Hoogstraeten, on the border of the Netherlands

“Majesty! Majesty!”

Charles’ racquet missed the ball, and he swore. He was on the tennis court at Hoogstraeten, deep in battle with Louis, and the interruption had just cost him a game.

“What is it?” he snapped at Sir Stephen Fox who by now was standing at the side of the court, breathless from his run.

“Cromwell is dead.”

Charles stared at Fox. “Say again, man?”

“Cromwell is dead. A fever, some say, although another rumour whispers poison. But what care we? Cromwell is dead!”

“I hope not poison, for the sake of your reputation, majesty,” said Louis, who had come to Charles’ side. Both men were sweating heavily, the linen of each one’s shirt stuck in patches to their back and chest, their breeches stained at groin and waistband.

“Cromwell is truly dead?” Charles said.

“Aye,” said Fox. “And aye and aye again. A week since.”

Charles and Louis locked eyes; there was a great deal which needed to be said, and none of it here, with other ears listening.

The news had spread. Men were running from the house towards the tennis court, cheers announcing their forthcoming joyous arrival.

“What do we now, majesty?” said Fox, a great grin splitting his face.

“We play it more carefully than ever we have before,” said Charles, and Sir Edward Hyde, who had just arrived, nodded.

“Aye, majesty. Now is not the time to put a single foot wrong.”

“No invasion,” Charles said slowly, and again his eyes met Louis’. Not this time. “We wait for the invitation.”

Hyde looked at Fox, and around at the other men who had gathered in an excited circle about Charles. Exile, finally, finally, over!

Almost.

“Cromwell’s son, Richard?” said Charles. “Has he been proclaimed Protector, do you know?”

Fox nodded. “On his father’s deathbed. The Council of State has ratified it.”

“That isn’t worth the hot air it took them to expel the blessing,” said Louis.

“Nay,” Charles said. “Richard must now prove himself, and I think he shall not have the nerve for it. My friends, the world turned upside down fifteen years ago, but now I think the mighty tide of revolution has passed, along with Cromwell. Rebellion has exhausted itself, and we, we, shall return on the ebbing tide of its strength.”

“Who, then?” said Louis. “Who holds the power? Who the key to your—” our “—return?”

Charles looked at Sir Edward Hyde.

“General George Monck,” Hyde said, and Charles nodded. Monck was the leading general in Cromwell’s army, controlling over half of its total forces. He was virtually the most powerful man in Britain at the moment; not in title, but in influence and might of weapons.

“But Monck has been ever loyal to Cromwell,” said Fox. “He has never said a word in your favour, majesty.”

“It is what he doesn’t want that is more important,” said Hyde, “and what Monck doesn’t want is for England to dissolve into chaos, which is what is likely with Richard Cromwell at its helm.”

“He is an astute man,” said Charles. “He will be amenable to…discussion.”

“Promises of titles? Lands?” said Fox.

“No!” snapped Charles. “That is just what we must not do. Hyde, de Silva, my private chamber, if you please.”

They reconvened within Charles’ chamber within the half hour, giving both Louis and Charles time to bathe and change their clothes.

Hyde had gathered several sheets of paper, and a pen and inkwell lay to one side of his right hand.

Charles sat down at the table, Louis also, setting down a large flask of ale and three cups. He filled the cups and passed them about.

“Lord God,” Charles said quietly, “pray I do not make a misstep now.”

“It will take time,” said Hyde. “Months, likely, if not longer.”

“I know,” said Charles. “I am a patient man.” He laughed shortly. “After all, I have had the time and the opportunity to perfect my patience.”

Louis caught Charles’ eye. More than enough time, eh, my friend? More than two lifetimes’ worth of patience.

“What steps do we take now?” said Louis.

“We approach Monck,” said Hyde, “quietly and gently and humbly. Your crown literally rests in his hand, majesty.”

Charles briefly wiped a hand over his eyes. Pray to all gods, Christian included, that Weyland doesn’t think of that.

“What should I say?” Charles said. “What words do I use to beg my throne back?”

“Use words of truth,” said Louis. “He is a general. He has no time for the dissimulation of courtiers.”

“Perhaps,” Hyde said, picking up his pen and dipping it into the inkwell, “after a general salutation, we might say something in the manner of: ‘I know too well the power you have to do me good or harm not to desire you should be my friend’.”

Charles grunted. “Are those the kind of words a general would wish to hear, my friend?” he said to Louis.

“They are truth, and they are straight,” said Louis. “He will accept them, and not think you the weaker for speaking them.”

“Then perhaps some words stating my desire above all else for peace and happiness for all Englishmen,” said Charles to Hyde. “I am sure you can find something suitable to express my meaning.”

“Make sure also,” said Louis, “to ensure Monck knows that should he hear anything to the contrary, then it be a falsehood. The king desires peace for his country, nothing else. He does not send this missive with a sword in his hand.”

Hyde nodded, intent on his scribbling.

They passed to and fro some more suggestions, then Hyde had a suitable draft before him. “How should I end it, majesty?” he asked.

Charles sipped his ale, thinking, then dictated: “’I must say, I will take all the ways I may to let the world see that I have an entire trust in you, and as much kindness for you as can be expressed by your affectionate friend, Charles R’.”

Louis grinned. “A final flourish, majesty, to let him know the courtier is not quite dead?”

“‘Affectionate friend’?” queried Hyde. “He was Cromwell’s man, after all.”

“Monck was not one of the men who signed my father’s death warrant, Hyde. He was not one of the murderers. He came later to Cromwell’s cause, and then worked with him for England’s sake. If his had been one of the signatures on my father’s warrant of murder—” Charles shuddered “—then what I have just written would damn me. I would rather invade than grovel to one of my father’s murderers.”

Louis and Hyde exchanged glances. No one who had put his name to that warrant would live long once Charles was firmly on the throne of England.

“How shall we send it to him?” said Hyde. “If we send it directly we may well endanger Monck. We cannot know the full subtleties of the situation in England at this moment.”

“He has a brother, a clergyman in Cornwall, I believe. We can send the communication to him, and he can pass it to his brother.”

“Very well,” said Hyde. “I shall retire and write this more neatly, and without these schoolboy blotches.” He rose. “If I may have leave to retire…”

Charles nodded, and Hyde left the chamber.

“England!” Louis said, emotion rippling through his voice.

“Aye. Finally.”

“Noah…” Louis said.

“Marguerite and Kate left yesterday, and my letter to Bedford asking him to house them a few days before that. They are better placed than I’d thought, with this welcome news. Bedford now cannot refuse me. Not his probable future king. Ah, Louis, Noah is my life. I wish I could be going to her now.”

“I know,” said Louis, gently. “I know, Charles. At least, now that Cromwell has died, it should not be too long before I can be with her.”

Charles shot him a dark look.