THE QUEEN'S QUEST

When I consider the caprice and arrogance of Buckingham, I pity the young king, who, through false council, is needlessly showing himself and his kingdom in such extremity. For anyone can start a war when he wishes, but he cannot so easily end it.

— from a letter written by Peter Paul Rubens to a friend upon the occasion of Charles I and Henrietta's marriage negotiated by the Duke of Buckingham

Dover, England

February 1642

It was a rare English day, a day to ride to the hunt with Charles beside her, a day to play blind man's buff in the gardens with the children. Not a day for parting. Sky and water should be gray on such a day as this, that hated, dreary English gray her soul despised. From the ship's deck Queen Henrietta Maria shouted into the wind, 'God save you, mon amour, mon cher ami,' then louder, blowing kisses with her free hand, 'mon cher cœur.' Flying fingers sent sparks of color from her rings to light like jeweled butterflies in the sun-sparked harbor. With the other hand she clutched her favorite sad-eyed spaniel to her breast. The thrum, thrum, thrumming of his heart answered the frenzy of her own.

Mon amour, mon cher cœur. Words for whispering in the King's ear, two beating hearts, one body, in the curtained bed of state at Whitehall or in the lodge at Richmond, or the tented pavilion in the forest glade where two of their children had been conceived. Her French endearments always pleased him.

In everything she strove to please him, save one. Once he had said to her, 'You must remember, madame, that your son will someday be king. Do not fill his head with popery. It will only cause him great trouble.' Afterwards she had taken pains to see that the children's religious instruction took place outside his hearing.

This parting, this voluntary exile was Henrietta's plan to help with Charles' 'great trouble.' By the tall window, whilst Edward Hyde and the lords plotted with the King how best to put down the Scottish rebellion, Henrietta had hovered over her embroidery. She listened and watched. In their cocked eyebrows and conspiratorial glances, she had read an unfathomable circumstance: Charles needed money desperately. The royal treasury had been depleted by the uprisings in Ireland — and other things — and only Parliament could levy new taxes. Parliament refused. And yet, although Charles would not face the truth, Henrietta had gleaned enough to know that this Parliament would never fund another army for Charles Stuart — not as long as he had a Catholic queen. Nor would London's militia, the Trained Bands under the control of the Puritan Commons, likely take up arms against the enraged Presbyterian barbarians gathering on the border. Not even for their king.

On the shore the Master of the King's Guard muttered something in the King's ear. Charles continued waving, not turning to leave. She leaned against the rail, throwing kisses with both hands now, remembering her own part in beggaring the treasury: The beautiful palace at Somerset House, the gilded chapel with Master Rubens' grand painting, her retinue of Capuchins in their gold-threaded hoods. And Inigo Jones' elaborate masques at the Banqueting House — oh what fun it all was. Her enemies said she was too extravagant, but she had given England a court of glory to rival any in Christendom and she would not repent it. The last scrape from the treasury had gone to support her mother's extravagance when Cardinal Richelieu and Louis banned her from France and dear, kind Charles took her in.

Charles had been as pleased and proud as she at all the beauty and music and art until the day came that he shook his head and declared, 'Edward Hyde says the treasury is diminished, dear heart. We must not seem to be quite so extravagant,' and added he was going to have to recall Parliament, reminding her that in England only Parliament could raise taxes. He had few peerages left to sell and no more fees to levy. Some of the Lords had even gone to the Tower to keep from paying the ship-money levy, which they claimed was an illegal tax. That was more than a year ago. Shortly after he'd packed her mother and her extravagant household off to whatever duchy on the Continent was willing to harbor Maria de' Medici.

A strong-backed seaman shouldered the last chest as a royal footman handed it off. 'Lift the plank. This is the last of the lot,' he called as the chest tilted forward.

'Fais attention! It is the property of the crown.'

The captain cast a baleful eye on the seaman. She should not have said that. Parliament's spies were everywhere. He might request the chest be opened for inspection.

Henrietta smiling sweetly said, 'It is a gift from the King for the Dutch court. I promised his Majesty I would see to it personally. I wish it carried to my quarters.'

'As you wish, your majesty.' The captain nodded to the seaman, who took a firmer grip and moved on.

Her gaze turned once again to the shore. He was still here. Watching, waiting to see the ship safely out of harbor. In the months since Wentworth's execution, he'd been more melancholy than usual. It took much persuasion to make him see the necessity of her journey. He needed his wife by his side more than ever, he'd said wearily. But with years of practice she had learned how to bend him to her will and therein, according to her detractors, lay much of the problem. 'The King, he is pecked by a French hen.' She suspected that was not the worst they said in their gossipy broadsheets.

The ship rocked gently. The little spaniel yipped and squirmed. Henrietta handed it off to her maid. The sails filled. She leaned into the wind, willing it to cease, her eyes seeking to store up the sight of him on the shore. His mount snorted and pranced, impatient to be off. The same stiff breeze that teased her hair from out its ermine hood brushed the King's great hat, whipping its feathered plume. With her left hand she touched the pendant at her throat as though the touch of it could harden her resolve, strengthen her courage as much as any saint's medal.

Non. Restore the plank. Unload it all. Take everything back to Whitehall. Who will see that James reads his Vulgate catechism and Elizabeth remembers to take her medicine and Prince Charles learns all the things a king needs to know? Who will kiss Baby Henry's bald little pate and tuck him into his cradle? What if something happens and I never see any of them again? What if my ship sinks ... what if, God forbid, the King's enemies. ... She made the sign of the cross and mouthed a prayer to the Holy Virgin.

The captain shouted some words Henrietta didn't understand. The men on board coiled the cables in readiness for...