Charles the King Read Online Free

body. He had deliberately made concessions in his marriage treaty with the French which promised toleration to the English Catholics without informing Parliament or any of the Crown Ministers except Buckingham. War between one nation and another was not confused in his mind with the disembowelling of priests and laymen for the crime of practising their religion. Unlike his father, whose beliefs were dictated by policy, unlike most men of enlightened views at his own Court, Charles held his Protestant faith with passionate sincerity. He was unique in his ability to respect the opinions of others without sacrificing any tenet of his own.
    He thought of his Catholic bride and felt sure that under the benign influence of the clergymen at his Court and his own example she would see the error of her beliefs and embrace the Church of her adopted country. If she did not, then it was not in his nature to make her; nor was he capable of allowing her views to corrupt him or the children he hoped she would bear him. That had been clearly understood. The heir to the throne of England and his brothers and sisters would be strictly brought up in their father’s religion. He had assured a sceptical House of Commons on that point and he intended to keep his word.
    Steenie had said he must be firm with his wife. He sat on, thinking of that advice after the Duke had excused himself and gone away to change his clothes and prepare for dinner at the Royal table.
    The more Charles thought of the girl he had seen for such a short time, the less he felt inclined to take a stern attitude with her. Her lapse of good manners seemed less significant as the time passed; his irritation and misgivings faded until he remembered nothing but the sweet, piquant little face and the lovely dark eyes full of tears.
    He had never been in love, and he was not in love then, but he felt a curious disposition towards it, almost a longing for the emotion which was so lightly roused and as lightly blighted by immorality and cruelty and betrayal between men and women. He was not like Buckingham, as he had pointed out. He had never felt the least inclination to sample women indiscriminently, but that did not mean that his blood ran colder than in the veins of other men. He was not libidinous; he was incapable of the mental leer and the unclean experiment, but the passions of his Stuart ancestors slept lightly in his nature. They were as inflammatory as his temper. If those passions woke with the new Queen of England, if his hopes were fulfilled in her, then his love would follow. And love with Charles knew no limit of prudence or generosity.
    In her own apartments, Henrietta Maria was being dressed for dinner with her husband. She had spent a long time choosing what she would wear, over-ruling the advice of Madame de St. George, to the surprise of that lady, who thought she saw signs of needless enthusiasm for the stiff young English King.
    â€œI think you should have worn white, Madam,” she said. Henrietta sat down to look at herself in the dressing mirror on the oak chest by the wall. To her annoyance there wasn’t a full-length glass in the room.
    â€œPink suits me better,” she answered. “You yourself always told me not to wear white when I am pale. And I am pale. More rouge, please, de Berrand.”
    The dress was made of the finest Lyons silk, dyed a soft, coral pink and cut low over her tiny bosom and thin shoulders, with a wide collar of silver lace. There were pearl buttons on the bodice, and two rows of very fine pearls of a delicate rosy colour arranged in the curls of her black hair. She had very pretty hair and Mademoiselle de Berrand had dressed it in the style made fashionable by the beautiful Queen of France. It was drawn back from her face in soft waves and fell in curls and little wisps round her shoulders. She looked like an exquisite doll.
    â€œIt is not wise to make too much fuss of these people,” Madame de St. George