Vox Meditantis

Canterbury, England – 13th June, 1625

The morning mist clung to the ancient stones of Canterbury like a shroud, and I found myself wondering if it was an omen. From my chamber window in St Augustine’s Abbey, I could see the townspeople gathering despite the early hour, their faces a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. They had come to witness the spectacle of their new queen—this Catholic interloper from France who dared to claim their Protestant king.

I pressed my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the surface. Fifteen years of life had ill-prepared me for this moment. Yesterday, I had been Henrietta Maria de Bourbon, youngest daughter of the late Henri IV of France. Today, I would become Queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland—titles that felt as foreign on my tongue as the language I still struggled to master.

“Your Majesty,” came the gentle voice of Madame de Saint-Georges, my faithful attendant who had journeyed with me from Paris. “It is time to prepare.”

I turned from the window, my silk nightgown rustling against the floor rushes. The room buzzed with activity as my French ladies-in-waiting moved about like industrious bees, laying out the magnificent gown I would wear for my true wedding ceremony. The proxy marriage at Notre Dame seemed like a dream now—standing before those great doors whilst the Duke of Chevreuse spoke vows on behalf of a man I barely knew.

But today was different. Today, I would look into the eyes of Charles Stuart and bind my fate to his forever.

The gown they had chosen was a masterpiece of French craftsmanship—ivory silk embroidered with silver thread, the bodice studded with pearls that caught the morning light like tears. As they laced me into it, I felt the weight of expectation settling upon my shoulders like a mantle of lead.

“You look radiant, Your Majesty,” whispered Marie de Rohan, though I detected worry in her dark eyes. She had been my companion since childhood, and I knew she shared my apprehensions about this Protestant land where Catholics were viewed with such suspicion.

Through the walls, I could hear the distant sound of church bells—Protestant bells that would never call me to Mass, never comfort me with the familiar rituals of my faith. The irony was not lost on me that I would spend my wedding day unable to participate in Charles’s coronation ceremony next month, barred by my religion from the very heart of English royal tradition.

A knock at the door interrupted my brooding. “His Majesty approaches,” announced one of my guards in heavily accented English.

My heart began to race. I had met Charles only briefly during his failed courtship of the Spanish Infanta, when he had stopped in Paris on his way to that diplomatic disaster. He had been pleasant enough then, though clearly preoccupied with thoughts of another bride. Now, circumstances had brought us together in this most intimate of political alliances.

The door opened, and Charles entered with a small retinue of English courtiers. At twenty-four, he was considered quite handsome by the standards of royal matches, though I noticed immediately how his eyes seemed to hold a perpetual wariness. Perhaps it was the burden of kingship—his father James had died only months ago, thrusting Charles into a role he was still learning to inhabit.

“Your Majesty,” I said, offering a curtsey that my French tutors would have deemed adequate, though I saw several English lords exchange glances at what they likely considered continental affectation.

“Madame,” Charles replied, his voice carrying the slight Scottish accent that marked his birthplace. He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of bergamot and sandalwood—decidedly more pleasant than I had dared hope.

For a moment, we simply regarded each other, two young people caught in the web of dynastic politics. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me—a Catholic threat to his Protestant realm, or merely a girl far from home? His niece would later describe me rather unfavourably, commenting on my uneven shoulders and protruding teeth, but in Charles’s gaze that morning, I detected something warmer than mere diplomatic politeness.

“I trust your journey from Paris was not too arduous?” he asked, switching to French with impressive fluency.

The gesture touched me more than he could have known. “It was long, Your Majesty, but made bearable by the anticipation of this day.”

A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I must confess, I have been looking forward to making your proper acquaintance. Our meeting in Paris was all too brief.”

As we spoke, I became aware of the undercurrents in the room. Charles’s English courtiers watched our exchange with barely concealed anxiety, whilst my French attendants maintained expressions of serene dignity that masked their own concerns. This marriage was more than a union of two people—it was a collision of nations, religions, and cultures.

“Shall we proceed to the chapel?” Charles offered his arm, and I placed my gloved hand upon it, feeling the solid warmth of him through the rich velvet of his doublet.

The short walk through the abbey corridors seemed to last an eternity. Tapestries depicting the martyrdom of Thomas Becket adorned the walls—a saint revered by Catholics but viewed with suspicion by many Protestants. I wondered if the choice of venue was deliberate, a subtle acknowledgement of the religious complexities our union represented.

In the chapel, a small gathering of witnesses awaited us. The contrast between the two sides was stark—English nobles in their austere black garments eyeing my colourfully dressed French retinue with evident distrust. I noticed several of Charles’s courtiers glancing nervously toward the windows, as if expecting papal troops to come marching across the Kentish countryside.

The ceremony itself was conducted in English, the words flowing over me like water over stone. I understood perhaps half of what was said, relying on Charles’s gentle guidance and the universal language of ritual to carry me through. When the time came for me to speak my vows, I did so in carefully rehearsed English, each word a small victory over the foreign tongue that would now be my daily speech.

“I, Henrietta Maria, take thee, Charles, to be my wedded husband…”

The words felt strange in my mouth, but as I spoke them, I found myself studying Charles’s face. There was something in his expression—a vulnerability beneath the royal composure—that suggested he, too, felt the weight of this moment. We were both young, both thrust into roles that demanded more of us than our years had prepared us to give.

When he placed the ring upon my finger, his hands were steady, but I felt the slight tremor that betrayed his own nervousness. The gold band seemed to burn against my skin, a tangible reminder of the vows that now bound us not just to each other, but to the complex web of European politics that had orchestrated this union.

As the ceremony concluded and we were proclaimed man and wife, the assembled courtiers offered their congratulations with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I noticed that many of the English nobles seemed more relieved than joyful, as if a necessary but distasteful duty had been completed.

But when Charles leaned close to kiss my cheek in the traditional gesture of matrimonial blessing, he whispered in French, “Have courage, ma chère. We shall find our way through this together.”

The words, spoken so softly that only I could hear them, carried a promise that went beyond mere diplomatic courtesy. In that moment, I glimpsed the man beneath the crown—someone who, like me, was navigating the treacherous waters of duty and desire.

As we emerged from the chapel into the grey Canterbury morning, the gathered townspeople erupted in cheers that seemed more polite than heartfelt. I smiled and waved as I had been taught, but I could feel the weight of their scrutiny, their barely concealed suspicion of this foreign Catholic queen who had come to rule over them.

The celebrations that followed were modest affairs, dampened by the recent death of James I and the ongoing concerns about plague that had prevented larger festivities in London. But in the great hall of the abbey, as French and English courtiers mingled with careful civility, I began to understand the magnitude of the task before me.

I would need to learn not just the English language, but the English heart. I would need to find ways to practise my faith without alienating my subjects. I would need to navigate the dangerous currents of Protestant suspicion whilst remaining true to the Catholic beliefs that were as much a part of me as the blood in my veins.

Most challenging of all, I would need to build a true marriage with Charles—not just the political alliance our fathers had envisioned, but a partnership of hearts and minds that could weather the storms I already sensed gathering on the horizon.

As the evening drew to a close and Charles offered his arm to escort me to our private chambers, I felt a mixture of terror and hope. The girl who had left Paris was gone forever, replaced by a queen whose destiny was now inexorably linked to this strange, proud, troubled land.

“Are you ready, my queen?” Charles asked softly, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that suggested he understood the magnitude of what we were undertaking.

I straightened my shoulders, feeling the weight of the crown that was not yet mine but soon would be. “I am ready, my king.”

Together, we walked toward our shared future, two young souls bound by duty but perhaps—if we were fortunate—destined to find something deeper in the union that politics had wrought. Behind us, the lily and rose banners of our two nations hung side by side, a symbol of hope in an age when such harmony seemed as fragile as morning mist.

The path ahead would prove treacherous indeed, leading through years of civil war and ultimately to tragedy. But in that moment, on the thirteenth day of June in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and twenty-five, we were simply Charles and Henrietta Maria—husband and wife, king and queen, two young people daring to hope that love might triumph over the forces that sought to divide us.

Little did I know, as I placed my hand in his and walked toward our marriage bed, that this moment of tentative hope would be one of the last uncomplicated joys we would share. The storms gathering on the horizon would test not only our marriage but the very foundations of the realm we now ruled together. But perhaps that is a story for another day, another telling. Today, there was only this—the beginning of a love that would endure through war, exile, and ultimately, the shadow of the executioner’s block.

For now, in the candlelit chambers of Canterbury, there was still time for hope, still time for the tender beginnings of what would become one of history’s most devoted royal partnerships. The lily and the rose, united at last, if only for this one perfect, fragile moment.

The End

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.