Charles the King (5 page)

“Can I assist you …”

Henrietta stepped back quickly. “No!” she said. “No; I want my ladies.”

“But I have locked them out,” Charles said; he was so nervous that he sounded very irritable. “You said you didn't wish to be undressed in public and you can't have your ladies unless I have my gentlemen!”

“Then I will manage by myself,” she said. She began pulling the gold strings and as she saw his eyes upon her, she blushed and turned her back on him. Charles also turned away and took off his own dressing robe, not without some difficulty and let it fall on the floor. When he looked up Henrietta was already sitting in the middle of the bed, the covers modestly held up to her chin, looking at him with such an expression of timorous curiosity that he forgot his own nervousness and came towards her with his arms outstretched. In his eagerness he forgot to snuff the candles; when he touched her she stiffened, but the feel of her small shoulders, covered in the heavy silk gown suddenly aroused him, and in the intensity of his excitement, he pushed her back upon the pillows and pressed his mouth over her closed lips. They did not open to him until he began caressing her, and then it was to cry out in protest. It was a frightened, querulous cry, smothered by clumsy, eager kisses, and as he exposed her body, she began to tremble and tears ran down her cheeks. In trying to rouse her, he outraged her modesty, and for a few moments she fought him as if he were committing rape. He had no knowledge of women and he made love to her by instinct, blindly and hurriedly, and horrified her by consummating the marriage in the lighted room. When he kissed her again it was a gentle kiss, full of gratitude and tenderness and raising himself upon his arm he looked down at her with wonder. Her eyes were closed, and her beautiful hair fell in disorder over the pillows; she had the body of a child, with little breasts and narrow thighs, and suddenly Charles covered her, and gathering her into his arms, with his head upon her shoulder, whispered his passionate love and thanks for the joy she had given him. He fell asleep without realizing that it was a joy she had not shared or understood. In his own inexperience, he had neglected to awake her passions, reaching a furious finale which left her cold and shaken and feeling as if she had been outraged. When she could move without waking him, Henrietta inched away to the far side of the bed and wept bitterly into her pillows. The candles burnt themselves out and she lay for a long time, crying with disappointment and disgust. Madame de St. George was right; she would never love or trust a man who could have subjected her to such indignities. She fell asleep determined to avoid a repetition of them for as long as possible.

“The French Ambassador is here to see you, Sire.” Charles turned to Lord Holland with a frown. He was always frowning in the last few weeks; he was silent and distracted and the high spirits he displayed after his wedding night had never reappeared. His gloom matched the obstinate depression of his Queen, who wandered forlornly through the rooms at Whitehall Palace, surrounded by her French ladies and gentlemen who behaved more and more like bodyguards determined to shield her from the attentions of the King.

The marriage was not a success. Everyone knew that Charles was unhappy with his wife and that his wife avoided him. When they were together they quarrelled or sat in awkward silence, and it was rumoured that at night Henrietta refused him conjugal rights. She was thin and pale and openly hostile to anything or any person belonging to her husband's country and religion. Religion had become the means whereby they expressed their disappointment and antagonism towards each other. The Queen caused as much scandal as she could by attending Mass openly in the private Chapel provided for her at St. James's House and encouraging Charles's Catholic subjects to do the same. She had been allowed to practise her faith on condition that she did so unobtrusively and without subverting English Protestants, but encouraged by her priests and her women, she staged a public display of Catholicism whenever an opportunity arose. The faith and its adherents had been proscribed in England under pain of death since the reign of Elizabeth Tudor. English public opinion in all classes was united in horror and suspicion of Rome and its practices. Her position had been delicate from the first and her own attitude was making it impossible. Charles told Lord Holland to admit the French Ambassador and resigned himself angrily to yet another discourse on the rights and privileges of his wife and the honouring of the marriage Treaty. He was beginning to hate France because French political interests were yet another factor in the unhappy circumstances of his personal life. The Duc de Thouairs cared nothing for the feelings of the Queen he was supposed to champion; Charles argued bitterly that if the Ambassador were genuine he would have tried to reconcile his mistress with her husband instead of constituting himself her advocate in all her grievances.

“Sire,” the ambassador came forward and bowed low. He was a dark distinguished-looking man with a very courteous manner which remained unruffled and enabled him to come again and again before the King and deliver his monotonous complaints. Charles stared at him, his blue eyes cold with dislike.

“If you have requested this audience to discuss my wife's imaginary grievances, then I must tell you, Monsieur de Thouairs, that you are wasting your time. And what is more important, wasting mine!”

“God forbid,” the Duc said, “that I should inconvenience your Majesty. Your Majesty knows that you have no greater friend than my humble self and my only wish is to see the differences dividing you and the Queen settled peaceably and with honour. This could so easily be done if you would only permit her to visit her Chapel in the proper manner instead of insisting that she goes there in secret like a criminal.”

“In my country, sir, the Queen's co-religionists
are
criminals!” Charles snapped at him. “Her religion is treason against the law and I need hardly remind you that every time the Queen encourages my subjects to join her at Mass and makes a public procession out of a private devotion, she is placing these same subjects under the penalty of the law! I cannot help feeling,” he continued icily, “that if she were better advised by you, sir, and by those surrounding her, she would remember that wifely obedience is a Christian virtue common to Catholics as well as Protestants.”

“The Queen owes allegiance to her Church as well as to you, Sire,” the Duc pointed out. “And she feels that you are not fulfilling the promises made in the marriage treaty. That treaty is also the concern of His Majesty the King of France. In it you undertook to ease the lot of your Catholic subjects, and I have had to inform His Majesty that the Penal Laws are still being enforced. He is disturbed, Sire, and disappointed.”

“Repeal of these laws is impossible,” Charles said stiffly. “If I wished to do away with them, and I assure you I have no desire to persecute any man for his belief, I could not do so. My Parliament would not accept the proposal and the only result would be a stricter enforcement which might seriously endanger the safety of the Queen if she persisted in her present attitude. It is impossible, you understand.”

The Duc shrugged slightly.

“It is difficult for His Majesty of France to appreciate that a subsidiary legislative body has the power to deflect a sovereign from his will; we have no such problems in France.”

“You are fortunate,” Charles said shortly. “In that case may I enquire why my brother of France has failed to carry out his part of the agreement and show some toleration to the Huguenots?”

“He sees no reason to do so, while Catholics in England are still persecuted,” de Thouairs answered. He judged by the furious expression on the face of the King of England that he had better revert to the original subject. Where the honour and laws of his own country were concerned, Charles was implacable; obstinate, imperious, sometimes threatening, but he had a fatal weakness where his relations with his wife were in question. He had blazed with anger on that subject before now, but it was more malleable than his hostility as a sovereign; it could be deflected and turned against himself until another concession had been wrung from him for the Queen. Privately de Thouairs thought him a perfect fool where Henrietta was concerned, and he thought that her conduct was inexcusably irritating and unreasonable. But his duty was to use the situation for his country's advantage, and he encouraged her and reproached Charles without a qualm of conscience.

“The Queen tells me,” he said quietly, “that she is in great disfavour with you because of a walk she took in Hyde Park two days ago. She tells me you received a report of that walk which was quite untrue and that you reprimanded her in a most violent manner. She is quite overcome with grief.”

“I doubt that,” Charles retorted bitterly. “The Queen may sulk but she is never overcome. As for the walk, as you describe it, it was a procession, headed by her and her attendants and priests to the gallows at Tyburn where some Catholic malefactors were hanging, and it was reported to me, by persons I believe implicitly, that my wife went down on her knees and prayed for them publicly. I did indeed reprimand her; I also told her that she might well be torn to pieces by the London crowds if she ever makes such a demonstration again. If that happens, sir, I hope you and her priests will be truly satisfied.”

“The Queen assured me that she did not approach the gallows.”

“She assured me also, and I do not believe her. I do not believe,” Charles' voice rose suddenly, his temper rising after months of humiliation, nightly rebuffs and unremitting strain, “I do not believe that she cares a tinker's damn for her religion or for anything but causing me pain and embarrassment. If that is her intention, you can tell her from me that she has succeeded past success!”

“I would rather tell her that she is forgiven,” the ambassador countered. “Please, Sire, have pity. Go to her this evening and be reconciled. She is so young,” he added, “and so eager to learn.”

“Oh, my God! Eager to learn? Learn what, may I ask? Certainly not the English language for one thing—she refuses to speak a word—certainly not my wishes, everything I say is disregarded.”

“If I may interrupt this conversation,” the voice of Buckingham broke in upon them and the Ambassador swung round. The Duke had come into the room from a small antechamber. He had been standing in the shadows listening for some moments. He bowed towards Charles who looked relieved, even pleased to see him, and continued; “If I may interrupt on behalf of His Majesty, who clearly needs a champion since the Queen is so ably and, er—constantly represented by you, Monsieur, might I suggest that since the Queen is at fault, she should come to the King and ask his pardon? I have no doubt she'd be given it?”

He turned towards Charles, and Charles nodded. He was not in the least angry with Buckingham for interfering or for standing unannounced in his presence. Steenie was his friend, as he had been his father's; Steenie could sit in his presence and wear his hat and interrupt a private conversation and he felt nothing but gratitude and admiration for the way he had put his point of view. Buckingham always brought his quarrels with Henrietta into proportion. Buckingham had pointed out to him the enormity of what she had done by her pilgrimage to Tyburn and inflamed his anger against her until he was ready to give her a suitable rebuke. And Buckingham agreed with him that when she denied it she was lying.

“If the Queen comes to me, I shall receive her,” he said. “You may tell her so. Now be good enough to take leave of us, sir.”

When they were alone he turned to the Duke. His handsome face was weary and drawn and Buckingham put his arm round his shoulders.

“Don't go to her,” he advised. “Let her come to you, Sire. And when she does, insist that she stays for the night this time.”

He knew that Charles's pride had been flayed raw by the aversion she had shown for him; he guessed that most of his antagonism and even his hatred of her attendants was due to the conflict of suppressed desire and injured feelings.

“You know I can't insist on that,” Charles said wretchedly. “I cannot force myself upon a woman.”

“Better to use force than be made a laughing-stock and have those sniggering Frenchwomen writing back to Paris and saying that you are not man enough to make your wife submit to you. I tell you, Sire,” he said quickly, “you are too gentle with her. Take the advice of one who knows more women than is good for his soul, and do two things. Get rid of these women of hers, and tell her that if she deserts your bed and refuses you an heir, you will divorce her.”

“She knows I cannot divorce her,” Charles said. “It would mean a war with France as things are at the moment. And we have troubles enough if we're going to fight Spain.”

“If not divorce,” Buckingham answered slowly,” then prison. Queens have been disciplined before without making a public show of it and sending them home. Try it, Sire.”

Charles shook his head. His anger had gone; he felt oppressed with a sense of agonizing personal failure and despair. There were times when he closed his ears to Buckingham and admitted that the fault must also be on his side, the failure his responsibility. He had known nothing of women; he had spent his life in retirement avoiding his father's worldly, dissolute Court in the hope that he could escape the mistakes without learning by experience. He had not learned and he had ruined his marriage after only a few months and half a dozen nights, each one more fruitless and unhappy than the last until his wife held the sheets to her chin and burst into tears if he came into her room. He came no more, but his longing gnawed at him like a worm of wounded pride and suffocated passion. He sometimes sat with her and looked at her slight, pretty face and body and felt afraid that the day would come when he would throw himself upon his knees and beg. And if he ever did and she refused him, he would probably kill her …