fiercely did it rage, that the King’s colors should not be unfurled. An evil omen? it had been whispered. He thought of the skirmish at Copredy Bridge which had decided nothing and had led to the disaster of Marston Moor. He remembered the last time he had seen his father; it was in Oxford almost four years before.
And what could he do now to save his father? He was powerless; he depended on others for his very board. He was a beggar in a foreign country; his entire family was reduced to beggary. But at least he was a Prince, heir to a throne, and Cromwell would never feel at peace while he lived.
Impulsively he wrote to the Parliament of England; he sent them a blank sheet of paper which he sealed and signed Charles P. He asked them to fill in on that blank sheet any terms they cared to enforce; he would fulfil them; they might bring about his own disinheritance; they might execute him; but in exchange for his promise to deliver himself into their hands that they might do what they would with him, they must spare his father’s life.
He despatched three messengers each with a copy of this document to ensure the message’s reaching its destination; and he bade them depart with all speed to England.
Then there was nothing he could do but wait. He had done all that a son could do to save his father.
One February day as he left his bedchamber he was met by one of his men, and was struck by the way in which the man looked at him before he fell to his knees and said in a solemn manner: “May God preserve Your Majesty!”
Then he knew what had happened to that kindly man, his father. He could not speak, but turned abruptly and went back to his bedchamber. There he threw himself upon his bed and gave way to passionate weeping.
Not until several days later could he talk of his father. Then he wished to hear of the heroic way in which he had died. He pictured it so clearly; it was engraved on his mind so that he would never forget it. He visualized his father, handsome and stately, brought to the Palace through St. James’ Park; he pictured him walking with the guards before him and behind him, the colors flying ahead of him, and drums beating as he passed along. It was all so clear to him. He saw his father take the bread and wine which were brought to him; he saw him break the manchet and drink the claret just as Sir Thomas Herbert, his father’s groom of the chamber, described the scene. He saw the crowds assembled; and as the King passed them on his last journey, his son knew that many in the crowds had muttered prayers and called: “God bless Your Majesty!” Never would Charles I have looked more noblethan he did on that last walk to the scaffold; he would be noble to the end, even when he laid his head upon the block.
And ever after that, although the young Prince might be gay—and there were few who could be gayer than he—it seemed to those who observed him closely that a touch of melancholy never completely left him.
Now Lucy was no longer the mistress of a Prince; she was a King’s mistress; for although the Parliament of England would have none of him, he had been proclaimed King Charles II in Jersey.
Moreover, there came tentative offers to receive him in Scotland and Ireland.
It was a different matter being the mistress of the King from being merely that of a Prince.
Charles kissed her warmly and told her he must leave her. Business called him now—affairs of state. “Our ranks have risen, Lucy,” he said; “and with new honors come new responsibilities. I must leave you for a time. I go to Paris to see my mother.”
Then he told her he had another love in Paris. “Oh, Lucy, now you look hurt. You must not be, and you will not be when you hear who this is. She is not quite five years old, and she is my little sister. I am torn between my melancholy in leaving you and my delight in the prospect of seeing her. Lucy, you will be true to your King?”
Lucy declared she would. He wondered. Then
And what could he do now to save his father? He was powerless; he depended on others for his very board. He was a beggar in a foreign country; his entire family was reduced to beggary. But at least he was a Prince, heir to a throne, and Cromwell would never feel at peace while he lived.
Impulsively he wrote to the Parliament of England; he sent them a blank sheet of paper which he sealed and signed Charles P. He asked them to fill in on that blank sheet any terms they cared to enforce; he would fulfil them; they might bring about his own disinheritance; they might execute him; but in exchange for his promise to deliver himself into their hands that they might do what they would with him, they must spare his father’s life.
He despatched three messengers each with a copy of this document to ensure the message’s reaching its destination; and he bade them depart with all speed to England.
Then there was nothing he could do but wait. He had done all that a son could do to save his father.
One February day as he left his bedchamber he was met by one of his men, and was struck by the way in which the man looked at him before he fell to his knees and said in a solemn manner: “May God preserve Your Majesty!”
Then he knew what had happened to that kindly man, his father. He could not speak, but turned abruptly and went back to his bedchamber. There he threw himself upon his bed and gave way to passionate weeping.
Not until several days later could he talk of his father. Then he wished to hear of the heroic way in which he had died. He pictured it so clearly; it was engraved on his mind so that he would never forget it. He visualized his father, handsome and stately, brought to the Palace through St. James’ Park; he pictured him walking with the guards before him and behind him, the colors flying ahead of him, and drums beating as he passed along. It was all so clear to him. He saw his father take the bread and wine which were brought to him; he saw him break the manchet and drink the claret just as Sir Thomas Herbert, his father’s groom of the chamber, described the scene. He saw the crowds assembled; and as the King passed them on his last journey, his son knew that many in the crowds had muttered prayers and called: “God bless Your Majesty!” Never would Charles I have looked more noblethan he did on that last walk to the scaffold; he would be noble to the end, even when he laid his head upon the block.
And ever after that, although the young Prince might be gay—and there were few who could be gayer than he—it seemed to those who observed him closely that a touch of melancholy never completely left him.
Now Lucy was no longer the mistress of a Prince; she was a King’s mistress; for although the Parliament of England would have none of him, he had been proclaimed King Charles II in Jersey.
Moreover, there came tentative offers to receive him in Scotland and Ireland.
It was a different matter being the mistress of the King from being merely that of a Prince.
Charles kissed her warmly and told her he must leave her. Business called him now—affairs of state. “Our ranks have risen, Lucy,” he said; “and with new honors come new responsibilities. I must leave you for a time. I go to Paris to see my mother.”
Then he told her he had another love in Paris. “Oh, Lucy, now you look hurt. You must not be, and you will not be when you hear who this is. She is not quite five years old, and she is my little sister. I am torn between my melancholy in leaving you and my delight in the prospect of seeing her. Lucy, you will be true to your King?”
Lucy declared she would. He wondered. Then
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