping capture.

There was something a little indecent about the ugly, dishevelled man, with his bloody neck and scorched face, exulting over the fallen at the top of his voice. And it was not a musical voice either; Manchester had an appreciative ear, and he winced. He glanced at Leslie who grimaced in sympathy.

“See how our armies rejoice!” Cromwell exclaimed. “Did you ever hear soldiers show such a spirit at the end of such fighting? By God, my Lord, if we gave the word now, they'd march on to Worcester and rout the King himself.”

“Let us hope that won't be necessary,” Manchester said. “After this defeat, with the North of England lost to him, the King will undoubtedly negotiate for peace.”

“Negotiate!” Cromwell's face darkened, and he pulled at the sodden rag round his neck. “Negotiate on what grounds? After a victory like this, are we going to waste time making proposals to a defeated man, instead of pushing forward to annihilate what forces he has left and insisting on complete surrender! Come now, my Lord, you'll discourage Leslie here with such talk as this … Tapworth,” he shouted, “Tapworth, we're thirsty, bring some beer! His personal servant came into the tent with a jug and some mugs and Cromwell took the first one and drank it down. In moments of excitement, he showed very bad manners towards his superiors in rank.

“The King will never surrender unconditionally,” Leslie spoke for the first time. “And we in Scotland would not wish to see him do so. We have always said, sir, that misguided as he is, he's still the King. If he were killed or forced to flee abroad, there could be no government without him, only anarchy. We have joined you to secure a right settlement, but that settlement includes King Charles.”

“Your settlement includes much else that makes a mockery of what my men have done today,” Cromwell said angrily. “We are fighting the King for liberty and freedom of conscience. There are many in this camp tonight who neither want his Church nor the Church as it stands in Scotland … what of them, what place is there for them in your scheme of governing with the King after he's been defeated?”

“No place,” Manchester said curtly. “Whatever we make of this kingdom, there is no place for these sectaries and independants of yours, General, preaching every man's right to worship as he pleases. That is anarchy, and it's as unthinkable as the King's Roman leanings at their worst.”

“I heartily agree with Manchester,” Leslie said. “We came into this war to force the King to govern justly, and establish the true form of worship, under Parliament's control. You speak as if you hoped to destroy the King completely. That is not our wish.”

“It is not the wish of the English people either,” Manchester added. “You talk of the King's surrender as if he were an ordinary foe in battle. Let me tell you this, sir, if we beat the King ninety and nine times, he is still the King and so will his posterity be after him. If he beats us, we will all be hanged and our posterity will be slaves. That is the difference!”

For a moment Cromwell did not answer either of them. He poured out another mug of beer, and for the first time that day, his hand shook. When he did speak, his voice was very quiet.

“If this is so, my Lord, why did we ever take up arms? This is against fighting ever hereafter. If the King remains the King, in victory or defeat, what have we gained from fighting him?”

“A right settlement,” Leslie answered.

“A monarchy under the guidance of Parliament,” Manchester insisted. “And after today, we may see it before the year is out.”

“We may,” Cromwell said; his back was turned to them, and he began unwinding the bandage from his neck. “We may, but I doubt it. If you'll excuse me now, I'll have this dressing changed.”

They left him, and for a moment he stood with the bloody bandage in his hands. The tray with the jug of beer and the empty cups was on a stool in front of him, and suddenly he kicked it over.

A Monarchy: the King they had fought so bitterly for two years, would remain King at the end of it, even though he had been beaten to his knees. A King under the control of Parliament. And Cromwell lifted his head and laughed aloud. Parliament; he had sat in Parliament and listened to the clever talkers, and been duped into thinking that here was the means of saving England. But now, after two years' service in the army, after living and fighting with men who were ready to die for what they believed, Cromwell saw Parliament at its real value. Without realizing the transition, he had begun to think as a soldier and to adopt the contempt of the soldier for the civilian who talks while he fights.

If Parliament faltered and muddled and tried negotiating with the King, the tremendous victory he had won at Marston Moor would be cast away, like Rupert's triumph at Newark and the feats of his own cavalry in every past engagement. Neither side had won because they lost their opportunities. The King lost because he was poorer and facing armies twice his strength, because he had no Navy, and no central organization to weld his scattered forces into a fighting whole. And his army, the magnificent, fanatical machine he had made out of the few regiments given to him after Edgehill, would have won the battles only to have men like Manchester and that pompous Scot lose the peace.

He called out for his servant, and sat down to wait for the army surgeon to come and wash and dress his neck. Parliament must give up its control of his army. He used the word ‘his' in his mind, and he meant it. The first thing to do was to oust Manchester and all the members of the Lords from any military command. The army could dispense with the noble Lords who treated the war as if it were some kind of gentlemanly game and came to the battlefield with their carriages and servants and installed themselves in the houses of the local gentry. But it could not dispense with him. And, in the end, the Generals and the army who had won the victory would be the force which dictated the peace.