There were rumors coming from every direction. Some said the French fleet had seized the Channel Islands. That made them curse me…and my mother. Poor Mother, what a choice she had made when she insisted on coming to England!

The night that followed was one of the most terrifying of my life. The shouts and screams of the mob can reduce even the most brave to fear; it is the sound of those who are like baying animals intent on destroying their prey; there is no reasoning; there is nothing but the desire to inflict pain and torture on those whom they have decided to attack.

The wicked scandals about me, the accusations against that good man, the King, the demand for Strafford’s blood, when all he had done was be a loyal statesman—all these were excuses those blood-crazed men and women had fed to themselves. If they had had any power to think and paused awhile to do so they must have seen them as false. But the very thin layer of civilization had been broken apart and they had emerged like animals in a jungle hunt. They were worse. Animals hunt for food; they hunted just for the lust of revenge on those who had enjoyed what they thought of as the luxuries of life. How I hated them! The feeble-minded, unwashed, envious bloodthirsty dregs of the human race.

They were clamoring at the gates of Whitehall. I could vaguely hear the shouts of “Justice! Execution.” Justice! What justice was there for a good man like Strafford? Execution? Yes. They wanted blood. Strafford was to appease them first. They were like hungry wolves following a sleigh. Throw out Strafford so that we can feed on him. That will satisfy us…for a time.

Catholics were crowding into my chapel to pray, for they saw this as something more than the mob’s fury against Strafford. My name was bandied about too freely for their peace of mind. Some of them collected their valuables and were making efforts to get to the coast.

I sent a messenger to Pym, as the leader of the Commons, asking him for protection. Lucy helped me. She professed friendship with Pym and he must have been rather flattered by the attention of such a beautiful lady of the Court. I knew of her relationship with Strafford and I was sorry for her, guessing what she would be suffering now.

Pym’s answer was that I should prepare to leave the country for that was the only way I could be safe.

Charles arrived at Whitehall. The people did not hate him so much. If he would sign Strafford’s death warrant doubtless they would cheer him.

He was distraught.

“What can I do?” he cried. “Strafford has been loyal to me. He was my friend…my good friend. I have promised him that although it may be necessary to remove him from his post, I will never let him die.”

We clung together. He stroked my hair. “This is a sorry state of affairs,” he murmured. “It grieves me that I have brought you to this.”

“You brought me only happiness,” I told him. “Always remember that.”

Then we sat together, holding hands and in a way comforting each other.

“Whatever happens,” said Charles, “you and I have known such a happy life together as few people experience.”

It was true and it was wonderful how, even with the mob howling at the gates, we could feel a certain happiness as long as we were together.

Suddenly there was a quietness from without and Charles sent one of the guards to see what was happening. What they had to tell made me shiver with horror. Someone in the mob had said that the Queen Mother was the real culprit. Nothing had gone well since she had come to England. She even had a malevolent effect on the weather.

“To St. James’s!” they had cried.

I buried my face in my hands. I would have been glad if my mother had left England but she was still my mother and I loved her in a way. I could not bear the thought of her being subjected to humiliation. It was true she had meddled: she had tried to make Catholics of the children; she had urged me to take a strong line with those who had gone against me and perhaps I had been influenced by her; she had openly flaunted her adherence to the Catholic Church and her contempt for that of the Protestants; she so often forgot that she was a guest in this country and she had cost Charles a great deal of money by keeping an establishment for which she could not afford to pay. Yet she was my mother.

And the younger children were with her at St. James’s. Only Charles was with us at Whitehall and Mary was at Somerset House.

The long night seemed as though it would never end. Charles and I sat hand in hand hardly speaking, worn out with exhaustion but unable to sleep.

In the morning several of the Bishops called on Charles.

“There is nothing to be done other than sign the death warrant,” they said. “The people have made up their minds that they want Strafford’s blood.”

“I cannot do it,” Charles insisted. “I have given my word.”

“My lord,” said one of the bishops, “there comes a time when certain action must be taken. It is better for one man to die than thousands.”

“Thousands…” echoed Charles.

“The people are in an angry mood. I fear they would attack the palace first.”

“My wife…my children…” cried Charles.

“My lord, none of them is safe. It is Strafford’s blood they want. He is a symbol. If you refuse to sign the death warrant you are going against Parliament for they have passed the sentence. To refuse to sign it is defiance against Parliament.”

“I do defy them. I will not sign away the life of a man who has shown me nothing but friendship and loyalty.”

The Bishops were dismayed. “We fear the consequences. They will break into the palace. The Queen….” They looked at me solemnly. “The people murmur all the time against the Queen.”

I looked at Charles and saw the frank terror in his face. It was fear for me and the children.

He said: “Give me time…time….” And I knew that he was wavering.

The Bishops left and Charles turned to me. “What am I going to do?” he cried in despair. “You are in danger. The children….”

I said: “Charles, you must not think of me. You must do what is right.”

“How could I not think of you? I would do anything…anything rather than that harm should come to you.”

Then we kissed tenderly and were silent for a long time. His resolution was wavering. He was going to give them what they wanted, not out of fear for himself—he was the bravest man on earth—but because he dreaded what they would do to me. I think we both remembered that Queens had been beheaded before. Worse still, if I fell into the hands of the mob, they would tear me to pieces before the judges could condemn me.

Our son came to us. He was very grave for he was fully aware of what was going on. Young Charles had always been precocious. He looked at his father questioningly and the King said: “They are crying for Strafford’s blood. How can I sacrifice one who has served me so loyally?”

Our son surveyed us solemnly and I thought how serious and kingly he looked—tall, commanding even at his age—he was eleven years old but already looked like a king. His dark rather saturnine looks gave him an air of authority. He was the sort of child whom none could ignore.

The King said: “My son, you shall take a message to the House of Lords. I will appeal to their sense of justice. It will be our last attempt to save the Earl of Strafford.”

Young Charles was eager to play his part in the drama and all night the King and I sat up drafting the letter which our son would take. We were sure he could not be ignored and would attract sympathy by his very youth.

In the morning young Charles put on robes of state and took his seat in the House of Lords. There was, I heard, a stir of interest as he entered and I could imagine that gravity, that kingly dignity which was so impressive in one so young.

He presented the letter. If the matter had not gone so far it might have had some effect. But it was too late and our last attempt failed.

The King was deeply moved to receive a letter from Strafford himself. Strafford realized what was at stake. He could perhaps see more clearly than I or the King. He knew that this struggle was between the King and the Parliament and there was still time to save the country from civil war. The Parliament had decided on his death; if the King did not agree to accept their verdict they would rise up against him and try to destroy all that the Monarchy stood for. Strafford must have seen that, and loyal subject that he was to King and country, he released the King from his promise.

Charles was deeply moved and I think that helped him to his decision. All next day the people were filling the streets. They made for Whitehall and St. James’s. The situation was becoming very dangerous.

I had been urging Charles not to give way but now I saw that if he did not it would be the end of us all. I thought of my mother, my children, the King himself…and my common sense told me that Strafford would have to go.

Charles was beside himself with grief. He had given his word to Strafford, but Strafford had released him from his promise. He believed in his heart, though, that the King would never agree to his execution.

“You have done all you could,” I reminded Charles. “No one could have done more.”

The King nodded. “But I gave my word. Perhaps…I should keep it.”

“At what cost?” I asked. “Your children…me….”

“Don’t,” he begged. “I could not bear life if you were harmed.”

“We must be reasonable, Charles. I was fond of Strafford. I know he was our loyal friend…but many lives are at stake.”

He embraced me. He was calm and cold and I knew he was thinking of me and the children.

Then he said slowly: “There is no other way out. I must sign.”

Strafford’s execution was fixed for the next day—the twelfth of May—a day I shall never forget. Charles insisted on knowing what Strafford had said when he understood that Charles had signed the death warrant.

Charles never got over it. I am sure to the last he remembered Strafford and in his mind’s eye saw the man whom he had tried to save being given the news that the King had betrayed him—for that was how Charles saw it and would not see it otherwise, however much I pointed out to him that it was not betrayal for Strafford himself had advised him to do it. But he heard that Strafford had murmured: “Put not your trust in Princes.” Poor man, he must have been overwrought. Not so much for himself but wondering about his family.

He had sent a message to Archbishop Laud, who was also lodged in the Tower, to be at his window as he passed and give him his blessing. Laud was there, and blessed him as he passed and then fell fainting to the floor as Strafford went on to the scaffold on Tower Hill.

Crowds came to see the deed, and there was a hushed silence when he raised his hand and spoke to them.

There were plenty to tell us what he had said and this was the gist of it:

“I had always believed parliaments in England to be the happy constitution of the kingdom and the nation and the best means under God to make the King and his people happy. Do not let the beginning of the people’s happiness be written in letters of blood.”

There was a warning there, but the people would not see it.

He died nobly as would be expected of such a man, refusing to have his eyes bound and asking for a moment of respite to say a silent prayer, promising that when he had prayed he would lift his hand as a sign to the executioner to wield the axe.

Thus he died and so ended the troubles of his earthly life.

Ours were just beginning.

THE SPY

When I went to see my mother she was in a state of panic. She had faced the fury of the people of her own country so was no stranger to unpopularity which was reaching the danger point.

“I must get away,” she said. “I must leave this country. I tell you this, Henriette. I picture those people storming the palace. They would have no respect for Queens. I did not think this could happen here. I had thought you were well settled. These people are barbarians. They hate the King. They hate you. And it seems that most of all they hate me. Savages! Like uncivilized people they turn on those who are foreigners to them.”

“They turned on Strafford,” I reminded her. “He was no foreigner. And yes, dear mother, I think you should go…if that is possible.”

“You should come with me, my dear.”

“And leave Charles!”

“Come with me. Perhaps we could go to France.”