I. "The King has come in to his own again"
II. Newbolt Manor
III. Somerset House
IV. New Friends
V. May-Day
VI. A First Parting
VII. A King's Vengeance
VIII. Arrested
IX. Old Newgate
X. A Legend
XI. A Brave Woman
XII. A Faithful Friend
XIII. The Hamlet of St. Mary's
XIV. The Mystery cleared up
XV. At Court
XVI. Under the Shadow of Newgate
XVII. The Great Plague
XVIII. Lost
XIX. On the Track
XX. A Great Sea-Fight
XXI. London on Fire
XXII. Found
XXIII. Home at Last
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
"They took refuge with Nurse Patience" (missing from book) _Frontis._
"The commander of the company handed him a sheet of parchment"
"He drew out the packets"
"I will give you your answer to-night," she said
*CHAPTER I*
*"The king has come in to his own again"*
In a large, sombre apartment, in the palace of the Louvre, there was
unusual commotion. The Queen Dowager, Henrietta Maria, was seated in a
crimson gilt fauteuil, wearing her widow's black robes, for she had
never cast off the mourning she had donned for her murdered husband,
Charles I; and indeed she had unwillingly suffered any of her attendants
to array themselves in brighter colours.
"Until he is avenged," she would say; "until his murderers have suffered
what he suffered, if that be possible!"
Behind her, leaning on the back of her chair, was her young daughter, a
girl of sixteen--that child who had never seen her father's face, who
had been brought over to France by stealth in swaddling clothes, who had
suffered all the miseries of exile, and shared all the poverty which her
mother's position had forced upon them.
Everybody knows the story of how the queen kept this child in bed in
winter, because they could afford no fire in their room. Possibly she
did this to shame the king, Louis XIV, who denied the necessaries of
existence to the daughter of Henry IV.
The princess was at the present time just passing from girlhood into
womanhood. She gave promise of great beauty, which was to be fully
realized. There was a triumphant look on her face; indeed, on the faces
of all those present, for kneeling at the queen's feet was a messenger
who had just arrived from Holland bearing the news that a deputation
from England had waited on her son, Charles II, and had invited him back
to England, entreating him to suffer himself to be placed upon that
throne which had cost his father his life.
After the envoy had delivered his message, a great silence fell upon all
present. The queen, for a few seconds, seemed incapable of realizing
the truth. It is at this moment we introduce our readers to her court.
Suddenly a little voice broke the silence, and a childish figure, a girl
of ten or eleven years old, sprang forward, and holding out with both
her little hands a somewhat shabby white satin gown, she pirouetted into
the centre of the room, and, dancing on the tips of her toes, sang
gaily: "The king has come in to his own again; the king has come in to
his own!"
The ice was broken: a general movement took place. A young woman in a
tight-fitting black gown and a white cap sprang after the child and
passionately shook her.
"How dare you; how dare you!" she exclaimed; but the child twisted
herself free of her, and ran lightly to the Princess Henrietta, hiding
herself in the folds of her gown.
"Let her alone," said the queen, "she has spoken for us all." And a
smile such as had not been seen on that royal face for many a day crept
over the widowed queen's countenance. Regaining her self-command, she
said to the messenger still kneeling before her:
"I thank you for the haste you have made in coming to us, and I bid you
return with equal haste to my dear son, and tell his majesty that all
loyal hearts rejoice with him, and that we await but his command to join
him in England. Until then we will abide here as patient and loyal
subjects."
The messenger arose, and bowed low, saying;
"I have no doubt that the king will desire your majesty's presence as
soon as he has taken possession of his kingdom." And with that he bowed
himself backwards out of the room.
With the disappearance of the messenger etiquette slackened; there was
much talking and not a little laughter. Suddenly the door leading into
the anteroom was thrown open, and all the elite of the court of France,
all those faithful followers of the Stuart cause who had escaped out of
Cromwell's hands and taken up their abode at the French court, young and
old, gay sparks of the aristocracy, and grey-headed men and women who
had lost lands and fortunes in their master's cause, pressed forward.
Their day had come at last; surely they would now reap the fruit of
their devotion.
The queen rose and went into their midst with all that stately courtesy
for which she was remarkable, and her young daughter, following her
example, gave her hand to be kissed, smiling with that wonderful charm
and look of gladness which was destined to fascinate so many hearts.
Once more the doors were thrown wide open, but this time heralds
announced:
"Le roi, le roi!"
Queen Henrietta stood still, but, as the king entered, she advanced a
few steps to meet him, curtsying deeply.
"Ma tante," he said, "I would have been the first to congratulate you,
but news flies so fast, you have already heard what I would gladly have
imparted to you myself."
"You are very good, my nephew," answered the Queen, "but sorrow has
followed me for so long, that I can scarcely allow myself to hope that
my dear son will succeed his martyred father in peace and without
bloodshed."
"What matters that to you, ma tante? If blood has to be shed in a good
cause, there is no regretting it; and there are those here present," he
added, turning round and facing the courtiers, "who will not hesitate to
give their lives for their rightful king."
A murmur ran through the crowd, and the whole assemblage bowed low in
acquiescence. One voice rose above the others:
"His majesty speaks like Solomon; we are ready to shed the last drop of
our blood for our royal master. Long live King Charles!"
People said that Queen Henrietta Maria had grown hard in her trouble.
At the present moment the softening element of joy crept into her heart
and brought tears to her eyes.
"Grand merci, grand merci to you all!" she repeated; and the king,
taking her hand, led her to her seat, himself occupying the fauteuil
which had been hastily brought for him.
A whispered word to Henrietta, repeated by her to the gentlemen of her
household, and the crowd of courtiers disappeared, leaving the king and
his aunt alone. Even Princess Henrietta and her little companion were
dismissed.
What took place between the royal aunt and nephew was only known some
years later; but the queen was well satisfied with the result of their
conversation, for the strings of the king's purse were opened, and the
poverty which so long oppressed her disappeared.
The princess and the child Agnes felt this change more than anyone.
There was a mystery concerning Agnes; but mysteries about personages
were very common in those days. In this great Civil War children had
been lost, families had disappeared, no one quite knew who might be who.
When people questioned as to who this child was, the queen answered
haughtily:
"Her name is Agnes Beaumont. Who she is and whence she comes I know;
that is my secret, and must suffice all men."
It was on a cold winter's night nigh upon twenty years ago, and snow lay
thick upon the ground, when Patience had found her way to the Palace of
the Louvre, and begged and prayed, and almost forced herself into Queen
Henrietta's presence. It was in the early days of the queen's
widowhood. She had pawned all her jewels; she had sent all her money to
the assistance of her son; and she herself was living a beggar on the
bounty of the King of France, and that was measured out stingily.
Poverty was in the air; the great rooms assigned to her in the Palace of
the Louvre were bare and cold; and when Patience succeeded in forcing
her way into her presence, she found the queen cowering over a few
embers in the great fireplace, with the young princess, then only a
child of eight years, gathered in her arms for warmth.
Approaching the queen, Patience knelt before her.
"Do you not recognize me, your majesty?" she said.
The queen looked at her.
"Yes, I recognize you," she said; "you come from my friend," and in a
low voice she mentioned a name, adding:
"What of her?"
"Dead," answered Patience, "even as her husband died after the great
battle, and with her dying breath she bade me bring you this." And
opening back her cloak she showed, lying in her arms, a sleeping child
of some eighteen months old.
"Why did you bring her here?" said the queen, throwing up her hands in
despair. "What am I to do with her? We have scarce food for ourselves.
How shall I feed her?"
"Have no fear on that score," said Patience, "I will feed her. Only let
her live under your shelter, protected by your name; for there are those
who, if they found her, would cast her out or do her some evil turn.
You know that well. They have entered upon her possessions--they hold
what by right is hers; therefore she must be cared for until such time
as she can claim her own, or till you can give it to her."
"Then I wot she will wait a weary while," said the queen.
Whilst they were speaking, Princess Henrietta had approached the child,
whose eyes were now wide open, and who was struggling to rise.
"Oh, how pretty she is! Look, Mother!"
And she said truly. She was a lovely babe, with soft, golden curls
clustering round her little face, and large brown eyes. She was
laughing, too--laughing with the merry gurgle of a happy
babe--stretching out her little hands towards the princess. She looked
the very child of joy, and yet she was a child born of bitter sorrow.
"She is like her father," said the queen. "I never knew a man more
gloriously happy than he was; and she has the same look in her eyes."
"She never weeps; she never moans," said Patience. "Ah, madame, she will
bring you sunshine and good luck!"
As she spoke she unwrapped the child and placed her upon the ground. A
beauty, a perfect beauty she was, and the princess clapped her hands.
"Oh, you must keep her, Mother, you must keep her!"
"I have no choice in the matter. She is my dearest friend's child.
Yes, I must keep her, Patience." And from that hour Agnes was the
Princess Henrietta's daily companion.
This princess had also been born in sorrow and nurtured in it. She had
no playfellows. She had led the dreariest life that any child could
lead until this baby came; but from that hour her whole nature changed.
She laughed, she played, she danced with her; there was noise, there was
life, in that dark apartment. Whatever ills others had to bear, Agnes
never suffered. Patience was always there, and Patience sufficed for
her, and often for the princess too. They occupied a tiny chamber
leading out of the queen's room, and this was their haven of rest, their
playroom.
Sometimes even the queen would come in there and sit down and talk to
Patience, not as to a subordinate, but as to a friend, and that is
saying a great deal for Queen Henrietta Maria, whose pride and arrogance
were proverbial.
Everyone was sure Agnes was of noble birth, because, as she grew older,
she was brought up nobly and had the same teachers as the princess. They
were neither of them overweighted with study; it was not the fashion in
those days. They learnt French from their surroundings, a little
writing, a little reading, a smattering of Latin, because the queen was
bringing up her daughter as a Catholic, and she must needs follow the
Mass in her Breviary. This sufficed; but they learnt dancing, and little
songs, and thus a certain amount of gaiety emanated through them into
the dark Palace of the Louvre.
This gaiety was in Princess Henrietta's blood. Was she not a
granddaughter of Henry IV, that great lover of pleasure?
So these two children ignored the death-traps which lay under their
feet, those oubliettes which had swallowed up so many men and women.
They did not see the ghosts that others saw gliding along the passages,
which led to mysterious chambers, down narrow staircases, ending they
knew not where. They did not care. They would escape from Patience and
play their games of hide-and-seek and touch-wood, their cries of
childish joy ringing through the corridors and starting the echoes. Men
would smile at them, and women shake their heads, but no one bade them
be silent. Sometimes even the king in the distance heard them and would
smile. "That is the wild Henrietta and her companion," he would say.
"Shall they be silenced, sire?" asked a courtier once.
"Nay, nay; it is good for them to laugh," he answered. "Their weeping
days will come. It were a sin to silence them."
On this day, when the princess and Agnes were sent forth from the king's
presence, they took refuge with Patience, and, curling themselves up on
the window-sill, began to talk.
"I wonder if we shall have as good a time in England as we have had
here!" said Agnes. "I feel as if I were going to lose you, Princess.
You will be a great lady at court, and I am only a child and nobody. I
wonder what this England is like! I have heard that the sun shines but
little there. I do not feel much love for it or for the people. I
never can forget that they killed their king, your father."
"If I cannot forget, I shall have to make believe I can," said
Henrietta; "but as to what England is like, I know no more than you do,"
she added. "I was brought over from England just as you were, an infant
in swaddling clothes, by my dear Lady Dalkeith, so we are equal there."
"Except that you know who you are, but I am only Agnes Beaumont, with
neither father nor mother, nor kith nor kin, no one save Patience to
care for me."
"We care for you, my mother and I," said the princess, drawing the child
closer to her. "What more do you want?"
"Never to leave you," said the child passionately. "I would be your
handmaid, your servant." And, as if a sudden fear had taken hold on
her, she clung to the princess.
"You foolish child," answered Henrietta. "Of course you will always
stay by me. Where should I be without my little Agnes?"
"But kings and queens, I have heard, cannot do what they will; they
cannot even love where they will," said the child.
"That is true," answered Henrietta, "but you are only a child. Who will
mind you? Besides," she continued thoughtfully, "you are Agnes Beaumont
to-day, but you may be a great lady in disguise. Courtiers will crowd
round my brother's throne; those who have been against him will be for
him, now he is king, and you, the queen's favourite, my favourite, may
find both kith and kin in your prosperity."
"I shall not care for those who forsook me when I was cast alone on the
world." And Agnes tossed her beautiful head proudly.
"Why trouble?" said Henrietta. "Let us take life as it comes; we are so
young. We are going to have a good time--a right good time!" And she
wiped the tears from the child's face, kissed and hugged her.
At that moment the door opened and the queen came in. Her face, too,
was radiant, and she brought with her a ray of sunshine, as if Nature
itself shone upon her. She sat down beside the two girls and laid a
hand on each of them.
"We shall soon be going to England," she said.
"Oh, Mother, tell us about England," said Henrietta. "We know nothing
about it."
The queen's eyes filled with tears. "For ten years," she said, "I was
the happiest and best-beloved woman in England. There was no man like
your father, Henrietta: the greatest lover and the best husband. He
gave me for my dower-house a palace on the Thames, upon which the sun
always shone, from west and east, north and south, beneath whose windows
the whole world passed, barges with pennons flying and with music
playing all the live-long day, and oft far into the night. Ah, it was a
glorious time! Who would have thought of the misery to come!" She put
her kerchief to her eyes and wept audibly.
"It is over, Mother, it is over," said Henrietta, kneeling beside her.
"It can never be over," answered the queen. "Those joy days are ever
present with me, not even when your brother has avenged your father's
death upon his murderers shall I forget. My sun is dimmed for ever."
And a look of hatred came over her face. "We will not talk of it," she
continued, shrugging her shoulders in her quick French way. "You want
to know about this England, children? Well, we shall go back to
Somerset House. It is my own, given to me by my husband, and there we
shall dwell. It is a beautiful place, full--as I have told you--of
sunlight; very different from this gloomy Louvre."
"But we have been very happy here," said Agnes. "I fear our play-days
are over."
The queen smiled and stroked the child's face. "You are growing a big
girl, Agnes; we must think of something better for you than play, ma
mie."
Patience coming in broke this strain of talk. She and the queen went to
the farther end of the room together in consultation.
Indeed, for the next few months there was much planning and much
talking. It was the month of May when King Charles went to England, and
England became old England again in its festive gaiety. From the moment
Charles set foot on English soil at Dover with his brothers the Dukes of
York and Gloucester, and was met by General Monk and courtiers, who
knelt to welcome him, England went mad concerning him. On the
twenty-ninth of May, which was his birthday, he made his solemn entry
into London. We are told the streets were railed, and windows and
balconies were hung with tapestries, flowers were scattered in his path,
and all was joy and jubilee. So he entered triumphantly that Whitehall
where the king, his father, had suffered so cruelly. It was a strange
metamorphosis. Those who had been the father's bitterest enemies now
bowed before the son. They called him the "King of Hearts". From his
people he would receive a "crown of hearts", they said; "the duty of all
men would be to make him forget the past; he was to be the most glorious
king of the happiest people. Such was his welcome!"
All this was reported to his mother, still living at the Louvre, waiting
for her summons to go home, and the whole of that summer passed in joy
and laughter. Princess Henrietta was courted by foreign potentates and
even by kings, but the queen would not part with her.
"She has shared my troubles, she must share my joys; she must go home
with me," she said.
In the autumn the queen set sail with her suite for England, and after
what seemed to Agnes a weary journey by sea and land, they reached
London, and were conducted through the city to Somerset House, the
"Queen's House" as it was called.
Agnes kept close to the princess. Nothing Patience said to her was of
any avail; she was determined; she set her lips and pushed her away.
"I will not leave the princess," she said, clinging to her gown.
"Let her alone," said Princess Henrietta; "she is my charge, Patience."
So she kept her in her room, and they slept together that first night;
yet, strange to tell, they knew not why, both fell asleep weeping.
"It is a bad omen," said Patience; "evil will come of it;" and she
looked down sadly upon those two young faces wet with tears.
*CHAPTER II*
*Newbolt Manor*
"Well, Ann, all I can say is, that, though I hate turn-coats, I am
thankful my father has ranged himself on the right side at last. Others
are doing like him. We know full well that one of Cromwell's own
daughters was against him. Fairfax and Falkland, those great and noble
men, both fought for the liberties of England against their king.
General Monk, who is bringing Charles home, was a republican; but times
have changed. It needed a strong hand like Cromwell's to govern England
without hereditary right, only with might. Richard Cromwell, good fellow
though he be, could not do it, and he knew it from the first. He has
had enough of ruling, he told me so but the other day; he is only too
thankful to retire into private life, farm his own land, and smoke his
pipe in peace. So we need not feel any compunction over the fact that
our father has given in his adhesion to the king at last, and now I
shall be at liberty to follow the dictates of my heart. I was too young
to fight for our martyred king, but I am of age now, and will at once
enlist in his son's service. Let us hope we may have our rightful king
and our rightful liberties as well. I'm for King Charles! Hurrah!"
And Reginald Newbolt took up his hat from the table beside him and
tossed it gaily into the air.