HM Queen Elizabeth II

 

I am a Royalist. Have been for most of my lives. It feels strange to have a third King Charles on the throne when I had taken for granted that my Charles would be the last of his name. He and his father were Stuarts, and both of their reigns were fraught with tragedy and tumult as the country tore itself apart then experimented with having no monarch at all. One might suppose that they had it coming, believing that the divine right of kings set them apart from the common folk ... but doesn’t it? Each of us has a destiny determined before we are born. If the Stuarts had been more humble about it, the Commonwealth period may not have happened and Charles I could have kept his head but, as I say, the destiny of a person or a country, even of the world, is predetermined.

I digress.

This past summer saw the celebration of Queen Elizabeth II’s Platinum Jubilee. At ninety-six, she had been our queen for seventy years, the longest reigning sovereign in English history (and given the struggles of past monarchs to keep the throne, that’s quite the achievement). Talk about destiny. At the time of her birth, Princess Elizabeth of York was not expected to be Queen. If her uncle Edward VIII hadn’t abdicated, she likely would have lived a relatively private life, certainly one with less responsibility.

But her uncle did abdicate, and at the age of twenty-one she made a vow to serve the people of the realm for as long as she lived. Against all odds, through public and personal challenges, and the tenures of fourteen prime ministers, she kept her word. She was an exemplary public servant. She never quit, never gave up. She made the best of bad days and maintained her public face, a face that was calm, kind, and so similar to my own mother’s that I liked to claim the Queen actually was my mother, but there had been a mix up in the royal nursery and I ended up in the custody of a nice middle class Scottish family. When I was invited to reclaim my royal birthright as an adult, I refused. I loved my adopted family far more than I desired to be a princess of the blood. As any cherished daughter will tell you, being a princess isn’t exclusive to lineage.

I digress again.

It’s no longer news that the Queen passed away on September 8, 2022. Ter and I have been on vacation, so we’ve had the luxury of being glued to the TV as events unfold. Given Her Majesty’s advanced age, of course it’s no surprise that she’s gone, yet it came as a surprise when she went. Maybe because the end came so quickly—on September 6, she had welcomed Liz Truss as the next Prime Minister and forty-eight hours later, I woke up to reports that she was under medical supervision and the family had been summoned. I was stunned. Shortly afterward, the announcement came that Her Majesty had passed away, whereupon time assumed that odd elastic quality of being at once real and surreal. The expected becomes unexpected and we respond by running through a gamut of emotion that defies explanation.

It was almost like a death in the family. Shock, sadness, compassion for her immediate family and especially the new King, followed by a thirst for details about what happens next. I don’t know anyone who remembers when the Queen’s father died, so how is this going to work? Making a plan is not the same as implementing it. Even step by step instructions require physical action to manifest. I’m sure glad it’s not my job. All I have to do is get up at 3:00 a.m. PST on September 19 to watch the funeral. I can only imagine the stress running rampant at Buckingham Palace.

Am I digressing again? Maybe. I’m still running that gamut of emotion. I have been impressed with the King’s candour in his first speech as King. I’ve always considered him to be a gentle man, affable and kind with a genuine interest in the betterment of all people. I think he’ll do well enough. He’ll do best by following his mother’s example, which he has vowed to do though no one left on the planet can hope to meet the standard Queen Elizabeth II set during the course of her incredible lifetime.

She was quite simply the most valuable jewel in the Crown.

Vive “Versailles”!

Speaking of Charles II (see Diana), his Bourbon cousins, Louis and Phillippe, figure prominently in the latest period drama to have taken over Chez Ru and Ter: a rollicking, racy, extravagantly produced series about life in the Sun King’s court, aptly titled “Versailles”.

I spied the title in the Movie Channel listings one night in July and realized it was episode three of a series in its second season. Second season?? How had we missed the first? And was it worth watching in any case? Rather than risk being completely lost by watching episode three live, we discovered the first two episodes available on demand and promptly fell under its spell. Alas, season one was not listed, neither could we order it from Amazon (it shows on the European sites, but won’t ship to Canada).

I have no idea which of the angels prompted me, but I suddenly remembered that the Greater Victoria Public Library loans DVDs of everything from popular TV series (like NCIS) to obscure European productions, all for the price of nothing! I immediately got online and to my ecstatic delight, “Versailles - Season One” was not only in the catalogue, copies were available! I renewed my library card the same morning (the central branch is across the street from my office) and Ter and I were set for marathon viewing over the next few weekends.

We’re caught up as of this writing, with two episodes to go in Season Two. I can’t gush enough about this series. Seventeenth century royalty is an obsession of mine, but honestly, this show is so well written, acted, directed and produced (they film in the palace itself, among other French locations) that it deserves to be gushed about. I did spend a good part of the first few episodes trying to place the guy who plays Louis—Ter finally Googled him and discovered he’s the same actor who played Athelstan on “Vikings” (a waste of his talent, if you ask me)—and the fellow who portrays his younger brother, Phillippe ... okay, even if he wasn’t stunningly gorgeous, he’s brought that character to life in a way that history has failed to do. By reputation, “Monsieur”, as he was called in the day, was a mean, vindictive, cretinous little man, but in this series, he comes across as vulnerable and sympathetic, if not a complete fool in love. His relationship with his brother is alternately painful and magical, as are his affair with his lover, the incorrigible Chevalier de Lorraine (brilliantly played as a baroque David Lee Roth), and his marriage of political convenience to a German princess.

The main focus is on these relationships, as well as the usual court intrigue brought about by Louis’ decree to have all the nobles in France reside where he can see them. Ninety percent of the story is allegedly based on historic record, but these days, alternate history is as prevalent as alternate fact. I’m willing to forgo some things in favour of artistic license, but really, if the outrageous antics of Louis XIV’s dissolute and devil-worshipping court is halfway accurate, I’m more than a little peeved that my beloved Charles was criticized for not keeping on top of his gang in England at the same time.

He makes an appearance at the end of the first season, by the way. The actor wasn’t tall enough, his eyes were blue, and the voice was all wrong. You can’t play fast and loose with the image of my king and come out unscathed—but that’s my only issue with this fabulous, opulent, fascinating show. Series for which I fall this hard are generally cancelled after the first year. Best news of all: Season Three began filming in April 2017!

Diana

On July 1, 1997, Diana, Princess of Wales, turned thirty-six. Three months later, I was about to do the same when she was killed in the car crash that changed the world.

The news reached Ter and me at a friend’s house, where we were having dinner to celebrate my imminent occasion. Everyone immediately left the table and pounded down to the rec room, where we spent the next two hours staring in horror at CNN. Halfway down the stairs, I had the most disturbing thought: They’ve done it. They’ve gotten rid of her.

Nowadays, there are people alive who have no idea of the effect Diana had on the world, but twenty years ago, you’d have been hard-pressed to find anyone who hadn’t heard of her. In some form, by some means, she was part of the global awareness, an incandescent light so powerful that she was almost combustible. Even now, two decades later, I almost believe she had to die young. Envisioning her at my current age is impossible and, as seems to be the case with every other intensely bright spirit, her private darkness was so overwhelming that a long life was hard to imagine. I took it for granted that she would age, of course, until that fateful night when her life was cut short.

I followed her public journey with the same interest as I follow anything royal—being one of Charlie’s girls apparently set me up with an eternal fascination for the monarchy—but Ter identified with the princess as she identifies with anyone in whom she senses a kindred spirit. Like Ter, Diana was a broken but ferocious spirit, as passionate as she was compassionate, and Ter was gutted when she died.

Astonishingly, so was I.

Of course, the circumstances played a part. The woman was truly hunted to her death, and without the protection of the Crown, she was easier if no less famous prey for the paparazzi. A crazy car chase, an allegedly impaired (however mildly and I still don’t believe it) driver, and suddenly the most famous woman in the world is tragically (prematurely?) dead. That in itself was horrifying and would have been so—is so—had anyone else been in that car. I don’t remember if or for how long Ter cried that night. I only know I didn’t start until the next day, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. I felt bereft in a way I had no right to feel about a literal stranger. I did not know the Princess of Wales. Knowing of her is not the same thing, yet I wept as if we’d been sisters. And all the while, part of me was mystified as to why.

If we are all connected, then it’s simple. The grief each person felt was transmitted and amplified until the bulk of the world’s population was affected. Diana shone so fiercely that her light going out was equal to the Japanese earthquake that rocked the earth on its axis. Whether they knew it or not, everyone felt it on some level, and it stayed with us until her funeral six days later.

Ter and I got up at 1:00 a.m. to watch the procession from start to finish. We sniffled and sobbed through most of it. Neither of us will ever forget it—where we were, what we thought, how grateful we were to be together at the time.

The mystery of Diana remains as intriguing today as it was during her life. She was without doubt a star in the universal tapestry, and a threat to anyone she opposed. I’m not saying there was a conspiracy to kill her (and if there was, the royals would not be my prime suspects; rather the robber barons who make money off things like pestilence and landmines would be top of the list), but while the majority of the population mourned her passing, it’s entirely possible that a nefarious few breathed a sigh of relief. She was talented and tormented, beloved yet felt unloved, she was charismatic and caring and outspoken in defense of those who could not defend themselves. Ironically, her legacy is almost as strong as her influence in life, as her two sons strive to follow her example in all the right ways. Though hampered by the political restrictions of their social station, Princes William and Harry are somehow managing to carry on their mother’s charitable work, increasing public awareness of the human issues yet in play around the world, and standing in defence of those whom she brought to collective consciousness when her boys were still boys. Despite her personal struggles, or perhaps because of them, through her caring and her children, Diana made the world a brighter place for the rest of us.

That’s a royal legacy indeed.

Royal Flush

Of course I’m a Royalist. I had an affair with Charles II, didn’t I?

During the recent visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to Victoria, almost everyone I know displayed some degree of giddiness at the city’s brush with royalty. A couple of people were aware but not following, and only one rolled her eyes with a dismissive flip of her hand.

Well, fine. Say what you like about Britain’s royals, but I have no problem with my tax dollars going to support a visit to my hometown, or anywhere else in Canada, for that matter. Our nation’s membership in the Commonwealth has helped our global reputation as a diverse people of wit, warmth and welcome. We are a part of something greater than ourselves, which I believe makes us more tolerant and less suspicious of other nations. It also gives us the benefit of representation by a truly great lady in Queen Elizabeth II. She is an inspiring example of loyalty, grace and commitment, and she’s ensured that subsequent generations of her family are similarly aware of the privileged life they lead.

A life of service,

A life of charity.

A life on a gruelling schedule in a relentlessly public eye.

Few celebrities can make any of these claims, let alone all three, plus the royals are excellent ambassadors for any number of causes. They use their super powers for the good of others and not themselves (are you listening, Kardashians?) Better yet, they do it with style and—yes—humility.

I watched Will and Kate’s progress through their week out west and was less impressed by their lineage than by their conduct. “They’re such good people,” Ter remarked during the news clip of the couple breaking formation for an impromptu walkabout in Vancouver.

“That’s because they were raised to have manners,” I replied.

These days, any petulant brat can be a princess; it’s no longer a title of distinction demanding decorum and social grace. In a world of spoiled industry heiresses and overpaid sports stars, it’s refreshing to see monied young people exhibiting genuine class.

The Libertine

I watched The Libertine yesterday. Gad, I’d forgotten what a depressing film it is. Brilliant, but depressing. It’s based on the play by Steven Jeffreys about the last few years of John Wilmot’s life (Wilmot being the second Earl of Rochester). I wanted to see it again because it takes place in 1675 and I’m trying to regain a sense of the period with a view to reviving my story of Margaret and King Charles. John Malkovich played a plausible Charles, but the show rightly belonged to Johnny Depp as Rochester.

I don’t remember what I thought the first time I saw it. I do know that I liked it, though I don’t remember why. The period appeals for obvious reasons, and I adore Johnny Depp. When I learned that he was playing the Earl, adding the film to my collection was a no-brainer. He did a fabulous job with the character. I really disliked the rogue … but in the end I felt truly sorry for him. He was a victim of his own intellect, so desensitized by reason that he lost his ability to feel anything except contempt for himself, for his contemporaries, and for life in general. Charles was fond of him, no doubt about it, but the boy was on self-destruct and when that happens, all one can do is step back and start grieving.

It made me reflect once more on the perils of a hyperactive mind. I’m the first to admit I dislike thinking too much. I’m much happier to be doing or dreaming. Thinking, er, well, I’m pretty good at it when I have to be, but when I feel myself sliding into the abyss of harsh judgment and self-doubt, I know I’ve thought too far.

I’ve started reading Antonia Fraser’s bio of Charles II in earnest – I’m at 1648 and counting down to his father’s beheading. History has done him a bit of a disservice by focusing so intently on his love life when his youth was spent being shuffled from place to place while trying to fight a war. How he emerged with grace and humour intact was a testament to something deeper and stronger in his character than a notable affection for women. Maybe if John Wilmot had endured a similarly harsh adolescence, he might have appreciated life a little more – or at least been less miserable in it.

Slipping Into Fiction

The problem with a long weekend is its inevitable end. I got so much writing done over the past three days that this morning I’m finding reality an uncomfortably tight fit. What do I do for a living again? And do I care? I should, but let’s just say I’m exceptionally grateful that I only have three days at the office before I get another three days off. I think I can fake it to Friday.

I’ve been all over the space/time continuum, that’s for sure. Present day angels, 17^th century paragons, my imaginary lovers in Castasia ... I even got some historical blog stuff written, though I forgot my flash drive at home so the post intended for today will go up tomorrow instead.

My reality is surreality.

I worked with Cristal all day Sunday. The story is slow, but at least it’s progressing. I actually over-wrote in that I pushed past my fatigue at the end of the day and wound up finishing at a less than satisfactory point. Having thought about it, I’ll be rolling back and rerouting the scene, most of which is salvageable though I see where I stumbled. I’ve also noticed a few Lincoln Navigators in the ’hood since I started writing this story – have they always been there, or have I dreamed them into being by putting one in Cristal’s parking space?

I’m also resisting the impulse to plunge headlong into my old affair with King Charles – without much success. Though I’m engrossed in the “Weather Warden” series by Rachel Caine, yesterday I pulled Antonia Fraser’s biography of Charles II off the shelf and apparently intend on reading it again. I have to, in fact. “A Royal Encounter” is just too good to let lie, but wouldn’t you know, the next scene ended abruptly and I mean abruptly. Fifteen years ago, I quit writing a scene in the middle of a sentence! Who quits in the middle of a sentence?? Having no idea where the character was going with his observation (and it wasn’t the King, by the way), I must now delve back into the time and see what the heck he could have been about to say. There might be a slight roll back in that scene, as well, though it reads smoothly right up to the thought falling off the page. Mostly I think I want to be in love and I’m pretty deep into it with Old Rowley.

As if that wasn’t enough creativity, I also resumed work on the novel! A cup of Persian Apple tea got me into Jannika’s head and pushed me back to the scene where I left her, and darned if I didn’t get us both out of the mire by the end of the day! Joe Elliott’s birthday probably kicked that one into gear. Lucius is going to be her father-in-law (is that a spoiler?) and she’s finding him easier to comprehend than his eldest son. I thought this romance would be easy. Roll your eyes here.

So, with Right Brain fully in charge, I’m looking at a pile of invoices and wondering what I’m supposed to do with them ... is it Friday yet?

“A Royal Encounter (Part Two)”

In Which Margaret Finds a King
 

 

At supper that night, my father told us to stay close to the house until the danger was past. Troops from Cromwell’s army were scouring the countryside in search of the renegade King, and we were not to place ourselves at risk by straying beyond the yard.

John’s eyes lit. “You mean the King is here?”

“I doubt it,” Father replied, “but he’s a wanted man so they must search everywhere and I won’t have my children running afoul of the Roundheads. Our position is precarious enough as it is.” He fixed me with a stern glare. “Have you tethered your pony properly?”

I nodded around a mouthful of pudding. I was tempted to ask what the King looked like, but thought I already knew. It was general knowledge that he was tall and lean with black hair and black eyes—a description which matched the servant Will perfectly.

“Do you think he’ll get away, Mama?” I asked as my mother tucked me into bed.

“Not if you’ve tethered him,” she replied.

“Not Pumpkin, Mama. I mean the King.”

She sighed. She looked tired. The war had been as hard on her as on anyone—it had fallen to her as the lady of the manor to comfort the women who had lost sons and husbands recruited on the King’s behalf. I think she felt guilty that her own son had been spared, and she wore the grief of others as penance for her good fortune. “I don’t know, Meg,” she said wearily. “In truth, I don’t see how he can escape.”

“But they’ll kill him if they find him.”

“Probably they will. It’s no concern of ours anymore. The war is won and we lost. There is nothing more we can do but save ourselves. Close your eyes now, and sweet dreams, my dear.” She bent over me and kissed my forehead.

I did not sleep. I could not. Young as I was, it seemed the country had been in turmoil for all of my life. I did not understand the purpose of men and the hardships they inflicted on the innocent in their pursuit of power. Despite the countless conversations I had overheard in the drawing room and at the dining table, I knew only that King Charles had been a good man and General Cromwell had murdered him in order to seize the throne of England. Even then, I was not sure what difference it made to my family. No one deigned to educate me on the matter. Not even my brother John. He was old enough to take part in adult discussion, and to be taken seriously, but I was a child and a girl to boot—I was expected to do as my elders bid me without question.

But I was beginning to question everything. I was beginning to wonder why the war had been fought at all, why the King had been beheaded and why the people who had supported his son could not be left in peace. The war was over, but fear ran in dark currents through the household, trickling unseen beneath the floorboards and seeping between the bricks. It permeated everything.

I woke later that night to a heightened tension that differed from the norm. Perhaps that was what had wakened me. There was movement in the house, but it was quiet, stealthy, secret movement as if something surreptitious was underway. I got up and went to the door, pressing my ear to the wood. There were voices on the other side: my parents taking pains to ensure that the children were asleep. “I’ll look in on John,” my mother said, “but I’m sure Meg is long gone.”

“I want to be sure,” Papa declared.

I bounded back to my bed and burrowed deep beneath the covers, my heart skipping with excitement. What was going on? Why were my parents so concerned that John and I be sound asleep?

The door clicked open and I heard my father’s step on the floor. He always walked softly, he was such a gentle soul and very fond of me. Under other circumstances, I would have felt free to sit up and ask what was happening. In this instance, however, I sensed the prudence of feigning sleep and had to will my heart to slow its pounding lest the quivering of the bedclothes betray me.

His big hand touched my shoulder through the blankets. Unable to stay still, I took the opportunity to give a languorous stretch and roll over. His hand lifted, then moved to stroke my hair from my forehead in a loving caress. “Dream on, my little sweetheart,” he murmured before he left.

I lay quiet for some moments afterward. The house was not silent but the sounds of activity were muted, coming from the lower floor and the kitchens. Then I heard a muffled bump that was so loud I jumped. At first I wondered if I had fallen asleep and started myself awake by dreaming it, then I heard it again, quieter this time but definitely overhead, removed from the bustle at the opposite end of the house.

Someone was in the attic. I was accustomed to hearing the servants up there in the daytime, but never at night. The narrow staircase was concealed by a door cut into the painting at the end of the corridor; I had climbed it myself many a time. There was nothing up there but old clothes and broken furniture. It was a great place to play—and a greater place to hide.

Barefoot in my shift, I cracked open the door of my room and peered into the hallway. The night sky was dark through the gallery windows. No candles burned to light the way of servants or family members. This part of the house was silent, set to sleep until daybreak. A quick peek through the glass and I saw a sentry pacing the yard below, keeping watch for unwelcome soldiers. It was a common enough post these days. I should have thought nothing of it, but my imagination had been aroused. There was something worth protecting in this house tonight. There was someone—and I knew who it was.

I ran on tiptoe down the hall to the portrait of my great-grandfather and felt in the dark for the doorknob. A heavy velvet drape hung just inside; I swept it out of my way and quietly clicked the door closed behind me. I went up the stone stairs, feeling cautiously with my toes for the next step, bracing myself with a hand on the wall, climbing toward the light. For there was light at the top, a light too dim to be seen from outside, but a light nonetheless. My heart beat faster with every step. He was here. I knew he was here. A few more steps and I saw him, his long frame cramped into a space too small to be comfortable, sitting beyond reach of the lone candle set to light his shadowy hiding place.

He was bent forward, rubbing his feet with his hands. They were the biggest feet I had ever seen and I wondered how on earth he found shoes to fit him. It turned out that this was as difficult a task as I imagined, for the offending footwear had been tossed to one side as if in pained exasperation. This brief exhibition of temper had probably accounted for the noise I had heard below. Blankets and a pillow were stacked nearby, with a bottle of my father’s best wine. They knew, then. My parents knew that this was King Charles.

“Were the Roundheads waiting at Bristol?” I asked.

He startled, his face tense as his head came up with a jerk. On seeing me, a child in her nightgown, his shoulders relaxed and he offered a smile weakened by fatigue. “Do you even know what a Roundhead is?” he inquired.

“Of course I do. They’re the men who want to kill you.”

He looked suddenly wary, as if uncertain whether my innocent tongue could be trusted with the truth of his identity. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“You woke me up when you threw your shoes in the corner.” I went and picked one up in my hands. It was poorly made and worn at the sides, as if his foot had tried to hatch out of it. “Is this the best you could do?” I asked him.

“I fear so,” he sighed. “If I ever find myself back in God’s good graces, I swear I will never be so tortured by a pair of shoes again. What’s your name, my dear?”

“Margaret.”

“Well, Margaret, this is no fit place for a lady.”

“It’s no fit place for a King, either.”

He chuckled softly. The sound was strangely comforting in this precarious circumstance. I took it a sign that he accepted my knowledge of who he was. “For this King, my dear, any safe place is a fit place.”

I sat beside him in the shadow. He was big but not bulky; rather than feeling dwarfed by his size, I felt dainty. “Are you not afraid that they’ll catch you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

He glanced down at me, a faint smile playing about the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps a little,” he allowed, though more for my benefit than because it was true. “I am more afraid for your parents than for myself. I do understand the danger my presence has brought to their home and their family.”

“It’s only dangerous if the army finds you here, and they won’t. We won’t let them.”

He leaned back against the wall, slumping a little to give himself an inch of space above his head.

“How did you get so tall?” I asked.

“Two of my grandparents were tall. How did you get so pretty?”

I giggled. “I’m not pretty.”

“I think you are. I thought so when I saw you in the wood this afternoon. Did you find your pony?”

“Yes. My brother found him. Would you like to see him? He’s tethered in the stable.”

“I would, my dear, but I can’t this time. I must stay here, out of sight, and you must go back to your bed before someone discovers you gone.”

“I want to stay here with you.”

“That’s commendable, Margaret, but not practical. Do as I say, now, and off to bed with you.”

I regarded him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t sound like a King,” I told him. “You sound like my father.”

He laughed aloud at that, stifling the outburst at the last moment with one hand.

I really did want to stay with him. I wanted to share his meagre blankets and single thin pillow with him, to sleep by his side and take warmth from his body. For the first time in my life, the tension that haunted our house had dissipated and I knew that he was the cause. He would have to go in the morning, of course, but if I could have these few short hours alone with him, I would be content.

“Won’t you let me stay?” I pleaded, putting on my best, most beguiling face in hopes that he might be persuaded to change his mind as my father often was.

He smiled down at me, his black eyes sparkling. He took my face in his hands and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Not this time, my dear,” he murmured. “Not this time.”

 

copyright 1999 Ruth R. Greig

 

“A Royal Encounter (Part One)”

In Which Margaret Loses Her Pony ...

 

I remember well the day when Pumpkin disappeared. I was a week past my eighth birthday and the powers that be had blessed us with a fine end to summer. I had risen earlier than usual, hoping to get my ride in before breakfast. The pony had been a gift from my parents and, though we were still in the initial stages of bonding, I already adored him. How he got away was never fully determined; all that mattered at the time was the fact that he was not in the stable when I went to fetch him.

The hue and cry I raised as a result sent the house into a panic. We had few servants left; the young men had been lost to the war, fighting for the King at Worcester against the opposing—and victorious—forces of General Cromwell. Every day, my father worried that the property would be confiscated and himself thrown in irons. Hearing my screams from the yard, he had feared the worst and been relieved to discover that the cause of my distress was as simple as the disappearance of my pony. “We’ll find him, Meg,” he told me. “He can’t have gone far.”

My older brother saddled up to search the grounds. I spent the morning fretting and pacing the length of the gallery; when he returned at noon with no news, I burst into fresh tears and determined to set out on my own. “Go with her, John,” my mother said. “The last thing we need is for her to go missing as well.”

“It’s dangerous out there,” John replied, chewing on a chunk of crusty bread. “A troop of Roundheads have been sighted near the town.”

My parents exchanged dubious glances. “I don’t care!” I cried, reading their faces. “I must find Pumpkin!”

My mother shook her head. “Margaret,” she sighed, “you don’t understand.”

“No, Mama,” I retorted fiercely, “you don’t understand. I have to find Pumpkin. He might be hurt or frightened, and if the Roundheads find him, he’ll be in danger as well.”

“I’ll be watchful, Mother,” John promised. He flashed a reassuring smile at me. “Perhaps he’s headed back where he came from. We’ll try that next.”

I was devastated at the suggestion that my pony might prefer his previous owner over me. I talked endlessly of it to John as we rode together on his horse. John was fourteen and old enough to have joined the army had he not been lame in his left leg. He had cursed the infirmity even as our mother had praised God for it; he had wanted nothing more than to join the fight for the Prince of Wales. Only the Prince was not the Prince anymore; he was the King, and had been for the past two years. The battle fought at Worcester some weeks previous had been his last attempt at reclaiming the throne of England. The defeat had signalled the end of an era which my family would mourn for years to come.

It made no difference to me. All I cared about was Pumpkin.

“Let me down,” I said, wriggling in my brother’s arms. “If something spooked him, he might have run into the wood.”

“I’ve searched the wood, Meg. There was no sign of him.”

I struggled harder. “Let me down!”

John relented. I was the spoiled daughter of older parents and he liked me to learn my lessons the hard way. “I’m going this way,” he told me, turning his horse’s head.

“You go then,” I said. “I know my way.”

He regarded me with a smirk. “You’ll certainly have it, whether you know it or not,” he agreed. “What will you do if the army comes upon you?”

“I shall ask if they’ve seen my pony. I’m not afraid of them, Johnny. They’re just men. They’ve won the war; why should they care to make trouble for a little girl?”

“I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue as a precaution,” he said.

“I know my manners,” I reminded him.

“Very well, then,” he sighed. He put his heels to his horse and set off at a canter. I stood and watched him ride away, determined not to be afraid. Pumpkin needed me. I could not afford to crumble.

But I cursed my brother under my breath as I ventured into the shade of the wood. Being angry with him helped to hold the fear at bay, so I grumbled against his superior air and the cruelty of abandoning me in this wilderness. If something did happen to me, my mother would kill him and it would serve him right. Knowing John, however, I suspected that he had doubled back and was patrolling the area for my safety, perhaps even shadowing me as I followed a well-worn track through the trees. He was a wily spy; there was no sound to betray him. There was no sign of Pumpkin, either, and I began to curse him as well.

All was forgiven in the instant when I heard more than one horse approaching. I had given up the search for the moment, pausing for a bout of frightened tears which was not quite over. Drying my eyes with my hands, I turned, expecting to see my brother and a penitent pony. I was disappointed.

It was a small group of strangers: three men and a woman on a journey. None of them were remarkable but for the one man who was more finely-dressed than the others, and who carried himself with an air of nobility more assumed than inbred. I took him to be the leader of the group and made my entreaty to him. “Please, sir,” I said, forcing him to draw rein by stepping into his path, “have you or your companions seen a chestnut pony hereabouts? He won’t be harnessed and he has a white sock on his near forefoot.”

“Nay, child,” the gentleman replied, “the only horses we have seen are these. Stand aside now, or you’ll be trampled.”

“Then which way have you come, sir, so I know not to look there?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat. I caught the briefest of glances between the woman and the second man, and deduced that I was about to be told a lie.

“We are headed for Bristol, miss.”

The third man had spoken; the one riding behind the woman. I had not taken specific notice of him, but his voice drew my eye to his face. It was a wonderful voice, deep and calming—and speaking the truth. I knew by the way the others fell oddly silent. And his face was kind, the black eyes warm with sympathy for my plight. I was immediately soothed and did not know why except that he was the source.

“Are you looking alone for your pony?” the woman inquired.

“My brother has gone the other way.”

“And your parents?” she persisted.

“Waiting at home. It’s not so important to them. They have their own concerns.” I was speaking to the third man, my eyes locked on his. He should have been the leader; there was something naturally commanding about him. “Would you help me find my pony?” I asked.

His smile widened. He was young and handsome, dark like my father and brother. I thought he might agree to help if his master permitted. I hoped he would.

“We cannot delay further,” the first man declared. He, too, spoke to the third man. “Come along, Will.”

Will nodded and straightened up in the saddle. He rode tall, sitting his horse like a hero without making an effort to do so. The first man clucked to his mount and I jumped out of the way to watch them pass. They started off at a brisk trot, and in the seconds before his horse picked up the pace, Will doffed his hat to me. His thick hair was long and black. “I hope you find your pony, miss,” he said.

I curtsied as my nanny had taught me. “Thank you, sir. Have a safe journey.”

He chuckled as he passed by, spurring his horse to a canter to catch up to the others.

“Margaret!” It was John, calling from the other side of the wood. I turned and ran toward his voice, promptly dismissing the encounter in my haste to see Pumpkin again.

copyright 1999 Ruth R. Greig

"All Men Are Kings"

I went to him for two reasons: I had been summoned, and I wanted to go.

He welcomed me with open arms, greeting me with a kiss before leading me to his bed. It was a king’s bed—draped in velvet, piled high with pillows. He left the candles lit; he said that he wanted to see me. I do not think that he liked darkness. So much of his life had been lived in it. I did not greatly care for it, either, and for the same reason.

He was a good lover. Sensual men often are, and he was more learned than most. More practiced. I was not so experienced, but I was inventive and this he appreciated. I did my best to please him and was rewarded with a moment’s peace in the haven of his embrace.

Everyone loved him—even his enemies, once they came to know him. He was difficult to offend and disinclined to cruelty himself. And he loved me, for a while.

I loved him, too.

I was surprised to discover this. I had believed it impossible to love any man as much as I had loved Lucien, but I was wrong. I fell in love with the King of England.

Was it his kindness that swayed me? His low voice, his easy laugh, his lazy wit—they were all attractive traits, but not unique. He wasn’t even particularly handsome, though his black hair and dark eyes reminded me of my beloved Lucien. Perhaps his kindness reminded me as well, and this was how I came to feel more than mere gratitude for the sanctuary he offered. He treated me like gold. When we were alone together, I was all that mattered. His desire fed on mine, and so he took pains to satisfy us both.

I was never really satisfied until after he had spent his seed. Then I could lie in his arms and know absolute bliss until the moment when I had to leave him. I did not even want his blood. All I wanted was the security of his presence. No one dared interrupt us; no one dared harm him, or me, for as long as he wanted me. Most women bedded the King for the power they felt he could give them. I bedded him for solace.

One night, I got up and began snuffing the candles. “Weary of looking at me, my dear?” he drawled, teasing.

“Nay, sire. I would have you to myself and will not share you with the light a moment longer.”

He was too jaded to be bought with flattery. “Come now,” he said as I rejoined him between the sheets, “this is odd behaviour. Why the cover of darkness?”

I lay down with him. His arms enfolded me, sheltering me like an eagle’s wings. He was strong and lean, possessed of remarkable vitality. He might not favour the shadows, but his mind was already working to make appropriate use of them. I cuddled closer, pressing my cheek to his chest. “Sometimes,” I whispered, “the light frightens me.”

He made no reply. He kissed the top of my head, perhaps understanding my fear but unwilling to admit it. I slid my arms around him and closed my eyes. I was afraid, though not of the light. Not of him. Not even of de Gras, who would surely beat me if I returned before the crack of dawn. I was afraid of myself, afraid of having confessed fear to this man, to this king who was a mere mortal; who could not, when considered in the full light of day, protect me from my fate.

“Is it your husband?” he murmured.

Husband. My face clenched around the sudden threat of tears. “No,” I said harshly. “He does not frighten me.”

“Oddsfish, the fellow frightens me,” he declared.

His wry tone surprised me into laughter, turning melancholia to ardour in the space of a heartbeat. We made love again, then he slept; and for a few hours, I let myself dream that I was not the King of England’s mistress, but the blacksmith’s wife once more.

He was very much like Lucien without being like him at all. He was as beloved, as tolerant, as easygoing and amusing as Lucien had been, but he was not a man to be trusted with a woman’s heart. He was willing to give so much and nothing more, he disliked contention and was quick to move on if his current fancy became too demanding. He had few illusions concerning the nature of female affection, and the females to whom he was most attracted tended to prove his point. And the wife of a troublesome husband was to be avoided at all cost.

I was beautiful, but my keeper (I would not call him “husband”) was violent enough by reputation to make me a bad risk for the average courtier. Charles Stuart was not an average courtier. I knew at first sight that I wanted him and I knew exactly why. Kings must be left to the fate of mortals. De Gras was helpless to act on his jealousy by harming Charles, and his threat of harming me was no deterrent. Though I had no hope of escaping it entirely, if I could be guaranteed a few hours’ respite from the misery of my existence, nothing would stop me from pursuing it. There was no safer place than the King’s bed.

I believe that he felt as safe with me. I made no demands. I displayed no temper. I did not try to direct him in matters of ruling. I even refused the tokens he would have given me, for he was generous with his women and liked presenting little gifts of gold or jewels. He insisted at first, stating that I must have something of value should I bear his child. When I told him that I was barren, he stared for a moment, then said: “Oddsfish, you would make a fine Queen.” We both laughed, though he seemed somewhat disappointed. He loved his children even after his affection for their mothers had dissipated, but he was genuinely fond of me and might have liked us to have a child together.

I would have liked it too. But of course it was impossible.

What French he spoke was not fluent, so I taught him bits and pieces. He enjoyed learning the bawdier terms and we spent many hours laughing together over his lessons. He named le petit mort as his favourite phrase, argued that it was also a verb and, when I argued against him, set about convincing me to his cause.

He was a deeply sensual man. He could not help but inspire similar feelings in me. I loved to be with him; loved his sinewy strength and the rasp of his beard on my skin. I did not care for the perfume that lingered from his clothes, but I adored the warm, earthy scent of his flesh and the taste of salt on my tongue. My body loved him, hungered for him; and in the torrid throes of passion, the fever swelled in my throat to tempt me with his blood. I was reminded at such moments that to most he might be a king, but to me he was just a man. Just a mortal as vulnerable to my appetite as countless women were to his.

We began to talk as our relationship progressed. I doubt that he meant to keep me for so long; his interest tended to wane upon the heels of conquest. He said that I was different, that he could not tire of me because I did not make him weary. Then he asked me to accept a choker set with diamonds that he said matched my eyes. I refused.

“Then what can I give you?” he asked, exasperated. “Surely you must want something of me.”

“I have it, sire,” I replied. “Each time I see you, I have what I want.”

He eyed me mistrustfully, certain that I was lying. Or hoping that I was. He made a point of staying out of his mistresses’ personal lives. He wanted nothing to do with husbands or brothers who might disrupt his pleasure, but he looked hard at me and found himself caring more than he had intended.

“This man of yours, this de Gras,” he said slowly, “how did you come upon him?”

I did not want to discuss the matter and reached down to distract him, but he caught my wrist and held me fast, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Tell me,” he said.

My vision glazed almost immediately. I hoped that he would be dissuaded by the prospect of my weeping, but I was wrong. He raised my captured hand to his lips and gently kissed it. I swallowed tears, determined to be brave. “I did not come upon him,” I said quietly. “He came upon me.”

“An arranged match?” he inquired.

I shook my head. “I was already married. De Gras … stole me from my husband.”

“You were kidnapped?”

“I suppose so.”

He studied me for a long, silent moment. He had seen many things in his life and had learned to read faces for the truth. Though my story had the makings of a whopping good fiction, I had no reason to lie and Charles saw this. All traces of his usual good humour had vanished. “I did wonder why a Frenchman with no apparent wealth would come to England,” he remarked.

“There was no cause to stay in France,” I said.

“Do you not mean that there was greater cause to leave?”

I smiled weakly. “Not the cause you might think, sire. My husband is dead. I have nothing there anymore.”

“Oh, my dear,” he sighed, genuinely sympathetic. His nature was compassionate enough to allow him the freedom of embracing me here, in the privacy of his bed, and this he did, gathering me close to his chest and stroking my hair with a gentle hand.

I did not cry. I did not fall upon him and lament my circumstance in a fury of tears. I lay very still and very silent, biting back rage. If I loosed it, if I shouted that he had betrayed me, I would be forever banished from this haven where love and tranquility were guaranteed.

But they were guaranteed no longer. He had made me speak of Lucien. He had made me recall the beginning of this nightmare when all I asked of him was comfort. He knew more than I wanted him to know. I had depended on his own rule against interfering and he had broken it.

“What can I do?” he mused, moved beyond his established limits and pragmatic enough to accept the fact. “What can I do for you, little Janie?”

“Do not speak of it again,” I rasped. “I will not have you speak of it again!”

“But there must be something,” he insisted. “I will write to my sister in France—”

“Don’t!” I cried, pulling away from him. I felt my soul detaching as well, ripping a little as it broke free. “There is nothing you can do, and if there was I would not have you do it!”

My indignation seemed to amuse him. “Sweetheart, you forget. I am the King of England.”

“You are the king of nothing,” I retorted hotly. I thrashed my way out of bed and turned on him. “You are a man; a frail mortal with power over nothing! How could you do this? How could you? I come to you for peace and pleasure, things so easily given, things you yourself seek from every woman you bed! You give me comfort simply by being, yet you would destroy that comfort by forcing me to speak of things you would rather not know. Do not help me. I am beyond help. All I wanted was sanctuary, and now even that promise is worthless.”

He was thoroughly baffled by my outburst, no doubt thinking it odd that a woman would refuse any gesture he was willing to make that might better her situation. Typically, he attempted to make light of it, but he did not understand. He could not. It was impossible.

“Come to bed, love,” he purred, growling deep in his chest. “I’ll speak of it no more, if that is your wish, but come back to bed.”

I stood alone, arms clamped tight across my middle, trembling with cold and unshed tears. I saw then that I was dreaming, that all he had given me was the illusion of peace. I was bound by the same law that spared him from de Gras. I could not make him immortal. I could not lie safe within the circle of his arms forever. He was just a man.

He beckoned to me from the shelter of the bed. “Come, my dear,” he said, coaxing.

Swallowing the grief which had risen in my throat, I went forward. I took his hand and let him draw me beneath the quilts; let him embrace and kiss me; let him make love to me as he had done a dozen times before. I let my body love him for the last time and then, just as he reached out to grasp son petit mort, my fangs found the swell of his jugular and pierced it.

He groaned in prolonged ecstasy. My limbs clamped tight around him and his blood flowed thick and dusky over my tongue. So this was how a king’s blood tasted. It was not like ordinary blood at all. It matched the difference between water and wine. It was dark and rich and powerful. I could not have drained him without making myself ill, so I took only a little; just a token to carry with me for as long as it lasted.

It has lasted to this day.

No book has been written about Charles II that I have not added to my library. It is too vast a collection to take everywhere; the bulk of it resides on the shelves of my estate in Surrey. But I have a few favourites that travel with me wherever I go. Julian believes that my affection for Restoration England stems from the fact that I met and made him in the months following my affair with the King. He can be so sweetly arrogant at times. So naive to think himself the only one to have touched my aching, eternal heart. I cannot be bothered to tell him otherwise. He would not believe me anyway.

But now you know. Are you surprised?

 

September 21, 1999

Revised March 9, 2012

copyright by Ruth R. Greig