Mary of Carisbrooke (29 page)

“Did no one protest at the obvious illegality?” asked William Hopkins, the thoughtful-looking schoolmaster.

“No one who was likely to protest was allowed in! The doors and streets were thick with Ironsides. Cromwell had seen to it that his most fanatic regiment was in London. But when they were calling the roll and came to the name of Thomas Fairfax a woman’s voice called down from some gallery, ‘He has more wit than to be here!’ It was the General’s wife, but the soldiers hustled her out.”

There was not a sound while Osborne described the scene.

“The last day was sheer drama. Cromwell sat there square-jawed, forcing himself to what he calls the grim necessity. Everyone knew by then that it would be the death sentence. I wish I could show you the solemn beauty of Westminster Hall. The King stood there, in black, with only his glittering George and that silver-headed cane he always carries. On the steps where the second Richard, who restored that lovely place, was brought to bay two and a half centuries ago. The same kind of curs yelped now for Charles’s blood. A shaft of sunlight from one of the windows was upon him and he looked more kingly than I have ever seen him. It may have been his proud quietness and the splendid setting, or merely my imagination, but the divine right in which he believes so strongly seemed to ring him about with light—to set him apart. Even the soldiers gazing at him from the back of the hall seemed bemused and had to be struck before they remembered to obey orders and yell for his destruction.

“Not until he was faced with death did the King ask for a hearing, and then it was too late and he was denied. Bradshaw solemnly reiterated the list of his crimes in the name of the people. ‘It is a lie—not half or a quarter of them!’ interrupted that courageous woman’s voice again, and was roughly silenced.”

“Could no
man
do anything?” demanded Agnes.

“Very little. When the King asked to be allowed to address the Lords and Commons in the Painted Chamber, a man called John Downes tried to delay the sentence by moving an adjournment—”

“May his name be remembered down the ages,” murmured the schoolmaster’s wife.

Osborne shrugged despondently and turned to set the hour-glass back upon its shelf. “The end came quickly,” he said, as if reluctant to speak much of it. “All the bloodshed of the war was laid upon him. It is almost ludicrous to think that he, the King, was sentenced to death as a traitor!”

“How did his Majesty take it?” asked Hopkins, who had been his friend and host.

“Without flinching. But he found that he would not be permitted to speak after the sentence, as he had hoped, and he lost that marvellous self-control for a while. For the first time he stammered and beseeched. But there was no pity. ‘Guard, withdraw your prisoner,’ ordered the President.

“‘If I am not suffered to speak,’ said his Majesty, all dignity again, ‘expect what judgment others will have!’

“He turned and walked out, and when the sedan chair bearers came bare-headed as usual to carry him to the rooms prepared for him in Whitehall, they were jeered at and told to put their hats on their heads again because Charles Stuart was now just a man like themselves.” Osborne turned from his audience and, without noticing what he was doing, put the old-fashioned hour-glass back. “It was like the scene outside Pilate’s Praetorium,” he said a little incoherently. “One of Cromwell’s soldiers spat in his face.”

There was silence in the firelit room, broken only by Mistress Hopkins’s smothered sobs.

“Were the children—Princess Elizabeth and little Prince Henry—allowed to say good-bye to their father?” asked Mary, after a while.

Osborne came and leant over the back of her chair as if this part of his narrative were specially for her. Like most big men he was gentle-hearted towards children, and it had been some childlike quality about Mary herself which had first attracted him. “Yes, my sweet, they were brought to St. James’s,” he assured her. “Bishop Juxon said it was heart-rending. The boy is scarcely old enough to comprehend, but for the little Princess it must have been a cruel ordeal. And after they had gone the King was so affected that they had to get him to bed. That old weakness which makes him limp sometimes came back so badly that he could scarcely stand.”

Mary’s tears dropped quietly on to the little dog curled in her lap. “The Princess herself is not strong,” she recalled.

“Judith Briot told me that she had almost to carry her to the coach.”

“Who is Judith Briot?”

“Her gentlewoman.”

“Oh, I hope she is kind!”

Osborne shrugged, and Mary had the impression that in any other circumstances he might have found her question amusing. “She would not be willingly unkind,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Herbert had complained about the troops being posted even in the King’s bedroom,” he went on, as if to change the conversation. “And Cromwell had the common decency to have his Majesty moved away from the hammering. That is how he came to be back at St. James’s.”

“What hammering?” asked Frances, in an enthralled whisper.

“For the scaffold,” her husband explained shortly.

“Where did they erect it—to do this terrible thing?” asked Agnes, who knew London and could picture it all.

“At Whitehall. They built a platform outside one of the windows of the banqueting room, and the block was put on that.” Osborne saw Mary’s whole body stiffen, but had no clue to the cause. “It was built so high above the ground and so railed round that although the crowd stretched away up to Charing Cross and down to Westminster, they could not really see. The trouble was to find an executioner. The official headsman refused. London is full of rumours as to who it was who did it, all muffled up in mask and wig.

“As I told you, I was not actually there. Herbert told me afterwards that the King had made his peace with God and striven to forgive his enemies. The sun came out from behind the clouds and his Majesty stepped out through the window onto the platform as though he saw no fear. ‘Death is not terrible to me,’ he had told Bishop Juxon.”

To everyone’s surprise Mary sprang up, tumbling Rogue to the floor. “Then it really came true!” she cried; and Osborne saw that although her cheeks were wet with tears like the two elder women’s, her eyes were shining.

“What has come true?” they all asked.

“What the King said—about going out through the windows.” But of course they would not know…She turned eagerly to Osborne. “You remember how each time you and Harry planned an escape it was by way of a window. Well, after you left the castle, when his Majesty was so hopeless and alone, he used to talk to me sometimes. He told me about a nightmare he had as a child, and how he had no head for heights and how he really dreaded climbing out like that. We did not know, of course. And that last time when my father reached up to help him escape, his Majesty began to feel as though he were going out to some splendid adventure. If he should ever have to do it again, he said, he was sure he would find there was nothing there to fear after all.”

“Perhaps there really is not—for all of us,” suggested the Newport schoolmaster. And each of them fell silent, coming to more kindly terms with death.

A more practical aspect was troubling Trattle. “Working here unobtrusively for the King’s cause, and finding so many of my customers in his favour, it amazes me that as a nation we have let this thing happen,” he said thoughtfully. “Between the passing of sentence and the execution, did no man raise a hand to stop it?”

Osborne, who realized just how much he had done so unobtrusively, laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Yes, one man. His eldest son. Without counting the cost he signed a blank sheet of paper, offering those traitors any terms they liked if they would spare his father’s life.”

“The Prince of Wales did that?”

“Whatever their faults, Trattle, the Stuarts are loyal to each other.”

“Perhaps it did not arrive in time?”

“Oh yes, it did. Cromwell looked at it and passed it on to the others. But the hunt was on, the taste of blood almost upon their lips. They shook their heads. Efficient as he is, Cromwell blundered badly there. They might have gotten all they wanted without labelling themselves murderers and creating a martyr. The last word the King said on the scaffold was ‘Remember.’ And no command of his will more inevitably be obeyed. And now I suppose the blank sheet of paper is filed away among the rest of their dusty records—that warm, spontaneous offer of a young man’s personal hopes and heritage!”

The schoolmaster and his wife rose to go, refusing the meal which Mistress Trattle had ordered. They had heard all Osborne could tell them about the tragedy of their recent royal guest and, being people of sensitivity, they felt that there might be more personal things which he had come to talk about.

“I am ravenous,” he had confessed smilingly to Agnes. “But you must forgive me if I eat and leave you. I had hoped to go on to Gatcombe to see Worsley, but someone recognized me on my way here and, having urgent business in hand, I must get back to the mainland before your Jealous Deputy Governor lets his bloodhounds loose on me.”

“I will go and see about a boat,” offered Newland, recognizing the danger in which he stood. Trattle and Osborne went to see the three of them off and in the stir of departures, while they were all talking together by the inn door, Frances seized the opportunity to speak to her friend alone. She could scarcely contain her curiosity about Osborne and, kneeling beside Mary, almost shook her in her impatience to know. “You called him Richard, and he brought your dog back, and while he was standing there behind your chair his hand was on your hair,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Are you going to marry him?”

There was little of romantic interest which escaped Frances. Mary laughed and blushed. “I really do not know. He once asked me, but it was all mixed up with so much unhappiness and danger.”

“Imagine hesitating about becoming Mistress Richard Osborne! Why, Mary, you would be one of the rich gentry!” Frances clapped her hands, then pouted a little, uncomfortably conscious of having been a shade patronizing when showing her friend the solid comforts of a well-to-do merchant’s house.

“Oh, no,” denied Mary. “Richard made it quite clear that he will be poor now, even though he won his case. You must remember he was in the pay of Parliament when he was caught helping the King to escape, so now, with Cromwell in complete power, he runs the risk of a heavy fine—or worse—”

“Then you may go abroad with him?”

“Truly, dear Frances, I do not know.”

“And to think you never talked it over with me! I used to think it was that charming red-headed young man.”

“I used to think so myself.”

“Until you found he was married? Oh, my poor darling!”

Mary bent down and kissed her. “We were all so busy before your wedding. I did tell your mother about—a number of things. And I promise I will tell you more about Richard. But not now. They are coming back.”

Frances stood up hastily to rearrange her skirts. “You must have had a wonderful time up at the castle!” Remembering that Silas Floyd had been shot up there, she added hurriedly, “But it was Edward Worsley I always wanted. And even with him you seem to have been riding round the country! You, who always pretended you were not interested in men!”

“Not quite riding round the country!” laughed Mary. “But I assure you he was very kind.”

A hasty meal was brought into the privacy of the parlour and over it Osborne was able to give them news of Druscilla. “She is staying at the Whorwood’s town house in Channel Row. It is only a stone’s throw from Whitehall, and two days before the King was executed he asked Herbert to go there to fetch that locked box which Jane had had in keeping for him. It contained his Majesty’s private jewels, and they are for his two younger children. Jane, it seems, was out; but Herbert saw your Aunt, Mary, and in spite of her grief she was well. And quite happy about you, since you are here with such good friends.”

“Jane must have been sorry to miss seeing Master Herbert!”

“The King sent her that emerald ring he always wore.”

“Oh, I am so glad! She served him better than any of us,” said Mary, remembering the kind sincerity of the advice Jane had given her.

Osborne told them of other precious last-moment legacies. Of the silver bedside clock given to Herbert, the familiar tasselled cane left to Bishop Juxon and how—at the last moment of all—the King had taken off his George and handed it to Juxon for his eldest son. And in return Mary was able to tell him how Edward Worsley had risked arrest to say “good-bye” and been given the King’s watch. “He said it should have been for you,” she told him.

“He gave a keepsake to Harry, too,” said Osborne, without envy. “A ring set with a miniature painting of his Majesty.”

“How sad your friend must be after all he did to save the King!” said Agnes.

“But, being Harry, he said he would have done the same again ten thousand times over, only done it better!”

They laughed, and Mary asked him how he had come to be searching for the dog.

“I was waiting in St. James’s Park—much as Edward Worsley waited to say good-bye, I imagine. Though in my case the crowds were so dense that there was little danger of being recognized. It was a bitterly cold morning. Herbert told me afterwards that the King had asked for an extra shirt lest he should shiver and the people think he was afraid.”

“He, afraid!” scoffed Trattle, setting down the carving fork.

“I saw him coming across the park in a little procession of people, though he would not let it look sad or funereal. He was walking briskly as he always did, and somehow Rogue must have got out and followed him as usual. Except for the soldiers and the crowds he might have been taking one of his usual walks with a few friends, with the little spaniel at his heels. But some low, vindictive fellow kept walking backwards before him, jeering at him and staring in his face. This was clearly bothering his Majesty, whose thoughts must have been on far higher things. I saw Herbert speak to one of the officers, and the man was driven off. But just as I was going to step forward and kiss his Majesty’s hand, I saw the mean wretch pick Rogue up and dive off with him into the crowd. Everyone was too busy staring at the condemned King. Rogue was struggling frantically and I knew how much you loved the little brute, Mary, and so—”

“And so you missed making your farewell to the King.” Mary touched his hand as it lay beside his plate. Sorry as she was, it was sweet to know that she came first.

“I shouldered my way through after the man, but people were jostling each other so that I soon lost sight of him. Afterwards in a tavern I heard some men talking about the money some opportunist was making with a little booth down the river. Westminster was full of people from all parts that day and he was charging them a penny a time to see the King’s pet dog—and a handkerchief dipped in the King’s blood which he had sopped up from the scaffold.”

“How horrible!” shuddered Agnes.

“What did you do?” asked Trattle.

“Threw the man into the river and took the dog.”

No one wanted to eat any more. Mary turned from the table and gratefully hugged Rogue to her. And when Trattle went outside to see if John Newland was ready with the boat, Agnes drew Frances from the room under pretext of putting away the dishes because the servants were all in bed.

Left alone with Osborne, Mary found her heart racing absurdly. “How can I thank you, Richard, for coming a hundred miles or more to bring back my dog?” she began, to cover her embarrassment.

“Dog be damned!” laughed Osborne. “Will you not understand that I came a hundred miles just to kiss you?” And kissing her hair and mouth and throat, he made sure that he had good value for every mile he had ridden.

“We are not even betrothed,” she admonished him breathlessly, when at last she was released.

He stood grinning down at her unabashed. “I will write to your aunt if you wish, but I have had little opportunity for formal courtship.”

The two distracting dimples so seldom seen of late dented her cheeks again. “You seem to have done remarkably well in the time!” she admitted.

“I flatter myself I have, for you are beginning to lose that remote look of a stained-glass saint!”

But she was still struggling against her awakening. “It was good of you to bring us all the news, too,” she went on more sedately. “You cannot imagine how hard it was not knowing what was happening to people whom we knew so well. And how sad it is to feel we cannot help the King any more!”

“But we can still—indirectly. By helping those whom he loved.”

“Is that what you are going to do?”

“Even to those faithful friends I could not speak of that. But to you, who God grant may one day be my other self, I can say this much—that I have orders from Holland to search out what chances of support there would be in Scotland and certain east-coast ports when the King is ready to land.”

“The King?” Mary drew back, momentarily startled.

With an arm still about her, Osborne lifted his half-emptied glass from the littered table. “The King across the water,” he said, tossing back the remaining wine in a hurried toast. “Dear foolish one, you surely did not suppose that we lack one? Or that he will not fight to get back his own?”

Mary looked up into his confident young face and a new, warm hope of happier days began to stir in her. “King Charles the Second,” she said softly, testing the sound of the new, unfamiliar title.

“I am to go to Holland with whatever information I have gleaned.”

“And you should have a very good reception, for his late Majesty wrote commending you to his son because you had been in trouble for his sake. He showed me that part of his letter, and bade me tell you if I should ever see you again.”

“That was better than any keepsake,” said Osborne, well pleased. “But everything here must be done with so much secrecy that it may be weeks or months before I am ready to sail. And until young Charles gets back his crown mine will be a poor, hazardous life. With little money and much fighting, I imagine. I have no right to ask any girl to marry me.”

“But I seem to remember you already have.”

“And you said no. You did not love me.”

“There were other things then—”

“I know.”

“Now you have made it more difficult to refuse—”

“A man fights for what he wants.”

“I am not afraid of being poor and have grown used to hazards. And I think I could no longer say with truth ‘I do
not
love you’,” she said softly, consideringly.

He kissed her again with triumphant passion, then forced himself to patience. “It is utterly unlike me, I know; but I care for you so much, Mary, that I want you to take time and think—to be sure. If it is humanly possible I will come back to the island for your answer.”

“Before you go to Holland?”

“At least I shall write to you.”

He held her tenderly, his cheek pressed down upon her curling hair. Remembering his reputation, she wondered how many other women he had held like that. “Richard, what did you mean about that Briot woman?” she asked suddenly, fidgeting with a button of his coat.

“Merely that if you were picturing someone motherly in attendance on the King’s daughter you were mistaken. She is fond of the Princess, as who would not be? Judith is too frivolous to be ill-natured. But being an artist’s daughter, she is more conscious of her beauty than of her duties. Her father is that clever designer of our coins, and she told me that is how she came by the appointment.”

“You seem to know her well.”

“Quite well. Most men do who have been about the Court. She has lovely breasts and hair like a red-gold sunset fresh from her father’s palette.”

“And a mind like a conceited pea-hen’s?”

He swung Mary round so that he caught the feline glint in her eyes, and laughed delightedly. “Now, you could not possibly be jealous?” he enquired.

“I was concerned only for the Princess,” she lied with dignified aplomb.

And then the boat was ready and it was time to part.

The weeks passed and the island settled back into its quiet ways. News came of the private funeral at Windsor, with snow making a white pall for the King’s coffin. “White for innocence,” the people said, when out of hearing of their new rulers. Herbert and Mildmay had been two of the bearers and Harry Firebrace one of the twelve gentlemen allowed to follow. Young Elizabeth had nearly died of grief, the Trattles heard; but Cromwell, who had always liked the Princess for her piety, had shown pity. He had arranged for the two fatherless children to be put in the care of Lady Sydney at Penshurst, where it was hoped that the country air and the gentle atmosphere of that cultured home would restore her.

England was now a Commonwealth.

Frances Newland grumbled because country fairs and May-day revels were forbidden, and her prettiest dresses frowned upon as being devices of the devil. The severe deep linen collars and quiet colours which a Puritan world deemed suitable did not suit her.

To Mary, living quietly at the inn, these things scarcely mattered. For a whole year her youth had been robbed of normal gaiety by the violent dissensions of her elders, but she had had her fill of excitement. Now for the first time she had peace in which to sort out her own affairs. To school herself to accept the frustration of her first love and to attune her future to the proposals in Osborne’s promised letter. As the months slipped by and spring spilled beauty over bays and meadows, the sight of lovers walking in the sweet glow of evening when fishing and farm work were done gave her, for the first time, a sense of sadness. Visits to Frances, blooming radiantly and reluctantly into motherhood, reminded her of her own physical loneliness.

By early summer a purple blue sea lapped lazily at golden sands, hedgerows were bridal white with ladies’ laces again, and a whole year had passed since her father’s tragic death.

Druscilla Wheeler had written from Oxford, where she appeared to derive vast satisfaction from being a guest of Sir Brome and Lady Whorwood. She had evidently settled back into the more sophisticated life of the mainland. There had even been mention of an admirer, a hint that she might marry again. Although there was no suggestion of her returning to the Wight, she invited her niece to join her. But that Mary could not do even if she had wished, for she had no means of letting Richard Osborne know, and might miss him if he came.

At last, on a hot midsummer evening, another letter came for her which she felt sure must concern him. Hearing a clattering in the Square below her dormer window she looked out to see two soldiers before the door, and one of them dismounting with a letter in his hand. She heard Agnes calling up the attic stairs to her, and for the moment felt faint with fear. “It is something official. They must have arrested him. Do I care as much as this?” she asked herself, finding herself trembling as she ran swiftly down to the parlour.