THE QUEEN'S FAVOURITE

[Frontispiece: "THEY TOOK REFUGE WITH NURSE PATIENCE" (missing from book)]

The Queen's Favourite

A Story of the Restoration

BY

ELIZA F. POLLARD

Author of "The Doctor's Niece" "The Lady Isobel" "The White Standard" &c.

ILLUSTRATED BY FRANCES EWAN

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY 1907

CONTENTS

CHAP.

"The King has come in to his own again"

Newbolt Manor

Somerset House

New Friends

May-Day

A First Parting

A King's Vengeance

Arrested

Old Newgate

A Legend

A Brave Woman

A Faithful Friend

The Hamlet of St. Mary's

The Mystery cleared up

At Court

Under the Shadow of Newgate

The Great Plague

Lost

On the Track

A Great Sea-Fight

London on Fire

Found

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