I worried more about Elizabeth than Henry. She was a little older and more able to appreciate sorrow, and I knew how deeply affected she had been by her father’s death for I had news of her from time to time and I had written letters to members of the Parliament imploring them to send my daughter and little son to me. What harm could such children do to any cause?

But those cruel men would not release my children and I continued to fret for them.

I had just had news that Charles had landed in Scotland and that he was promised help. He had had to buy it dearly and had agreed to the Covenant, to renounce treaties with the Irish rebels and to uproot Popery wherever it should be found once he had regained his kingdom. For this the Scots would rally to his cause and provide an army with which to invade England and win his crown for him.

I was furious when I heard that. It seemed like a betrayal of his own family. It could only be directed against me. And there was little Henriette too. She was a Catholic now, even as I was.

I fumed with rage and it was Henry Jermyn who reminded me that my own father had made peace and become King of all France because as he had said, when Paris had refused to surrender to a Huguenot, “Paris is worth a Mass.”

So Charles was in Scotland and there was hope. And now…this fresh blow. If only I could have been with my child, if I could have spoken with her, held her in my arms, I should not have felt so bitter. What sort of men were these to ruin the lives of little children?

My little Elizabeth was only fifteen. What unhappy years they had been for her! She must have been about seven when the troubles started—a sweet, loving child, my own little daughter whom I had scarcely seen while she was growing up.

The Roundheads had put her and her brother in the care of the Countess of Leicester at Penshurst. I knew Penshurst. A delightful castle set on a pleasant incline with woods, fields and hop grounds around it. I remembered well the old banqueting hall lighted by its five Gothic windows and I could picture my children seated at the oak table there. The Parliament had announced that there was no royalty now and that the children were to be treated as those of an ordinary nobleman. They would not have cared about that, I was sure; what would have broken their hearts was the separation from their family. I had heard that the Roundheads suspected the Countess of ignoring orders and showing the children too much respect; they had even sent some of their men to Penshurst to make sure their orders were carried out. How I despised them for their persecution of two helpless children!

Apparently the spies were most dissatisfied by the manner in which the Countess treated the children, swearing that she gave them too much deference. Dear Countess! I had always liked her and it had given me some relief to know that the children were put into her hands for the reports I had heard at that time filled me with dread. The talk of apprenticing Henry to a shoemaker had horrified me for I knew those wicked men were capable of doing that. There was a rumor that they were to be sent to a charity school and were to be known as Bessy and Harry Stuart.

Lady Leicester had brought in a tutor for them—a man named Richard Lovell, who had instructed her own children; but even so this brave and noble lady could not go on defying the Parliament. There were frightening rumors at that time. One was that the children were to be poisoned and I was terrified that they would disappear as long ago two little Princes had vanished in the Tower of London.

When Charles landed in Scotland the Roundheads must have been alarmed and perhaps because they thought an attempt to rescue the children might be made they removed them to Carisbroke Castle.

I wondered what my two little ones felt at being sent to the prison where their father had spent some of the last days of his life.

A week after they had arrived at Carisbroke Elizabeth and Henry were playing bowls on that green which had been made for their father when there was a heavy rain shower and the children were wet through. The next day Elizabeth was in a high fever and confined to her bed.

She must have been in a low state and very melancholy to be in her father’s prison and she must have remembered that last interview with him; she had loved him so dearly and had mourned him ever since. The poor child must have wondered from day to day what her own fate would be in the hands of her father’s murderers.

If only Mayerne could have been with her! But they had dismissed him and they were certainly not going to allow any member of the royal family to have the services of the renowned doctor. He was nearly eighty now but still as skillful and it might have been that he could have saved my child’s life.

One of the doctors whom they were obliged to call in—Dr. Bagnall—did send to Mayerne and ask his advice and the good doctor sent back medicines, but it was too late.

My dear child knew she was dying. I tried to imagine the sorrow and desolation of poor little Henry. Elizabeth gave him her pearl necklace and sent a diamond ornament to the Earl and Countess of Leicester. It was all she had to leave.

They were determined that no honor should be paid to her. She was placed in a lead coffin and taken by a borrowed coach to Newport, attended by a few of those who had served her in the past. The coffin was placed in the east part of the chancel in St. Thomas’s Chapel and they put a simple inscription on it.

ELIZABETH SECOND DAUGHTER

OF THE LATE KING CHARLES

DECEASED SEPTEMBER 8TH M.D.C.L.

No stone was erected and the letters E.S. were engraved in the wall above the spot where the coffin had been laid.

So died my daughter, the child I had borne with such joy and loved with such devotion.

It was small wonder that I thought Heaven itself was against me.

Children are both a blessing and an anxiety. I loved mine dearly but we were often in conflict.

There was James. He was growing up very different from his brother; they were unlike in every way except in their impeccably good manners, which I had insisted be instilled in them. James was fair and Charles had those swarthy looks which must have come down from an ancestor of Navarre, so they never looked like brothers. James’s temperament was difficult and it was the easiest thing in the world to quarrel with him whereas it was impossible to quarrel with Charles, who could be serene, evasive and indifferent, and when one thought he had acquiesced he would go away and do exactly what he had planned to do from the first.

I know I was not the easiest person to live with. I had been born with a desire to impose my will on others but it was meant to be for their good, though they so often could not see this.

James was restive, hating, I suppose, to be cooped up in Paris while his brother was in Scotland. I think he rather resented being the younger son and in spite of his undoubted good looks and Charles’s far from handsome ones, he was always overshadowed by his brother.

Well Charles was no longer with us in Paris and James was difficult. I sometimes think he enjoyed quarreling and looked round for trouble. Heaven knew life was hard enough for me to bear. What were his troubles compared with mine?

Some trivial matter flared up one day and James took it seriously. He turned on me and said: “I want to get away. I’m tired of being here. You tutor me in all things. I am old enough to think for myself.”

“You are clearly not,” I retorted. “You talk like a foolish boy and that does not surprise me because you are one.”

In a very short time we were shouting at each other and James was behaving very badly, forgetting entirely the respect due to me, not only as his mother but as Queen of England.

I cried: “Whatever I do, I do for you children. You are my main concern.”

Then he turned on me and said something which I found it very hard to forgive. “Your main concern!” he said almost sneering. “I thought your main concern was Henry Jermyn. You are more fond of him than you are of all your children put together.”

I stopped short to stare at him. Then I cried out: “How dare you!” And I struck him hard across his face with the back of my hand.

He turned quite white and for a moment I thought he was going to return the blow. Then he turned away and strode from the room.

I was very upset. Of course I was fond of Henry Jermyn. He had been beside me, my faithful friend and helper, for many years. Moreover he was a jolly man, a handsome man who raised my spirits; and heaven knew I had need of a few like him around.

But what was James suggesting? That he was my lover!

I had never been a sensual woman. What I called “that side of marriage” had never greatly appealed to me. It was my duty to produce children and that I had done in full measure. I had loved my husband completely and still did. But to take a lover now that he was dead…I could never do that. It would seem like disloyalty to him.

And yet…had I taken a lover? Not in the physical sense, but the truth was that I did love Henry Jermyn and if I lost him my life would be empty indeed.

I was terribly shaken and was expecting James to come to me with apologies, but he did not.

He had left Court.

It was heartbreaking that he should have gone like that before I had had a chance to talk to him. I wondered where he had gone and speculated that he had joined his brother in Scotland. But no. It turned out that he had gone to Brussels where he had been made very welcome.

This was most embarrassing. Not only had James left me after making that devastating statement but in Brussels he was on territory which belonged to Spain, and Spain was at war with France.

I made up my mind that I would send him no money and as he could not exist without it he would have to return to me.

Then there was Mary. She had always been a good daughter and the marriage to William of Orange had turned out to be advantageous in the end, although at first we had all thought it was a little degrading for the daughter of the King of England to marry a mere Prince of Orange and we should never have allowed it to happen but for the fact that we had wanted to placate the Parliament by a Protestant match. Yet Holland had been our good friend and it was largely due to Mary and her husband.

I had always thought of Mary as a good daughter. She had extended help to Charles—of whom she was very fond—and her Court had provided a refuge for many of our supporters.

And now for the first time she was pregnant. I was delighted at the thought of a child and I wrote to her telling her that if it were a boy she must name him Charles after her father and brother.

There came sad news. The Prince of Orange had been struck down with small pox and within a few days of contracting the disease had died. The Dowager Princess Amelia who took a great pride in forcing her will on others and whom I had never liked, gave orders that Mary was not to be told of her husband’s death until after the confinement.

The news, however, leaked out, but Mary was determined to give birth to a healthy child, and she did. I was delighted when I heard the news. “Our little Charles,” I called the baby.

My chagrin was great when I heard that the Dowager Princess had insisted that the child be named William after his father, and to my disappointment Mary agreed with her.

It was wonderful news that we had the child but his father’s death was a tragedy for us all. When I heard it I said it seemed as though God wished to show me that I should detach myself from the world, by taking from me all those who would lead me to think of it. The loss of my son-in-law made me see this very clearly, for my hopes of Charles’s restoration to the crown were based largely on William of Orange. And my daughter obeyed the wishes of her mother-in-law rather than those of her own mother!

Wherever I looked for comfort there was none.

The Queen of France however was very good to me. She commiserated with me over the deaths of Elizabeth and my son-in-law.

“Life is very cruel,” she said. “One can be happy for a time and then it strikes…and does not always strike singly but many times as though to stress the fact that we are all at the mercy of our fate.”

I told her then how anxious I was on her behalf.

“Believe me,” I said, “I have experience of the people. They are like savages when aroused. I shall never forget Charles standing at my coach door when I came out of the Louvre. They were all around me. I am sure it would not have taken them long to tear me to pieces.”