from Canterbury on May 26 to his 'deare, deare sister,' and amidst all
the 'vast amount of business' attending the Restoration he found time to
remember her love of riding, and to send her a saddle of green velvet,
with trimmings of gold and silver lace. Even queen Henrietta forgot his
illness and her troubles for a moment. She was no longer La Reine
Malheureuse, but the mother of a reigning king, and when Monsieur came
galloping up to Colombes immediately after the royal couple had returned
to Fontainebleau, Henrietta received him with open arms as her future
son. Queen Anne was no less delighted than her sister-in-law, and
herself came to Colombes in state to carry both mother and daughter to
Fontainebleau in one of those old painted and gilded glass coaches that
contained nine or ten people. Here they paid their respects to the
bridal pair, who received them with great kindness. The young queen was
a good-natured girl, with pretty fair hair and pink and white face, but
stupid and ignorant, and never likely to be a rival to Henriette. Still
they soon made friends, and then the princess drove home with her
mother, both of them much pleased with their visit. After a ball given
by Monsieur at his palace of St. Cloud, and other fêtes at which
Henriette was almost as much stared at as Marie Thérèse, came the state
entry of the king and queen into Paris, and the queen-mother (as Anne of
Austria was now called) invited Henrietta Maria and her daughter to her
balcony near a wonderful triumphal arch in the Rue Saint Antoine. It was
August 26 and a beautiful day, and the narrow streets, as well as the
windows and even roofs of the houses, were thronged to overflowing. The
young queen sat alone in her glass coach, wearing a black dress heavily
embroidered in gold and silver and covered with precious stones, which
suited her fair complexion and pale golden hair. The king, also in gold
and silver and mounted on a magnificent black horse, rode on the right
of the coach, followed by his cousins, the Princess of the Blood, and
the highest nobles in France, while on the left was Monsieur, gay and
gallant on a white charger, diamonds blazing on his coat and on his
plumed hat.
Monsieur and the queen-mother wished that his marriage should take place
at once, but Henrietta Maria would not hear of this, and insisted that
it should be put off till she and her daughter had paid a visit to
England, where, after sixteen years of exile, the family were at last to
meet. But no sooner had they started than the news arrived that the
young duke of Gloucester had died of smallpox after a few days' illness,
and all their joy was damped. Henriette, indeed, amidst all the
excitements around her, was more quickly consoled than either her mother
or the princess royal, and the feelings of the queen were tinged with
remorse, as she remembered her last parting with the boy. The short
period of mourning over, the court festivities began, and Charles was
besieged by envoys asking for the hand of his sister, for her engagement
to Monsieur had not yet been publicly announced. Among the petitioners
was the emperor Leopold I., whom Mademoiselle intended for herself, and
great was her wrath when the fact came to her ears. Charles, however,
was quite satisfied with the marriage that had been arranged, and
contented himself with prevailing on Parliament to settle a handsome sum
on Henriette; which it was quite willing to do, as she had managed to
charm both the Lords and the Commons, as well as everybody else. Great
preparations were made for keeping Christmas in the good old fashion,
which had been set aside for so many years. Everything was to be done
according to the old rules, and a branch of the flowering thorn at
Glastonbury was brought up by relays of horsemen for presentation to the
king on Christmas Eve. But once again death stepped in, and turned their
joy into grief, for the princess royal fell ill of small-pox, and died
in a few days, at the age of twenty-nine. The queen, in an agony of
terror for her one remaining daughter, removed Henriette from Whitehall
to St. James's, where she received a letter from Monsieur, imploring
them to set out at once for France. This they did, but Henriette was
seized on board ship with an attack of measles, and the vessel was
forced to put back into Portsmouth. Much anxiety was felt throughout
both kingdoms as to the recovery of the princess, but at the end of a
fortnight the doctors declared her well enough to travel. The risk was
great, for it was January, and the slightest cold might have gone to her
lungs; however, mercifully she took no harm, and her mother gave a sigh
of relief when they landed on French soil at Havre. Once in France it
seemed as if no one could show them enough kindness. The king and queen,
accompanied by Monsieur, came out from Paris to greet them, and on their
entry next day the air was filled with the shouts of welcome given by
the people. Everybody wished that the marriage should take place at
once, but as Lent was close at hand the Pope's consent had to be
obtained. This was always a long affair, and in the meantime cardinal
Mazarin died, and, by order of the king, court mourning was worn for a
fortnight, so that it was March 30 before the ceremony of betrothal was
performed in the Palais Royal, by the grand almoner, monseigneur Daniel
de Cosnac, bishop of Valence. Though the guests were few, consisting
only of the nearest relations of the king of France, with the English
ambassadors, they were beautifully dressed, and wore all their jewels.
Next morning, at twelve o'clock the bishop read the marriage service in
the queen of England's private chapel, in the presence of Louis XIV.,
Anne of Austria, and Henrietta Maria.
---------------------
Perhaps it may seem that childhood ends with marriage, and that on her
wedding-day we should say good-bye to Madame, as Henriette was now
called. But, after all, she was not yet seventeen, and had a great deal
of the child about her, and it may be interesting to hear how she spent
the earliest months of her married life. Just at first she was as happy
as even her mother could have wished. She and Monsieur lived at the
Tuileries, and as Marie Thérèse was ill her part in the Easter
ceremonies fell to Madame. It was she who washed the feet of the poor on
Maundy Thursday, a duty always performed by the queen, and she did it
with all the grace and kindliness natural to her. When Easter was over
balls and masques began. Poets made songs for her, everybody praised
her, and when the king and queen left for Fontainebleau, Monsieur and
Madame remained behind at the Tuileries for some weeks longer. Yet, much
as she loved amusement and flattery, Madame was far too clever to be
content with the diversions which satisfied most of the people about
her. The friends whom she gathered round her in the gardens of the
Tuileries or in the shady avenues of the Cours de la Reine were women
who were remarkable for their talents or their learning, and among them
was Madame's lifelong companion, madame de la Fayette, the friend of
madame de Sévigné, and the duke de la Rochefoucauld, who understood
Greek and Latin, and wrote novels which are still read. There was also
mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, afterwards famous as madame de
Montespan, who kept them all laughing with her merry jests; and for a
listener there was madame's favourite maid-of-honour, the lovely, gentle
Louise de la Vallière, always a little apart from the rest. As the
spring evenings drew in they would all go and sup with Monsieur, and
afterwards there would be music, or cards, or _bouts rimes_, which is
sometimes played now, or better, much better than all, they would pay a
visit to the Théâtre du Palais Royal and see Molière and his company act
_Les Precieuses-Ridicules_ and _Les Femmes Savantes_. Then the courtiers
found out that Molière was like nobody in the world, and would pay any
sum that was asked to sit in one of the chairs, which, after the strange
fashion of the time, were placed upon the stage itself. We are not told
how Monsieur enjoyed this kind of life. His good looks were perhaps the
best part of him; he had been taught nothing from books, and was not,
like his brother, quick enough to pick things up from other people. He
was very jealous too, and could not bear his wife to speak to any other
man, so most probably he was delighted to leave Paris in the end of May
for his palace of St. Cloud, with its yew hedges clipped in all sorts of
odd shapes, its grassy terraces, clear brooks, and its wide view over
the Seine valley. But soon there came a letter from the king, and then
the great coach and its eight horses drove up to the door, and Monsieur
and Madame were on the road to Fontainebleau.
Well whatever Monsieur might do, there was no doubt which Madame loved
best! What a fascination there was in the beautiful old palace, with its
histories, some gay, some grim; and Henriette remembered as she walked
down the gallery that it was only four years since the queen of Sweden's
secretary had been done to death—righteously, as some said, in that
very place. Still, one need not be always going down that gallery, and
how graceful was the carving of the great front, and how attractive were
the old trees of the forest, with tales of the Gros Veneur and his
yapping dogs, which at nightfall haunted its glades. However, these
things were forgotten in the morning when the sun shone bright and the
coaches were ready to carry Madame and her ladies down to the river,
where they played like children in the water, riding home on horseback
as the sun grew lower, only to go out upon the lake after supper and
listen to the music that came softly to them from a distant boat. It was
a summer always to be remembered in Madame's life—indeed, it was the
only one worth remembering. She had many troubles, partly, no doubt, of
her own making. Her quarrels with her husband became more and more
frequent, and the queen-mother, Anne of Austria, who had always loved
her, was deeply grieved at her passion for pleasure and her refusal to
take heed to the counsels given her. Perhaps they were all rather hard
upon her, for she was still very young, only twenty-six, when one hot
day at the end of June, she caught a sudden chill and in a few hours she
lay dead. Unlike her brother Charles II. she was not 'an unconscionable
time dying.'
_THE RED ROSE_
'FROM the time I was five years old I was either a fugitive or held a
captive in prison.'
Most likely we should guess for a long while before we hit upon the
person who said those words. Was it Richard, duke of Normandy, we might
ask, carried out of Laon in a bundle of hay? Was it prince Arthur,
escaping from the clutches of his uncle John? Was it Charles I.'s little
daughter Henriette, who owed her life, as a baby, to the courage of one
of her mother's ladies? No; it was none of these children whose
adventures have thrilled us with sorrow and excitement; it was a man who
has seemed to us all about as dull as a king could be. It was Henry VII.
His birthday was on June 26, 1456, exactly 453 years ago, and as soon as
he was old enough to be christened he was named Henry, after the king,
his uncle. The Wars of the Roses were raging fiercely over England, but
it was easy to forget them in any place so far out of the world as
Pembroke castle, and the baby Henry must have felt like a doll to his
mother, Margaret Beaufort, countess of Richmond, who was only thirteen
years older than himself. However, in a little while, the doll ceased to
be merely a plaything, and became a person of real importance, for the
death of his father, when he was five months old, made him the head of
the great Lancastrian house of Somerset. Perhaps, before we go any
further in the story of Henry's childhood, it might be as well to say
that at that time England was split up into two parties, each of which
claimed the throne. Both were descended from Edward III., and in these
days probably no one would hesitate as to which of the two had the
better right. But then men's minds were divided, and some supported
Richard, duke of York, father of the future Edward IV., and others,
Henry VI., the reigning king. The old story tells how a band of young
men were one morning disputing in the Temple gardens, on the banks of
the Thames, as to which side could best claim their allegiance. Words
ran high, and threatened to turn to blows, when a young knight
passionately plucked a white rose from a bush and stuck it in his hat,
commanding all who swore fealty to the duke of York to do likewise,
while the youth who had heretofore been his friend and comrade sprang
forward and tore a red rose from its stalk and, waving it above his
head, called on those who did homage to Henry of Lancaster to take as
their badge the red rose. And thus the strife which laid waste England
for so many years became known as the Wars of the Roses.
[Illustration: THE =RED ROSE= FOR LANCASTER THE =WHITE ROSE= FOR YORK]
Now the countess of Richmond knew very well that, in spite of the danger
of bringing the boy forward, and, indeed, in spite of the perils which
beset travellers when bands of armed and lawless men were roaming over
the country, it would be very unwise to keep him hidden in Wales till
his existence was forgotten by everyone. So, when he was about three
years old, and strong enough to bear the bad food and the jolting over
rough roads and rougher hills, she set out with a few ladies, and a
troop of trusty guards, to the place where Henry VI. was holding his
court. The king was pleased to welcome his sister-in-law and his nephew.
Friendly faces were not always plentiful, and the fierce energy of his
wife, queen Margaret, had often hindered rather than helped his cause.
With the countess of Richmond he had many tastes in common; both loved
books, and would spend many hours poring over the pictured scrolls of
the monks, and although she had been married so young, and was even now
but seventeen, Margaret had the name of being the most learned as well
as the best lady in the whole of England. So the travellers were given
hearty welcome, and wine and a great pasty were set before the little
boy and his mother, instead of the milk, and bread and jam that he would
have had in these days. That night he was so sleepy that he quite forgot
he was hungry, and he was soon carried off by his nurses to be laid in a
carved wooden cradle by the side of the wide hearth; but the next
morning he was dressed in a crimson velvet robe, his hair combed till it
shone like silk, and with his little cap in his hand he was led by his
mother into the presence of the king. Henry sank on his knees on
entering the room, as he had been bidden, but the king smiled and held
out his hand, and the child got up at once and trotted across the floor,
and leaned against his uncle's knee.
'A pretty boy, a pretty boy,' said the king, softly stroking his hair;
'may his life be a wise and good one, and happy withal!' And then he
added, with a sigh, 'In peace will he wear the garland for which we so
sinfully contend.'
Margaret Beaufort started in surprise as she heard the words. Edward,
prince of Wales, was only three years older than the little earl of
Richmond, and surely the 'garland' could belong to him and to no other?
But before she had time to speak, even if she had the courage to do so,
an audience was solicited by one of the king's officers, and, bowing
low, she led away her son. This moment of pleasure soon came to an end.
Attempts were made by the Yorkists to get the young earl into their
power, and with many tears his mother was forced to part from him, and
to send him back to the castle of Pembroke, under the care of his uncle,
Jasper Tudor, who shortly after was summoned to his post in the royal
army, and fled to hide himself after the disastrous defeat of Mortimer's
Cross. Instantly a body of troops, under command of the Yorkist, William
Herbert, marched to Pembroke, and after much hard fighting took the
castle by assault. When Herbert entered to take possession he found the
little boy, not yet five, in a room of the keep guarded by his
attendant, Philip ap Hoel, who stood before him with his sword drawn.
'Fear naught,' said Herbert, 'I am no slayer of children! the boy is
safe with me.'
Henry did not understand the words, for during these long months he had
spoken nothing save Welsh to the men who attended on him; but he could
even then read faces, and he came boldly out from behind his defender.
'I will take you to my lady,' said Herbert; 'she is well-skilled in
babes.' And swinging the child on his shoulder, he carried him to the
tent where his wife awaited the news of the combat. 'A new nursling for
thee,' he said, with a smile, setting the boy on her knee; and Henry
stayed there, well content to have a mother again.
---------------------
For nine years Henry, though still a prisoner, if he had had time to
remember it, was as happy as a child could be. He had many of his own
playfellows amongst lady Herbert's children, and on fine days they might
all have been seen on the green of Pembroke castle throwing small
quoits, or _martiaux_, as they were then called, or trying who could win
at closheys, or ivory ninepins. If it was wet, as very often happened,
then any courtier or man-at-arms whose business took him up the narrow
winding staircase ascended at his peril, for out of some dark corner
there was certain to spring upon him one of the boys and girls moving
stealthily about in a game of hide and seek. When they were quite tired
with running about, they would seek lady Herbert's own room, and beg her
to help them at some new game with picture cards, or to show them how to
move one spillikin without shaking the rest. Those were pleasant times,
and Henry never forgot them; nor did he forget the best loved of all the
children there, lady Maud, who afterwards became the wife of the earl of
Northumberland, and lady Katherine, to whom, many years later, he
proposed marriage himself.
[Illustration: Herbert brings little Henry to his wife's tent]
But when the earl of Richmond had reached the age of fourteen this happy
state of things came to an end. One day the children, rushing hastily
into lady Herbert's bower, found her in tears, with a letter, tied by a
piece of silken cord, lying beside her. They all crowded round her,
stroking her hands, patting her cheeks, asking twenty questions, and all
talking at once, till at length she found voice to tell them that their
father, now earl of Pembroke, had been taken prisoner with his brother,
after the battle of Banbury, and had been treacherously beheaded. 'You
are all I have left,' she cried; and the boys and girls looked at each
other, grief-stricken, but not knowing how to speak words of comfort.
During a short time Henry remained at Pembroke with the Herberts, but
soon after the king obtained an important victory, and Jasper Tudor,
uncle of the boy, returned to Pembroke. Then lady Herbert refused to
stay longer within the walls of the castle, and departed with her
children to rejoin her own friends. Blinded with tears, which he was too
proud to show, Henry watched their departure from the battlements of the
castle, and when they were out of sight turned sadly to take counsel
with his uncle Jasper as to what had best be done to repair the
defences, and how to put the castle in a condition to bear a state of
siege.
'We cannot tell who may gain the upper hand from one moment to another,'
said Jasper; and Henry, nephew though he was to the king, hardly knew on
which side his sympathies lay. The siege, which had been foreseen by
Jasper Tudor, began; but, thanks to the preparations that had been made,
every assault was repelled successfully. At last, one night information
was brought secretly to Jasper that a plot had been contrived by one
Roger Vaughan to seize or to kill both uncle and nephew. Luckily it was
not too late to act. With the help of some of his own soldiers Jasper
contrived to capture Roger Vaughan, instantly beheaded him, and then, by
help of the besieging general, who refused to see or hear what was going
on, he and his nephew stole out at midnight through a postern door and
hastened to Tenby. From this place they found a ship which undertook to
convey them and their few followers to France, where they were kindly
received by Francis II., duke of Brittany.
---------------------
Just at first Edward, duke of York, now known as Edward IV., was too
busy with affairs at home to interfere much with them. But when he
considered that his throne was secure, he sent messengers to Brittany
laden with promises of rewards of all sorts, provided that Henry and his
uncle were delivered up to him. However, by this the duke perceived,
what he had hardly realised before, that his captives were too valuable
to be lightly parted with, and declined to accept Edward's proposals,
though he promised that, instead of the freedom they had hitherto
enjoyed, his prisoners should now be confined apart, and a strict watch
set on them. With this answer Edward at first seemed satisfied. The
claws of the young lion were for the moment cut, and the king had more
pressing business to attend to. So five years slipped by, and Henry
spent many of the hours that hung heavily on his hands in studying
Latin, and most likely in reading some of the old romances of Arthur and
his knights, which have their root in Brittany. English he never heard
spoken, and not often real French; but he loved the Breton tongue, which
bore so strong a resemblance to his native Welsh, and could talk it
easily to the end of his life.
In this way Henry reached his twentieth year before any further attempt
was made by Edward to get him into his power. Then the bishop of Bath,
Stillington, who shrunk from no employment where money was to be made,
arrived at St. Malo, and sent a message to the duke, saying that the
king desired all strife between the Houses of York and Lancaster to
cease, and to this end he was prepared to give his daughter Elizabeth in
marriage to the young earl of Richmond, and to restore to Jasper Tudor
the earldom of Pembroke. Fair words; but the ambassadors had secret
orders to buy the consent of Francis II. at his own price, the money
only to be paid on the delivery of the captives. The duke agreed to
everything; he had, so he told the envoys, 'no scruple or doubt in the
matter'; but, all the same, after the gold was safe in his hands he
contrived to convey a warning to Henry not to trust himself on board the
ship. Unluckily for the Yorkists, the wind blew from a contrary quarter,
and delayed their departure, and a severe attack of low fever and ague
confined Henry to his bed. His uncle, however, guessed the danger he
ran, as indeed did Henry himself, though he felt almost too ill to care
what happened to him. Things were in this state when, by some means or
other, the story of the bargain made by the duke reached the ears of
Jean Chevlet, a great Breton noble. Knowing that any moment a change of
wind might cost the lives of Henry and his uncle, he bade his swiftest
horses to be saddled, and rode at full speed to the court. Without
stopping to ask for an audience he strode into the presence of Francis,
and pausing before him looked silently and steadily into his eyes. The
duke reddened, and moved uneasily in his great carved chair, and at last
inquired if anything had happened that the lord Chevlet should come to
him in this wise.
'If anything has happened yet, I know not,' answered Chevlet sternly;
'but happen it will, and that speedily, unless it is hindered by those
with more truth and honour in their souls than the lord duke. Rather
would I have died in battle than see my sovereign a traitor.'
Again there was silence. Francis would gladly have sprung to his feet
and struck him dead for his insolence, but something held him back;
Chevlet's words were true, and his conscience bore witness to it. At
length he plucked up a little courage, and stammered out that all would
be well, as Henry was to wed the king's daughter and heiress of England.
'Else would I not have parted from him,' added he. But Chevlet did not
deign to even notice his excuses.
'Let him leave Brittany by a foot, and no mortal creature can save him
from death,' was all he said. 'You have thrown him into the jaws of the
lion, and you must deliver him from them.'
'But how?' asked the duke, who, now that his treachery was so plainly
set before him, felt both shame and repentance. 'Counsel me what to do,
and I will do it.'
Then Chevlet's voice softened a little, though the light of contempt
still remained in his eyes, and he bade the duke send Pierre Landois,
his treasurer, in all haste to St. Malo, to bring back the Englishmen at
all hazards: by fair means if he could, by force if need be. Right
gladly did Landois undertake the task.