Will we meet again?

It was 29th January 1640 and Henrietta Maria, Queen Consort of England, Scotland and Ireland, sat in a window seat at the Louvre Palace and looked up at the stars. A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of her husband, two hundred miles away in England, fighting for his crown. She wondered where he was, if he was looking at the same stars she was.

It had been over four years since she had seen him, fleeing her home to return to France. Their fifteen-year marriage had been beset by difficulties, more recently as he battled the

Parliamentarians to retain his crown. Like most royal marriages it had been a match of politics not love, but throughout the years this had changed, and now she was apart from the man she adored in the cruellest of circumstances.

She was in a contemplative mood that evening, and Henrietta Maria's thoughts drifted back to her wedding day, she hadn't been happy then. Shipped off to a foreign country at fifteen to marry the new King of England, she couldn't even speak his language. The wedding had taken place less than two months after his father had died and many of those attending were not happy at their new King marrying a Catholic Princess, resulting in a day fraught with tension. An outbreak of the plague and mourning for the late King James I also prevented the normal opulent celebrations given to a royal wedding. To top it all off, she wouldn't even be crowned, the English were not going to accept a Catholic as Queen. Of course, she had known growing up she was destined to marry someone of influence, but this wasn’t at all how she had imagined it.

Not a great start, even she could see that, and with hindsight she could see how it influenced her new husband’s actions. Alone and friendless she longed to return to France. The dismissal of her French ladies had almost been the final straw, but what could she do? Destined to be an unloved royal wife in a hostile country - like many before her she had been left to accept her position. She hadn't been the easiest of people to live with, but she had been young and immature, and she was a Queen in all but name... didn't she deserve the best? His attitude hadn't helped either. They had often fought over her spending and did their best to avoid each other. How she regretted those lost years now.

It was only after a few years that they began to truly see each other. Looking back now, Henrietta Maria could almost pinpoint the moment when things began to change.

The assassination of the Kings closest confidant and her greatest critic - the Duke of Buckingham - three years into their marriage, had been the turning point. With no one else to comfort him, he had turned to her. It took time for the love to grow, of course, but she had known he was hers at last. As she sat in the window seat all those years later, Henrietta Maria let her mind take her back to the time he had first spoken of his love for her, alone in their chamber. Tears pricked her eyes as she remembered the words, 'Dear Heart, I don't know how I would have gotten through the last few months without you. You will always have my heart.'

Together they began to rule the country in the way only true monarchs can. She admired his conviction in his divine right to rule, neither really understanding the gathering strength of discontent gripping the country.

Once they had discovered their love for each other everything changed. She thought back to the parties they'd held, both were fans of a masked ball and following the completion of the Queens House in Greenwich there had been plenty. Her mind drifted back to one in particular, held nine years previously. How those uptight Parliamentarians had been shocked at her appearance on stage, as if they should be the ones to tell her what to do. She remembered how he took her hand and asked her to dance, spinning her round as the court watched on, the memory of how his hand felt on her back, warm and strong, had made her shiver in delight. A small smile crossed her lips, how wonderful they must have looked, in her deep blue dress and pearls, and him dressed in full opulence, showing his power. Lording over those beneath him, as was his right.

The House itself had looked particularly lovely that summer, surrounded by the most beautiful parkland. Spending the summer there with the children, they could almost forget their detractors who wanted to bring them down.

There was no doubt this shared love had helped cement their marriage, Charles had been generous enough to designate her a Patron of the Arts, and together they'd created a joyful court full of music and dancing.

And oh, as their love grew, so did their family. Their large brood was her pride and joy, scattered as they were around Europe at that time. Her first baby, Charles, survived for only a few short breaths, although retained a place in her heart. The older children, Charles, Mary, James were at that moment abroad looking for ways to help their father, but at least she knew they were safe. The two she really feared for were Elizabeth and Henry. At just fifteen and nine they were in the keep of the traitors back in England, and she didn't even know where. Her youngest, little Minette, born just before she’d left England, was the only one here in Paris with her now. What life would she have? Henrietta prayed that one day Minette would meet her father, but for now she had to wait.

They were the proof of the love Henrietta Maria and Charles had shared, but where would they go from here? She longed for the day they would all be together again.

But while their private life had flourished, the dark clouds were gathering. If only he hadn’t been so stubborn in ruling his country. The Civil War had been raging for years now, and that damned Oliver Cromwell was winning. Who was he to interfere with the divine right of the King?

She had done her best to support him, even travelling to Holland to raise funds and troops, under the guise of attending Mary's wedding. She had returned a year later, bringing a small army with her, but it wasn't enough. Henrietta Maria remembered the determination they had both felt as they plotted the future together on her return, desperate to keep the monarchy alive for their son. They had never doubted the righteousness of their power, their place on the throne was given to them by God, and even when it looked like all was lost, they knew that with his support they would prevail.

Her mind drifted back to the day in April 1644 when she had last seen her husband, staying in a small town just south of Oxford. Seven months pregnant with Minette, she was heading south to escape the fighting. She remembered their last night together, hosted by their old friend Sir Thomas who had ensured their sons were well occupied to give them the privacy they required. They had clung to each other that night, savouring every moment. She could remember the thump of his heart as she’d laid her head on his chest, the feel of his arm as it curled tight around her. As dawn was breaking, he had moved down the bed and placed a gentle kiss on her pregnant belly, the one loving act he could give his unborn child. ‘Go with my blessing’, he had whispered gently in her ear, ‘Raise us an army, and come back to me soon, dear heart’. They had taken breakfast in their room that morning, him keeping a watchful eye to ensure she ate enough to keep up her strength for the journey, though she’d felt sick at the thought of good-bye.

A gentle knock on the door had indicated it was time to leave and they walked side by side to the courtyard. They had said all they needed to say and with a final act of love, he had lifted her onto her horse and kissed her hand. And then it was time. Tears ran down her cheek as she remembered how her heart was breaking as she started her journey, the look of sorrow on his face would never leave her.

They had both known back then that things were going badly, but she had been confident of her return and thought their parting would be for not more than a year or two.

It was three months later, having taken refuge in Exeter, that she was forced to flee the country, leaving Minette, just a babe in arms, behind. Bound for France, she feared for her safety. Sneaking onto a boat in the dead of night, not knowing if she would ever see her family or home again. It hadn't been an easy journey, they had been pursued by enemy ships determined to stop her escape. Closing her eyes she could still remember the shouts of the crew as the ship came under fire, and the taste of the salty sea air as she informed the captain to blow the ship should the enemy come aboard. She would rather be dead than taken prisoner. All the while worrying that those taking her to safety may turn their coats, does not everyone have their price? Luckily that didn’t come to pass and having landed in Brittany she sought refuge with her sister-in-law in Paris. On her arrival she had slept for days, allowing the plush bedcovers to swallow her up as she relished in the safety of her childhood home.

From there Henrietta Maria had done her best to support her husband from afar, pawning her jewels and gowns to raise money for their cause. Confident in the knowledge that one day she would return to him.

She hadn't known at that point how long she would be away, would she have left if she had? This question burned at her mind most days, and even now she couldn't answer. Would she ever return to England, and see her husband again? It was all too much to contemplate that evening, as she stared out into the cold, dark night.

In public Henrietta Maria was confident that the English would see sense and return her husband to his throne, even if his power had to be slightly curtailed. But in private, alone in her rooms she wavered. The news from England had been sparse, but she knew he was a prisoner, destined to stand trial. She held his last letter to her in her hand and clutched it to her heart. She knew the words by heart but could not bear to let it go. It was short, only one line, and had been smuggled in with her laundry the previous year.

Dear Heart,

My thoughts have never strayed from thee, and my love shall be the same til the last.

Eternally thyne,

Charles R

Her attempts to rescue him from his prison on the Isle of Wight had all been thwarted and now all lines of communication had been cut. She had no idea how this one letter had gotten through. It all sounded so final, she didn't know if her reply had reached him, telling him to have faith that they would meet again.

Closing her eyes she tried to picture that moment, where would it be? London? No, he’d come meet her as she came ashore. Henrietta Maria imagined stepping off the ship in all her regal beauty – she would probably have to borrow a gown – and there he’d be. Standing there, with his men surrounding him, in his rightful place as King. She would receive an apology from Parliament for how she had been treated, and he would insist she finally be crowned. She would be triumphant. Together they would ride back to London and take their place on the throne, ruling England, Scotland and Ireland together as had been ordained by God.

She sighed, and drafted another letter to the English Parliament, begging to be allowed to see him.

That same night, two hundred miles away, King Charles I stood by the window in his chamber in St James' Palace, London. His trial was over and two days previously the judges had decided his fate, sentenced to execution the following day. It was a cold night and he couldn't help but shiver as he looked out across the park before him. Alone for the first time that day, Charles was thinking back on his life. He was born to be King, and he had lost his birth right. He knew that his eldest son, Charles, the rightful King once he himself had gone, would fight for his crown and win the country back. But there was no point lamenting any mistakes he had made now, or thinking about what he could have done differently, it wouldn't change things now. He wanted to focus on the happier times. He looked out at the stars and thought of his wife.