The Stuart Vampire Page 2

  Henry nodded, looking deeply into his father’s pale blue, soulful eyes, which now had large bags beneath them. His heart went out to his father, who looked so forlorn and betrayed by everyone and everything. Henry vowed to refuse the crown.

  “I will be torn in pieces first!” he said, for the grim image his mind had conjured up from his father’s dark words had filled him with dread.

  He couldn’t accept the thought of his family members being made examples of. The King kissed them both and they were led away by the guards, shrieking, their little arms outstretched towards the father they would never again see.

  And so, the next morning — a bitterly cold January day in 1649 — the King had put on two shirts instead of one to avoid shivering with cold and making his enemies think he was afraid. He refused to give them that satisfaction. The time had come, and Charles walked with quiet dignity from St. James’s Palace and towards the Palace of Whitehall. He ascended the scaffold stairs calmly.

  “I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where no disturbance can be.” With the infinite grace, he knelt and then lay down upon the scaffold floor, for he had been given the shortest of blocks to make his end all the more humiliating. In front of the Banqueting Hall, in which once their court was gay and was the stage for many a court masque, the executioner heaved the sharp axe and, with a mighty heave, brought it thunderously down upon the King’s neck. Mercifully, it took but one stroke to make him a martyr. His dear royal blood spurted out of his neck and pooled and dribbled through the gaps between the planks of wood, falling like bloody tears.

  Many others, before and after Charles, in the history of the Stuart family, were not so fortunate, suffering atrociously as they were hacked into again and again and again by the executioner’s axe.

  Young Charles, then in exile across the sea, did not hear the news immediately, but when he did it was because one man addressed him not as Your Highness but as Your Majesty. These words proved too much for the young man, and he wept as he ran from the room. Henrietta Maria, now a widow, went into such a state of shock, that she was virtually catatonic. She had never expected such a fate would befall her husband — a king! The world had gone mad and the unthinkable had come to pass.

  England became a Commonwealth under Oliver Cromwell and Parliament. The Puritans took a firm hold upon the land, and as they did, they squeezed the mirth out of England. They were as austere in their laws as they were in their attire. The Stuarts had lived for so long either in exile or under guard, and sometimes their bellies growled with the pain of hunger. Charles was truly a beggar king, depending upon the not always bountiful charity of his relations in France and in the Dutch Republic.

  On those rare occasions when he was in the same room as Oliver Cromwell, Henry only saw the ugliness of one of his father’s murderers. Cromwell had warts on his face and a large bulbous nose, features that young Henry would rebelliously make fun of back in his room, repeatedly drawing ridiculous caricatures of the stern and loathsome Lord Protector.

  Parliament made certain to look after Henry and Elizabeth, for they were still young enough to convert to their way of thinking, and imprisoned them in Carisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight. Poor Elizabeth, already a fragile soul, was only fourteen when she sickened and died. Henry, however, lived and thrived in the two years following his sister’s death. The Puritans had inculcated in him a strong belief in a Protestant God, and any vestiges of his mother’s notoriously Catholic beliefs had been systematically indoctrinated out of him. But Parliament soon grew tired of having to pay to house and feed a former King’s son, and the moment Henry had long yearned for was then at hand. His freedom! The thought of being again united with his dear family was what the now twelve-year-old had prayed for every day and every night. It was the goal that kept him alive whilst he was a prisoner in the Tower, and then under house arrest on the Isle of Wight. He kept the happy memories of his family firmly in his mind’s eye. Freedom was what he yearned for, and the hope of one day being reunited with his family kept his spirits up.

  Finally, the happy day had come, and Henry’s heart soared with every mile that his ship sailed away from Cromwell’s England and closer to his family in France. Seeing his brothers and his sister Minette standing at the dock, he bolted down the gangway and eagerly embraced them all.

  “Charles!” exclaimed Henry, embracing his tall brother tenderly. “I almost thought this day would never come!”

  “’Odd’s fish, my dear Harry! Why, you look very well indeed, and not at all like a puritan!” joked the merry exiled King. The years had seen Henry grow from sweet little boy to a handsome youth.

  Ten years separated Charles, the oldest from his youngest brother, Henry. Aged twenty-two, Charles was already a father to a three-year-old son, Jemmy. Charles possessed striking features, which were thought more in keeping with his Medici ancestors than his Stuart ones. He was swarthy, and possessed a sort of sleepy-eyed countenance. Nineteen-year-old James, the more angular of face and the fairest, was commonly thought to be the handsomest Stuart brother. Henry’s face was more oval-shaped in comparison with his older brothers. He had features that were so often admired in the Royal House of Stuart — dark, wavy hair, dark Medici eyes, and a tall, strong build. Henry’s brow, however, was dark, his eyes so dark a brown that they were almost black, and when he smiled or laughed, these dark eyes would sparkle with such brilliance that they could shame the jewels upon his breast. He was a merry young man, full of that zest for life, which is so intoxicating. He had a quick, light step and walked everywhere with purpose and with the same boundless energy of his brothers. In his behaviour, he was a model prince, kind to all, from the lowliest of servants to his fellow princes of the blood.

  They went to Paris, where their cousin, Louis XIV held an opulent court. Whilst Henry greatly enjoyed being once more with his beloved family, not all reunions were so happy. Henry visited his mother, whom he was shocked to find had become so little, and so old that he wanted to hold and protect her. She, however, received him coldly, and she had set a trap for her youngest son. She bluntly asked him if he was a Catholic. He said he was not, and this sparked an argument over religion that neither enjoyed. She said he was no son of hers, and he left her side in anger, and avoided her at all costs. He would never see her again.

  ***

  Leaving Paris, Henry, Charles, and his courtiers travelled to The Hague, in the Dutch Republic, where their sister Mary was Princess of Orange, having married the now deceased Prince of Orange. Henry met Mary, whom he had never really known before, and he also met her only son, a puny lad named William, whom Henry did not think likely to survive. That night, they feasted and caroused, as they had not done in many years. The Dutch, though by no means as pleasure-seeking as the French, were a welcome breath of fresh air from what Henry had known. Henry was enjoying himself for the first time in possibly his whole life, and his smile was bright as he chatted to the Dutch courtiers and English exiles alike. From the corner of his eye, he saw his brother James follow a plain woman out of the room. An assignation if ever he saw one.

  After the feast, Charles ushered forth a beautiful woman, with dark brown hair tinged with auburn. Her body as soft and pliable as any man could wish for. He knew in that instant that she was his brother’s bedfellow.

  “And may I introduce you to Mistress Barbara Palmer, my dear friend. Barbara, this is my little brother, Harry.”

  “Not so little now, Your Majesty,” the violet-eyed beauty said, naughtily. “Why, he’s a man. Are you not, Harry?” She eyed him up and down with admiration, and Henry looked away, endeavouring to hide the deep blush that had spread across his cheeks. He had been around toothless old women during his incarceration and had not enjoyed the same compliant, beautiful ladies that his brother obviously had in constant supply — even in exile. Henry, unlike his oversexed brothers, was unused to attention from the opposite sex and he did not have the slightest knowledge of what to do.

  “N
ow, I must away, for there unfortunately are pressing matters to attend to. And, Babs,” he said, with a mischievous glint in his eye, “Although he has had the misfortune of looking a good deal like me, do try not to flirt with my younger brother, for God’s sake!”

  “I have no intention of that, Majesty,” she replied as her royal lover left. Barbara then turned her sultry visage back towards Henry. “Not right away, at least!” she threw her head back and laughed, the sunlight shining off the auburn highlights in her brown hair. Barbara had been born into the influential Villiers family and, despite being already married to one Roger Palmer, she relished her being the exiled king’s mistress. She was unquestionably one of the most beautiful women of her time. Barbara was a fascinating, volatile woman and she was a sexually insatiable creature. Even lusty Charles was not enough for her. Eventually, she would take both of her cousins, the Duke of Buckingham and John Churchill, into her amorous embrace.

  ***

  The months and years rapidly went by, and Henry grew as tall and strong as his brothers. He was no longer a boy, but a man in every way. His admiration for Barbara had continued, but she never did take him into her bed.

  Charles’s former mistress, Lucy Walter, had, in 1649, given birth to a son, James. Things had ended badly between Charles and Lucy, and the exiled king eventually had their son kidnapped from her. The Crofts family raised the boy, and Charles doted upon his handsome son.

  “Harry! Come and meet my son, Jemmy.”

  Charles gently pushed forward a comely lad of some six or seven years towards his now seventeen-year-old uncle. Jemmy had chestnut tresses and eyes the colour of wild bluebells, due in no small part to his mother’s great Welsh beauty.

  “Why, hello, nephew,” Henry said, “I think you’ll find I’m the best uncle.”

  Jemmy looked straight up into Henry’s eyes, and boldly said, “I’m already inclined to agree with you, Sir, as Uncle Jimmy is more whey-faced than whey!”

  Henry laughed full-heartedly at this.

  “Jemmy!” his father growled, disapprovingly. For all his faults, James was still a brother to Charles and Henry, and Charles was adamant that he would be treated with due respect.

  “I’m sorry, father.” Jemmy replied, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s still the truth.”

  Henry smiled, for he could see that the boy was passionate, and he liked the lad immediately. Inwardly, Henry agreed with him, for James, Duke of York, though never a relaxed chap, had grown more morose and unlikeable in exile. Henry could see the same relentlessly stubborn characteristics that were implacable in their father.

  Charles nudged the boy on, who proceeded to energetically leap over the furniture. Jemmy obviously possessed Charles’s innate liveliness, but no one could have then foreseen that he would grow up to be the dashing, but doomed Duke of Monmouth. He would ultimately lose his own head by order of his whey-faced Uncle Jimmy. But, for the time being, he was just a young, spoilt boy, boisterously playing as carefree as could be.

  ***

  In his eighteenth year, Henry and his brother James decided to fight alongside Spain and Louis, Prince de Condé’s rebels against the English Commonwealth and France in the Battle of the Dunes. Although both Stuart brothers were excellent soldiers and heroic, they were defeated.

  In the course of time, once Oliver Cromwell was no more, the Commonwealth crumbled and the people yearned for a king again. The displaced Stuarts had survived the impoverished circumstances of exile, and then rejoiced in a triumphant return home in 1660. Mary, having always hated her adoptive country of the Dutch Republic, pawned her jewels in order to finance her journey with her brothers back to England. It proved to be a bittersweet homecoming. The new King Charles was plagued with thoughts about his father, and none of them could be fully happy knowing he died in so terrible a manner those eleven years before. He had been a most excellent father, and his ghastly end would leave an indelible mark upon each of his surviving children. The Stuart brothers were unhappy that Cromwell would never be punished in this life for his crimes.

  Nevertheless, the months passed quickly in the sensual frivolity of the Restoration court, in splendour and fun. It was a golden time, and it seemed like life was full of possibilities. Henry even found that he could turn his attention to the fairer sex, and he liked the look of one court beauty, in particular.

  Lady Margaret Foster, a sixteen-year-old with auburn hair much like Barbara’s, was open to his romantic overtures. She flirted wildly with him, and made him believe she was constant and true. Henry quickly lost his heart. As he thought she would become his wife, he began to give her costly gifts, including an elegant pearl necklace and a golden pendant which contained a miniature portrait of him.

  One day, however, he happened to walk in one of the gardens at Whitehall Palace, passing through a densely packed area of hedging, when he heard her giggling voice. He stopped dead in his tracks and he proceeded to eavesdrop upon her conversation when he heard a man’s voice.

  “You are such a flirt with the Duke of Gloucester, my lady, and I thought you enjoyed my attentions.”

  “Oh, but he’s the brother of the King, do you expect me to reject him for you? You’re poor, my darling, and I shall someday be a Duchess.” She giggled some more.

  Henry slowly looked in the direction of the voices, and there, through the hedge, he espied Margaret pressed up against an outer wall of the palace. She was now passionately kissing a man whose back was to Henry, her dress dishevelled and the man’s hand up her skirts, and she had a look upon her face of pure pleasure. Furious to discover that she had been leading him on, Henry stormed off. He was then nineteen, and he swore he would not let another woman so humiliate him again.

  ***

  The tennis game was energetic, fast-paced, and the court was hot, as crowded as it was. The viewing section was filled with adoring ladies and gentlemen chatting away about the latest vacuous court gossip. Charles, though brimming with energy, was no match for Henry. Sweat was pouring down Charles’s face and he wiped it with a white handkerchief trimmed with fine lace. With a mischievous grin, he threw it at the ladies in the box. Their giggles were enough to turn that grin into a broad leonine smile. He walked towards the net, and extended his hand out to his brother.

  “A capital game, Harry, but wherever did you learn to play like that?”

  Henry eagerly shook his brother’s hand. “One of the few pleasures I had during my confinement was the game of tennis. I excelled at it so that I almost thought I would have to do it as a profession!”

  Charles gave a great laugh. “You certainly would have been considered one of the finest players in the country. I daresay you are, nevertheless!”

  “I’ll have to get you a wife, brother, to help you channel some of that energy in sport of another kind,” said the King with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “You can take your pick!”

  Charles gestured over towards the bevy of curly-haired court beauties that sat admiring them from the viewing boxes. They sat chattering away, fluttering their fans as much as their lashes they cast coy looks at both the King and the duke. Henry frowned. Lady Margaret Foster sat sulking with the others, who ignored her as they chattered away frenetically. Henry was now firmly of the opinion that they were, all of them, over-painted tarts who were only after position and wealth; they probably wouldn’t give a fig about him as a man. He knew of the Stuart weakness for beautiful creatures, and he did not want to be that way. No, there was a part of his soul that yearned for someone untainted by courtly ambitions and pretensions. And so he shrugged.

  “They’re a bit too dim-witted for my liking, brother. And, surely Clarendon will have someone already in mind for me!”

  It was true that now aged twenty, the Duke of Gloucester was in an excellent position to marry, and the Earl of Clarendon would most likely offer a candidate to be Henry’s life companion. If not an English bride, why then a foreign match could potentially improve certain diplomatic relations. After all
, there had been an Anglo-Dutch war, even though their sister Mary had been married off to the second William of Orange, now deceased. Henry grimaced as he remembered some of the austere ladies from his sister’s court at The Hague, and hoped he wouldn’t have to marry one of them. Nevertheless, a politically advantageous union would have to be made for Henry, since James decided to stubbornly marry Anne Hyde, Clarendon’s own daughter — a commoner — whom he had impregnated back in the Dutch Republic. She had been the plain woman Henry had seen with James. The latter was lambasted for such a bad choice in wife and had had to endure the wrath of both his sister and his mother.

  The three Stuart brothers worked and played hard together. Everything finally seemed as it ought to be and Henry was full of youthful optimism about the future. Not for a single moment did he once think that there was another world than the one in which they lived. He knew nothing of the strange and evil predators that stalked the earth so satiate their thirst. He could not have known that he would soon become prey…

  ***

  One morning in September of that same joyous year, all hopes for future marital felicity were dashed. Henry awoke, feverish, and observed in alarm that the rash of smallpox had begun to form upon his flesh. Within days, the pustules of the foul disease had bubbled up onto his skin. The King and the court were informed immediately, as the physicians were summoned to the young Duke’s bed in Somerset House. Both older brothers had already faced smallpox and survived, the scars apparent enough on their skin, and so were now immune to its deadly contagion. They sat by their younger brother’s side, willing him to survive the dreadful malady.