A Health Unto His Majesty

THREE

In the apartments at the Lisbon Palace sat Catherine of Braganza, her eyes lowered over a piece of embroidery, and it was clear to those who were with her that her attention was not entirely on her work.

She was small in stature, dark-haired, dark-eyed; her skin was olive and she had difficulty in covering her front teeth with her upper lip. She was twenty-three years of age and not uncomely in spite of the hideous garments she wore. The great farthingale of gaberdine was drab in color and clumsy, so that it robbed her figure of its natural grace; her beautiful long hair was frizzed unbecomingly to look like a periwig and, as it was so abundant, her barber was forced to spend much time and labor in bringing about this disfigurement. But, since this hairstyle and the farthingale were worn by all Portuguese ladies, none thought their Infanta was disfigured by them.

The two ladies who sat on either side of her—Donna Maria de Portugal, who was Countess de Penalva and sister of the Portuguese Ambassador to England, Don Francisco de Mello, and Donna Elvira de Vilpena, the Countess de Ponteval—were very conscious of the disquiet of their Infanta and, because of certain rumors of which Donna Maria had learned through her brother, she was gravely disturbed. Her outward demeanor gave no hint of this, for Portuguese dignity demanded that a lady should never betray her feelings.

“Sometimes it would seem,” Catherine was saying, “that I shall never go to England. Shall I, do you think, Donna Maria? And you, Donna Elvira?”

“If it be the will of God,” said Donna Elvira. And Donna Maria bowed her head in assent.

Catherine looked at them and smiled faintly. She would not dare tell them of the thoughts which came to her; she would not dare tell them how she dreamed of a handsome bridegroom, a chivalrous prince, a husband who would be to her as her great father had been to her mother.

Tears filled her eyes when she thought of her father. It had always been so. Yet she must learn to control those tears. An Infanta did not show her feelings, even for a beloved father.

It was five years since he had died. She had been seventeen at that time—and how dearly she had loved him! She was more like him than like her clever, ambitious mother. We were of a kind, dearest father, she often thought; had I been in your position I too should have wanted to shut myself away with my family, to live quietly and hope that the might of Spain would leave us unmolested. Yes, I should have been like that. But Mother would not have it. Mother is the most wonderful person in the world—you knew that, and I know it. Yet mayhap if we had lived quietly, if you had never been called to wrest our country from the yoke of Spain, if we had remained as we were at the time of my birth—a noble family in a captive country, a vassal of Spain—mayhap you would be here with me now and I might talk to you about the prince whose wife I may become. But, of course, had you remained a humble nobleman, I should never have been sought by him in marriage.

“I have a letter from him,” went on Catherine, “in which he calls me his lady and his wife.”

“It would seem now,” said Donna Elvira, “that God has willed that the marriage should go forward.”

“How strange it will be,” said Catherine, her needle poised, “to leave Lisbon; perhaps never again to look from these windows and see the Tagus; to live in a land where, they say, the skies are more often gray than blue; where manners and customs are so different.” Her face showed fear suddenly. “I have heard that the people are fond of merrymaking; they laugh often; they eat heartily; and they are very energetic.”

“They need to be,” said Donna Maria. “It keeps them warm since they rarely feel or see the sun.”

“Shall I miss it?” mused Catherine. “I see it often from my window. I see it on the water and on the buildings; but I seem only to look on the sunshine, not to be in it.”

“It would seem that you have a touch of it to talk thus,” said Donna Elvira sharply. “What should the Infanta of Portugal be expected to do—wander out into the sun and air like a peasant?”

They had been with her—these two—since her childhood, and they still treated her as a child. They forgot that she was twenty-three, and a woman. So many were married long before they reached her age, but her mother had long preserved her for this marriage—marriage with England, for which she had always hoped, because in her wisdom Queen Luiza had foreseen that Charles Stuart would be recalled to his country, and as long ago as Catherine’s sixth birthday she had decided that Charles Stuart was the husband for her daughter.

At that time the fortunes of the Stuarts were low indeed; yet, although Charles I had been in sore need of the money a rich Portuguese wife could bring him, he had decided against the match for his son. Catherine of Braganza was a Catholic and it may have been that he—at that time the harassed King—was beginning to understand that his own ill fortune might in some measure be traced to the fiercely Catholic loyalties of his own wife.

Disaster had come to the Stuarts and the first Charles had lost his head, yet, with that foresight and instinct for taking action which would be useful to her country, Luiza had still clung to her hopes for union with England.

“I do not think I shall miss the sun,” Catherine said. “I think I shall love my new country because its King will be my husband.”

“It is unseemly to speak so freely of a husband you have not seen,” Donna Maria reminded her.

“Yet I feel I know him. I have heard so much of him.” Catherine cast down her eyes. “I have heard that he is the most fascinating King in the world and that the French King, for all his splendors, is dull compared with him.”

Donna Maria lifted her eyes momentarily to Donna Elvira’s; both looked down again quickly at their work. But not before Donna Elvira had betrayed by the slightest twitch of her lips that she was aware of what was in Donna Maria’s mind.

“I think,” went on Catherine, “that there will be a bond between us. You know how deeply I loved my father; so must he have loved his. Do you know that when his father was condemned to death by the Parliament, Charles—I must learn to call him Charles, although in his letter to me he signs himself Carlos—Charles sent to them a blank paper asking them to write what conditions they would and he would fulfil them in exchange for his father’s life. He offered his own life. You see, Donna Elvira, Donna Maria, that is the man I am to marry. And you think I shall miss the sun!”

“You talk with great indiscretion,” said Donna Maria. “You, an unmarried Princess, to speak thus of a man you have never seen. You will have to be more discreet than that when you go to England.”

“It is surprising to me,” said Donna Elvira, “that you can so little love your mother … your brothers and your country as to rejoice in leaving them.”

“Oh, but I am desolate at the thought of the parting. I am afraid … so very afraid. Please understand me. I sometimes awake with terror because I have dreamed I am in a strange land where the people are rough and dance in the streets and shout at me. Then I long to shut myself into a convent where I could be at peace. So I think of Charles, and I say to myself: No matter what this strange new land is like, he will be there. Charles, my husband, Charles, who stopped the people torturing those men who had killed his father; Charles, who said: ‘Have done with hanging, let it sleep;’ Charles, who offered his life and fortune for that of his father. Then I am less afraid, for whatever awaits me, he will be there; and he loves me already.”

“How know you this?” asked Donna Maria.

“His goodness, you mean? I have heard it from the English at our Court. And that he loves me? I have his letter here. He writes in Spanish, for he knows no Portuguese. I shall have to teach him, as he must teach me English; for the nonce we shall speak in Spanish together. I will read it, then you will stop frowning over that altar cloth and you will understand why the thought of him makes me happy.”

“‘My, Lady and wife,’” she read. “‘Already at my request the good Count da Ponte has set off for Lisbon; for me the signing of the marriage has been great happiness; and there is about to be despatched at this time after him one of my servants charged with what would appear necessary; whereby may be declared on my part the inexpressible joy of this felicitous conclusion, which, when received, will hasten the coming of Your Majesty.

“‘I am going to make a short progress into some of my provinces; in the meantime, whilst I go from my most sovereign good, yet I do not complain as to whither I go; seeking in vain tranquility in my restlessness; hoping to see the beloved person of Your Majesty in these kingdoms, already your own; and that, with the same anxiety with which, after my long banishment, I desired to see myself within them…. The presence of your serenity is only wanting to unite us, under the protection of God, in the health and content I desire….’”

Catherine looked from one woman to the other and said, “He signs this: ‘The very faithful husband of Your Majesty whose hand he kisses. Carlos Rex.”

“Now, Donna Elvira, Donna Maria, what say you?”

“That he hath a happy way with a pen,” said Donna Elvira.

“And if,” added Donna Maria, rising and curtseying before Catherine with the utmost solemnity, “I may have the Infanta’s permission, I will retire, as there is something I wish to say to your royal mother.”

Catherine gave the required permission.

She returned to her needlework.

Poor Donna Maria! And poor Donna Elvira! It was true that they would go to England with her, but not to them would come the joy of sharing a throne with the most fascinating prince in the world.

As a result of her interview with Donna Maria, the Queen Regent sent for her daughter and, when she arrived, dismissed all attendants that they might talk in the utmost privacy.

Catherine was delighted to dispense with the strict etiquette which prevailed at the Court of Portugal; it was great happiness to sit on a stool at her mother’s feet and lean against her.

At such times a foretaste of great loneliness would come to Catherine, for she would suddenly imagine what life would be like in a strange country without her mother.

Queen Luiza was an unusual woman; strong and fiercely ambitious for her family as she was, she was the tenderest of mothers and loved her daughter more than her sons. Catherine reminded Luiza poignantly of her husband—tender, gentle, the best husband and father in the world, yet a man who must be prodded to fight for his rights, a man who could be persuaded more by his conscience than his ambition. But for Luiza, Portugal would have remained under the yoke of Spain, for the Duke of Braganza had, in the early days of his marriage, seemed content to retire with his wife and two sons to the palace of Villa Viçosa in the province of Alemtejo surrounded by some of the loveliest country in Portugal, and there live with his family the life of a nobleman. For a time Luiza herself had been content; she had savored with delight the charms of a life far removed from intrigue; there in that paradise her daughter had been conceived and, on the evening of the 25th November, St. Catherine’s Day, in the year 1638, little Catherine had been born.

In spite of her practical outlook, Queen Luiza was something of a mystic. From the time the child was two she had believed that Catherine was destined to lead her country to security and be as important a factor in its history as she knew herself to have been. For it was on the child’s second birthday that greatness was thrust upon the Duke of Braganza and, had it not been for his two-year-old daughter, it might have happened that the great opportunity to rescue Portugal from Spanish tyranny would have been lost.

Never would Luiza forget that November day when the peace of the Villa Vicosa had suddenly given place to ambition. Portugal had been a vassal state to Spain since the mighty Philip II had made it so, and during the course of sixty years of bondage there had crept into the minds of the new generation a lassitude, a dull acceptance of their fate. It needed such as Luiza to rouse them.

Into the Villa Viçosa had come Don Gaspar Cortigno; he talked long and eloquently of the need to break away from the Spanish tyrants; he brought assurances that if the Duke of Braganza, the last of the old royal line, would agree to lead the revolt, many of the Portuguese nobility would follow him.

The Duke had shaken his head; but Luiza had been filled with ambition for her husband, her sons and her daughter. They were happy, she agreed, but how could they be content, knowing themselves royal, to ignore their royalty? How could they ever be content again if they did not keep faith with their ancestors?

“We are happy here,” said the Duke. “Why should we not go on being happy all the days of our lives?” His eyes pleaded with her, and she loved him; she loved her family; yet she knew that never would her husband be completely happy again; always there would be regrets, reproaches and doubts in his mind. She knew that it might well be their children who, on reaching maturity, would accuse their parents of robbing them of their birthright. Then beside her was her little daughter catching at her hand, begging to be noticed; and inspired with the certainty that this appeal must not be turned aside, Luiza caught the child to her and cried: “But, my lord, here is an omen. It is two years since this child was born. Our friends are with us to celebrate her birthday. This is a sign that it is the will of Heaven that your sons should regain the crown of which we have long been deprived. I regard it as a happy presage that Don Gaspar comes this day. Oh, my lord and husband, can you find it in your heart to refuse to confer on this child the rank of King’s daughter?”

The Duke was struck by the glowing countenance of his wife, by the strange coincidence of the messenger’s coming on the birthday of his daughter; and he thereupon agreed to relinquish his peaceful life for one of bloodshed and ambition.

Often he regretted that decision; yet he knew that he would have regretted still more had he had to reproach himself for refusing to take it. As for Luiza, she was certain that Catherine’s destiny was entwined with that of Portugal.

It was for this reason that she had kept Catherine so long unmarried; it was for this reason that she had determined to wait for the conclusion of the match with England.

And, during the years which had followed the Duke’s decision, success had come to his endeavors and he had regained the throne; but the struggle had so impaired his health that he had died worn out with his efforts; and since Don Alphonso, his elder son, was somewhat simpleminded, his mother Luiza was Queen Regent and ruler of Portugal, for so ably had she advised her husband that on his death, when the government of the country was left entirely in her hands, she continued to preserve Portugal from her enemies and became known as one of the ablest rulers in Europe.

But now, as she confronted her daughter and thought of the life which lay before her in what she knew to be fast gaining a reputation as the most profligate court in Europe, and a rival to the French, she was wondering whether she had been as wise in conducting her family affairs as she had been in managing those of her country. Catherine was twenty-three, a normal and intelligent young woman, yet so sheltered had her life been that she was completely ignorant of the ways of the world.

She had seen the felicitous relationship of her father and mother and did not realize that men such as the Duke of Braganza—faithful husband and loving father, gentle yet strong, full of courage, yet tender and kind—were rare indeed. Catherine in her innocence would think that all royal marriages resembled that of her father and mother.

“My dearest daughter,” said the Queen, embracing Catherine, “I pray you sit here beside me. I would talk to you in private and most earnestly.”

Catherine sat at her mother’s feet and rested her head against her farthingale. It was in moments of intimacy such as this that she was allowed to give vent to her tender feelings.

Luiza let her hand rest on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Little daughter,” she said tenderly, “you are happy, are you not? You are happy because there is now every likelihood that this marriage will come to pass?”

Catherine shivered. “Happy, dearest mother? I think so. But I am not sure. Sometimes I am a little frightened. I know that Charles is the most charming King in the world, and the kindest, but all my life I have been near you, able to come to you when I was in any difficulty. I am happy, yes. I am excited. But sometimes I am so terrified that I almost hope the arrangements will not be completed after all.”

“It is natural that you should feel so, Catalina, my dearest child. Everything you feel is natural. And however kind your husband is to you and however happy you are, you will sometimes long for your home in Lisbon.”

Catherine buried her face in the serge farthingale. “Dearest mother, how can I ever be completely happy away from you?”

“You will learn in time to give all your devotion to your husband and the children you will have. We shall regularly exchange letters, you and I. Perhaps there may be visits between us. But they would be infrequent; that is the fate of royal mothers and daughters.”

“I know. But Mother, do you think in the whole world there was ever such a happy family as ours has been?”

“It is given to few to know such happiness, it is true. Your father was deeply conscious of that. He would have lived peacefully in the Villa Viçosa and shut his eyes to his duty for the sake of the happiness he could have had with us. But he was a king, and kings, queens and princesses have their duties. They must not be forgotten for the sake of quiet family happiness.”

“No, Mother.”

“Your father agreed on that before he died. He lived nobly, and that is the way in which we must live. My dearest Catherine, it is not only that you will be marrying a very attractive King who will be a good husband to you, you will be making the best possible marriage for the sake of your country. England is one of the most important countries in Europe. You know our position. You know that our enemies, the Spaniards, are ever ready to snatch from us that which we have won. They will be less inclined to attack us if they know that our family is united in marriage with the royal family of England, that we are no longer alone, that we have a powerful ally at our side.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“So it is for the sake of Portugal that you will go to England; it is for your country’s sake that you will do there all that is expected of a queen.”

“I will do my best, dear Mother.”

“That brings me to one little matter with which I must acquaint you. The King is a young man who will soon be thirty-two years of age. Most men marry before they reach that age. The King is strong, healthy and fond of gay company. It is unnatural for such a man to live alone until he reaches that age.”

“To live alone, Mother?” said Catherine, puzzled.

“To live unmarried. He, like you, could only marry one who was royal, and therefore suitable to his state. It would have been unwise for him to marry while in exile. So … he consoled himself with one who cannot be his wife. He had a mistress.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Catherine. “I think I understand.”

“It is the way of most men,” said Luiza. “There is nothing unusual in this.”

“You mean there is a woman whom he loves as a wife?” “Exactly.”

“And that when he has a wife in truth he will no longer need her? She will not be very pleased to see me in England, will she?”

“No. But her feelings are of no account. It is the King’s which are all important. He might dismiss his mistress when he takes a wife, but it has come to my ears that there is one lady to whom he is deeply attached.”

“Oh …” breathed Catherine.

“You will not see her, for naturally he will not let her enter your presence, and you must avoid all mention of her. And eventually the King will cease to require her, and she will quietly disappear. Her name is Lady Castlemaine, and all you have to do is avoid mentioning her name to anyone—anyone whatsoever—and foremost of all to the King. It would be a grave breach of etiquette. If you hear rumors of her, ignore them. It is a very simple matter really. Many queens have found themselves similarly placed.”

“Lady Castlemaine,” repeated Catherine; then she suddenly stood up and threw herself into her mother’s arms. She was shivering violently, and Luiza could not soothe her for some time.

“There is nothing to fear, dearest,” she murmured again and again. “Little daughter, it happens to so many. All will be well. In time he will love you … only you, for you will be his wife.”

Every day the arrival of the Earl of Sandwich was expected. He was to come to Lisbon with ships so that he might conduct Catherine and her entourage to England.

Still he did not come.

Catherine, bewildered by the sudden change the last months had brought, wondered whether he ever would. She had not left the Palace more than ten times in the whole of her life, so determined had her mother been to keep her away from the world. Exercise had been taken in the Palace gardens and never had she been allowed to leave her duenna; now that she was Queen of England—for she had been proclaimed as such since the marriage treaty had been ratified in Lisbon—she had left the Palace on several occasions. It had been strange to ride out into the steep streets, to hear the loyal shouts of the people and to bow and smile as she had been taught. “Long life to the Queen of England!” they shouted. She was now allowed to visit churches, where she prayed to the saints that her marriage might be fruitful, and that long prosperity might come to the sister countries of Portugal and England.

When she was alone she took out the miniature which had been brought to her by Sir Richard Fanshawe who was in Portugal to help further the match, and she would feel that she already knew the man pictured there. He was as dark and swarthy as her own brothers, so that she felt he was no foreign prince; his features were heavy, but his eyes were so kindly. She thought of him as the man who had offered his life for the sake of his father and, although she was frightened of leaving her home and her mother, although she was fearfully perplexed at the thought of a woman named Lady Castlemaine, she longed to meet her husband face to face.

But still the Earl of Sandwich did not come.

Luiza, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Earl, began to be afraid. This marriage with England meant so much to her. If it should fall through she could see that the honor and comparative security, which she and her husband had won for Portugal during the long years of endurance, might be lost.

The Spaniards were doing all in their power to prevent the marriage; that in itself showed how important it was. Already they were massing on the frontiers, ready for an attack, and she, being obliged to raise forces without delay, had been hard put to it to find the money to do this, so that it had been necessary to use some of that which she had set aside for her daughter’s dowry—that very dowry which had made Catherine so attractive to the English King. The thought of what she would do when the time came for Catherine’s embarkation and the handing over of the dowry gave her many a sleepless night; but she was a woman of strong character who had faced so many seemingly insurmountable difficulties in her life that she had learned to deal only with those which needed immediate attention, and trust in good fortune to help her overcome the others when it was absolutely necessary to do so.

There was another matter which gave her grave concern. She was sending her daughter into a strange country to a man she had never seen, without even the security of marriage by proxy.

“I send you my daughter the Infanta, unmarried,” she had written, “that you may see what confidence I have in your honor.”

But she doubted whether that would deceive the King of England and his ministers. They would know that the Papal See, which was still the vassal of Spain, had never acknowledged Catherine as the daughter of a king; the Pope, when he gave the dispensation for the Infanta to marry a prince of the Reformed Faith—and the marriage could not be performed in Portugal without such a dispensation—would give her title not as Infanta of the Royal House of Portugal, but merely as the daughter of the Duke of Braganza. And that, Luiza felt, was a greater shame than any which could befall her.

So she, a determined woman grappling with many problems, had decided to act boldly. But if the Earl of Sandwich did not come soon, the Spaniards would be marching on Lisbon.

So each day she waited, but in vain.

Had the English learned that she could not find the money for the dowry? How could she know what spies there were in her Court? The Spaniards were cunning; they had been conquerors for a long time; and she was a poor Queen fighting a lonely battle for the independence of her country and the glory of her royal house.

Soon news came to her. The Spaniards were on the march. They were forging ahead towards the unfortified towns on the Portuguese seaboard.

Luiza was in despair. This attack was to be stronger than any the Spaniards had ever launched against their neighbors. Their aim was to see that, by the time the King of England’s ambassadors came to claim the daughter of the royal house of Portugal, there would be no royal house. They were throwing great forces into the struggle; forever since the defeat of their “invincible” Armada in the reign of the great Elizabeth, the Spaniards had held the English in dread, and it was their endeavor to prevent at all costs the alliance between little Portugal and that country whose seamen they feared beyond any mortal beings.

So all her schemes had been in vain, thought Luiza. Her people would fight; but they had never had to face such a mighty army as now came against them. She saw ahead years of weary warfare, of frustration and struggle, the English marriage repudiated, and Catherine growing too old for matrimony.

She could no longer bear to look ahead. She shut herself into her apartments. She wanted to be alone to consider her next move.

She would not give up. She would somehow send Catherine to England. The King had promised to marry her. He must marry her.

She had said she was not to be disturbed, but Catherine came running into the apartment. Her face was flushed, and she ran as best she could, greatly impeded by her cumbrous farthingale.

“Catherine,” said her mother sternly; for in that moment Catherine bore no resemblance to an Infanta of the royal house.

“Mother! Dearest Mother … quickly! Come and look.”

“What has happened, my child? What has happened to make you so far forget …”

“Come, Mother. It is what we have been waiting for so long. The English are here. They have been sighted in the bay.”

Luiza turned to her daughter and embraced her. There were tears on her cheek, for she too had forgotten the formal etiquette of the Court.

“They have come in time!” she said.

And she looked in wonder at this daughter who, she had always known, had been born to save her country.

There was rejoicing throughout Lisbon as the English came ashore. The Infanta Catherine, the Queen of England, had been born to save them; and here was another sign from heaven to assure her people that this was so. The commanders of the Spanish army, having heard the news and remembering the terrible havoc wrought on their country’s ships by the satanic El Draque in another century, would not stay to face the English. They turned back to the border and retreated as quickly as they could to safety. Some had seen the ships in the bay—the Royal Charles, the Royal James and the Gloucester with their accompanying fleet of vessels. To those Spanish soldiers, brought up on the story of that ill-fated Armada, which had broken the hopes of great Philip II when it came into conflict with a fleet of inferior vessels yet led by a man of supernatural powers, one glimpse was enough. The great ships seemed to have about them a quality which was not of this world, for it seemed that with them they had brought the spirit of Drake. So the army turned tail, and the Portuguese were saved from their enemies; and how would they dare attack again, knowing that the English were united with their little neighbor through marriage!

Luiza fell on to her knees and uttered prayers of thankfulness to God and His saints. The greatest danger was over; but there still remained the matter of the dowry. However, that could be shelved for the moment; since God had willed that her daughter should be born to save her country, Luiza doubted not that He would show her some way out of the difficulty.

In the meantime there must be a great welcome for the saviors of her country. The people did not need to be ordered to hang out their banners. They were wild with the happiness which comes from relief; they were ready to rejoice. The best bulls had already been brought to Lisbon in readiness for the welcome; it was only a matter of hours before the streets were hung with banners of cloth of gold and tapestry; crowds were on the banks of the river as Don Pedro de Almeida, Controller of Alphonso’s household, rowed out in the royal barge to welcome the ambassadors of the King of England. The guns roared as the Earl of Sandwich and his friends were brought ashore. The people cheered as the King’s coach carried him to the Palace of the Marquez Castello Rodrigo, where Alphonso was waiting to receive him.

Now the city of Lisbon showed the English what a royal welcome it could give to its friends. Banners, depicting the King of England and the Portuguese Infanta, hands joined, were carried through the streets; the bells of all the churches rang out; bullfight followed bullfight, and every Englishman was a guest of honor.

“Long live the King and Queen of England!” cried the people throughout the city of Lisbon, and that cry was echoed in those towns and villages which had so recently been spared the tyranny of Spain.

Queen Luiza chose a moment when the Earl of Sandwich had returned from a lavish entertainment, given in his honor, to ask him to her councilchamber. On the previous day he had suggested to her that his master was impatient for his bride, and that he wished not to incur His Majesty’s displeasure by further delay. The Queen knew he had been late in arriving at Lisbon, because he had found it necessary to subdue the pirates of the Mediterranean, who must be taught to respect the English flag; moreover, taking possession of Tangier, the task with which he had been commissioned before coming to convey the Infanta to England, had not been accomplished as quickly as he had hoped. The Moors had offered some opposition, and it had been necessary to overcome that. He anticipated no further trouble there, but had been obliged to leave a garrison in the town. As he considered these matters he thought he should lose no time in making his preparations to return; and so was eager to begin immediately to get the dowry aboard.

Luiza had known then that there was nothing for her to do but to explain her difficulties. She therefore arranged this Council meeting to take place after the Earl had been assured once more of the love the Portuguese had for his master and his master’s country.

The miracle for which she had hoped had not come to pass. There was no means of providing the money she had promised. There was therefore nothing to be done but admit the truth.

She faced him boldly. “My lord, in these last months we have faced troublous times. Our old enemy had determined to do all in his power to prevent the match which is so desired by both our countries. When the marriage was ratified the dowry was ready and waiting to be shipped to England, but our enemies stole upon us, and it was necessary to raise men and arms against them. For that reason we were forced to use part of the money, which was intended for our daughter’s dowry, in the defense of our country.”

The Earl was dumbfounded. He had been ordered to bring back with him that money which he knew to be the very reason why his impecunious master had found the Portuguese match so desirable.

Luiza, watching the expressions of dismay flit across his face, knew he was wondering whether he should abandon Catherine and return to England without her. Panic filled her. She visualized not only the retreat of the English, but ignominious defeat at the hands of the Spaniards. Then she remembered that Catherine was destined to save her country, and her confidence returned.

The Earl of Sandwich was meanwhile taking into consideration the fact that he had at some cost gained possession of Tangier, and had left an English garrison there. He was also calculating the cost of conveying that garrison back to England.

Meanwhile Luiza went on: “Half the portion shall be delivered onboard the King of England’s ships without delay, and I pledge myself to send the other half before another year has passed.”

The Earl made a quick decision. Half the money was better than nothing; and the whole affair had gone too far for withdrawal; so, bowing before the Queen, he declared that, since it was his Queen in whom His Majesty of England was primarily interested, he would accept half the marriage portion now, and the other half within a year as the Queen had suggested; and, as soon as the moiety was on his ship he would be ready to convey the King’s bride to England.

Luiza smiled. The rest would be simple. She would merely have bags of sugar and spices and such commodities shipped aboard the English fleet in place of the money, which it was quite impossible to supply.

Luiza held her daughter in a last embrace. Both knew that they, who had been so close, might never see each other’s faces again. Neither shed a tear; they knew they dared not, for if they once allowed any sign of weakness to be visible they would break down completely before all the grandees and fidalgoes of the Portuguese Court and the seamen of England.

“Always remember your duty to the King your husband, and to your country.”

“I will, Mother.”

Luiza still clung to her daughter. She was wondering: Should I warn her once more against that evil woman Castlemaine, for whom they say the King of England has an unholy passion? No! It is better not. Catherine in her very innocence may discover a way to deal with the woman. Better for her not to know too much.

“Remember all I have taught you.”

“Goodbye, dearest Mother.”

“Goodbye, my child. Remember always that you are the savior of your country. Remember always to obey your husband. Goodbye, my love, my little one.”

I should not grieve, thought Luiza. All I wished for has happened. The Spaniards no longer molest us; we have the English as our allies, bound to us by the ties of affection and marriage.

That little matter of the dowry had been satisfactorily settled, although she had been afraid that the Earl of Sandwich was on the point of refusing to accept the sugar and spices in place of the gold. However, he had agreed to take it, after it had been arranged that Diego Silvas, a clever Jew, should accompany the sugar and spice to England and there make arrangements to dispose of it for gold which would be paid into the English Exchequer.

God and the saints be praised! thought Luiza. All difficulties have been surmounted, and I have nothing to fear now. There is just that grief which a mother must feel when parting with a beloved daughter.

How young Catherine looked! Younger than her years. Has she been too sheltered? Luiza anxiously demanded of herself. Does she know too little of the world? How will she fare in that gay Court? But God will look after her. God has decided on her destiny.

The last embrace, the last pressure of the hand had taken place, and Catherine was walking between her elder brother, the King, and her younger brother, the Infante. She turned before entering the waiting coach to curtsy to her mother.

Luiza watched them, and a hundred pictures from the past flashed through her mind as she did so. She remembered their birth, the happy days at Villa Viçosa and that important occasion of Catherine’s second birthday.

“Goodbye,” she murmured. “Goodbye, little Catherine.”

Through the streets went the royal coach, under the triumphal arches past the cheering people to the Cathedral, where Mass was celebrated. Catherine, who had rarely left the seclusion of the Palace, felt as though she were living through a fantastic dream. The shouting, cheering people, the magnificence of the street, and their decorations of damask and cloth of gold, the images of herself and Charles were like pictures conjured from the imagination. After the ceremony the coach took her, her brothers and their magnificent retinue to the Terreira da Paço where she was to embark on the barge which would carry her to the Royal Charles.

Among those who were to go with her were Maria de Portugal and Elvira de Vilpena. “You will not feel lonely,” her mother had said, “for you will have, as well as your suite of six ladies and duenna, those two old friends of your childhood who together will try to be what I have always been to you.”

The ceremony of going aboard was a very solemn one. A salute was fired from the Royal Charles, which carried 600 men and 80 brass cannon, and all the noblest in the retinue, which had accompanied her to the Paço, knelt before her to kiss her hand. Catherine stepped into the royal barge, and to the sound of music and cheering was rowed out to the Royal Charles.

As she became conscious of the swell beneath her feet a feeling of terrible desolation swept over her. She had been living in dreams; she had thought continually of her husband—the perfect King, the gentle Prince who had offered his life in exchange for his father’s, the lover who had written such tender notes. And now she became acutely aware of all that she was losing—her home, the love of her brothers and, most of all, her mother.

And Catherine was afraid.

Elvira was beside her. “Your Majesty should go at once to your cabin. And you should stay there until we set sail.”

Catherine did not answer, but she allowed herself to be led to the cabin.

Maria said to her: “The King himself designed your cabin in this his best beloved ship. I have heard it is the most magnificent cabin that ever was in a ship.”

Catherine was thinking: So it may be, but how can I think of my cabin now, even though he planned it for me? Oh, Mother…. I am twenty-three, I know, and a woman, but I am only a little girl really. I have never left my home before; I have rarely left the Palace … and now I have to go so far away, and I cannot bear it … I cannot … for I may never return.

Now they were inspecting the cabin. In it, they were saying, was all that a Queen could wish for. A royal cabin and a stateroom! Had she ever seen the like? Both apartments were decorated with gold, and lined with velvet. Would she take a look at the bed? It was red and white and richly embroidered. Could she believe that she was on board a ship! Look at the taffeta and damask at the windows, and the carpets on the floor!

Now she must rest, and stay in her cabin until the ship reached England, for it would not be meet for a Queen and lady of the royal house of Portugal to show herself to the sailors.

But Catherine had turned away. The closeness of the cabin with its rich decorations seemed to suffocate her. She could not remain there. She could not now consider Portuguese etiquette.

She turned and went onto the deck, determined to look at her native land as long as it was in view.

All that day and the night that followed, the Royal Charles with Catherine on board lay becalmed in the bay of Lisbon; but in the morning a wind sprang up and, accompanied by the Royal James, Gloucester, and fourteen men-of-war, the ship crossed the bar and sailed out to sea. It was a magnificent sight.

On the deck, waving aside all those who would come near her, was Catherine, Queen of England, Infanta of Portugal, straining to see, through the tears she could no longer restrain, the last of her native land.

After seventeen days at sea, to the great relief of all aboard, the English coast came into view. Elvira had suffered from a fever during the voyage. Catherine herself felt exhausted and weak and as the days passed she was beset by many doubts. It was one thing to dream of the perfect marriage with the perfect man, but when to accomplish it meant leaving behind her home and beloved family, she could not experience complete joy.

She had even had doubts about her husband’s virtues as the voyage progressed. It might have been that, in imminent peril of losing their lives, those about her had not succeeded in hiding their feelings as they had in calmer moments. Catherine knew that those who loved her were afraid for her; she knew that they were thinking of the woman Castlemaine, of whom she must never speak. She herself was afraid. As she lay in her cabin, tossed by the erratic movement of the ship, she had felt so ill that she had almost wished for death. But then it had seemed that her mother was near her, urging her to remember her duty, not only to her husband, but to Portugal.

She had wept a little; she had cried for her mother, cried for her home and the quiet of the Lisbon Palace.

It was well that her weakness could be kept secret from those about her.

But she had felt happier when they had come in sight of land and, as they approached the Isle of Wight, the Duke of York’s squadron hove in sight. Immediately word was sent to her that the Duke, brother to the King, had sent a message craving her permission to come aboard the Royal Charles that he might kiss her hand.

Soon he had come, with the gentlemen of his suite; the Duke of Ormond, the Earl of Chesterfield, the Earl of Suffolk and other fine gentlemen.

They were all dazzlingly dressed, and as her brother-in-law approached to kiss her hand, Catherine was glad that she had disregarded Maria’s and Elvira’s injunctions to receive the visitors in her native dress. She realized that it would seem strange to these gentlemen and that they would expect her to be dressed as the ladies of their Court. So she wore a dress which had been provided for her by the indefatigable and so tactful Richard Fanshawe; it was made of white and silver lace, and Elvira and Maria held up their hands in horror at the sight of her. It was, they declared, indecent compared with her Portuguese costume.

But she refused to listen to them and, in the cabin, which had been hastily turned into a small presence chamber, she received these gentlemen.

The Duke set out to charm her, and this he succeeded in doing, for, although his manners with ladies were considered somewhat clumsy by the members of his brother’s Court, Catherine sensed his great desire to please, and she was only too ready to be pleased.

They talked in Spanish and, as the Duke was eager to dispense with ceremony, Catherine was delighted to do so. She asked for news of the King, and James told her many things concerning her husband: how he loved ships, and what care he had spent in decking this one out that it might be worthy to receive his bride; how he loved on occasion to take a hand at the tiller himself; he told of the improvements he had made in his parks and houses; how he loved a gamble at the races; how he made experiments in his laboratories, and grew strange herbs in his physic garden; he told her a great deal about his brother and mentioned the names of many ladies and gentlemen of the Court, but never once did the name of Castlemaine pass his lips.

Catherine received him daily when he would be rowed out to the Royal Charles in his launch; and they talked together, becoming the best of friends, so that Catherine felt her fears diminishing. And when the Royal Charles sailed to Portsmouth, James followed and was at hand again, when she left the great ship, to accompany her to port in the royal barge.

Once on land she was taken to one of the King’s houses in Portsmouth, where the Countess of Suffolk, who had been appointed a lady of her bedchamber, was waiting to receive her.

The Duke advised her to despatch a letter to the King, telling him of her arrival, when he would with all haste come to greet her.

Eagerly she awaited his coming.

She shut herself into her apartment and told all her attendants that she wished to be alone. Elvira was still suffering from her fever, and Maria was exhausted; as to her six ladies-in-waiting and their duenna, they too were feeling the effects of the journey and, like their mistress, were not averse to being left alone to recover.

Catherine lay in the solitude of her chamber and once more took out the miniature she had carried with her.

Soon he would be here. Soon she would see him in the flesh—this man of whom she had dreamed so persistently since she had known he was to be her husband. She knew what his face was like. He was tall, rather somberly dressed, for he was not a man who greatly cared for finery. This much she had heard. No! He would not care for finery; vanity in dress was for smaller men! He was witty. That alarmed her. He will think me so very stupid, she thought. I must try to think of clever things to say. No, I must be myself. I must apologize because I am simple and have seen so little of the world. He will have seen so much. He has wandered over Europe, an exile for years before he came into his kingdom. What will he think of his poor simple bride?

She prayed as she lay there: “Make me witty, make me beautiful in his eyes. Make him love me, so that he will not regret giving up that woman whose name I will not mention even to myself.”

I shall walk in his parks with him and I shall love the plants and bushes and trees because he has planted them. I shall love his little dogs. I shall be their mistress as he is their master. I shall learn how to take clocks to pieces and put them back. All his interests shall be mine, and we shall love each other.

“He is the most easy-going man in the world,” they said of him. “He hates unpleasantness. He avoids scenes and looks the other way when there is trouble. Smile always, be gay … if you will have him love you. He has had too much of melancholy in his life. He looks for gaiety.”

I will love him. I will make him love me, she told herself. I am going to be the happiest Queen in the world.

There was commotion below. He had arrived. He had had news of her coming, and he had ridden with great speed from London.

She should have had time to prepare herself. She rose from her bed, called frantically to her women.

“Quickly! Quickly! Dress me in my English dress. Loosen my hair. I will wear it as the English wear it … just at first. Where are my jewels? Oh, come … come … we must not delay. He must see me at my best…. I should have been prepared.”

The Countess of Suffolk hurried into the chamber as her women bustled about her.

“Your Majesty, a visitor has come to see you.”

“Yes … yes … bring him in. I am ready.”

She half closed her eyes. She would not be able to bear to look at him. This was the most important moment in her life. Her heart was fluttering like a frightened bird.

She heard the Countess say: “This is Sir Richard Fanshawe. He has letters for you … messages from the King.”

Sir Richard Fanshawe!

She opened her eyes as Sir Richard came into the apartment.

He knelt. “Your Majesty, I bring letters from the King’s Majesty. He sends loving greetings to you. He commands me to tell you that he will be with you as soon as he can conveniently travel. At this time imperative business detains him in London.”

Imperative business! What business could it be, she wondered, to keep a man from the wife whom he had not yet seen, a King from his Queen who had undertaken a perilous journey to come to him? She wished that she could banish the name of Lady Castlemaine from her mind.

The bells were ringing in London. The people stood about in groups, as they did when great events were afoot. The Queen had arrived at Portsmouth; and now it would not be long before the ceremony of marriage took place in England; there would be more pageantry; more revelry; and it would be amusing to see what would happen when the new Queen and Lady Castlemaine came face-to-face.

The King himself had received the news of the Queen’s arrival. He had heard also of the bags of sugar and spices that she had brought with her.

He let the communication drop from his hands. So he had a wife at last; but the very reason for her coming—that half a million of money which he so badly needed—was to be denied him.

The Queen Mother of Portugal had promised the rest would follow. In what form, he wondered; fruit? More spices? He had been deceived by that wily woman, for she had known that the reason he had agreed to marry her daughter was that the dowry would help to save his country from bankruptcy.

He must see Clarendon, his Chancellor. But no. Clarendon had been against the match; Clarendon had wished him to marry a Protestant wife, and had only agreed to support the Portuguese marriage when he was overruled by the majority of the King’s ministers. And why had they agreed to this marriage? Simply because of that half a million in gold.

So, said Charles to himself, I have a wife and much sugar and spice; I have a port on the coast of Morocco which is going to cost me dearly to maintain—did the sly woman wish me to have it because she could no longer afford to keep it?—and I have the island of Bombay, which I may discover to be equally unprofitable. Oh, my marriage is a very merry one, I begin to believe!

The Queen was here. She was waiting for him at Portsmouth, and he was expected to go and greet her … her and her sugar and spice.

Barbara was plaguing him; she had never given up the idea of having her lying-in at Whitehall. Barbara might even by now have heard the story of the sugar and spices; if so, she would be laughing herself hoarse with merriment.

He strode up and down the apartment. Mayhap this Jew they had brought with them would soon set about converting the cargo into money. Mayhap the Queen of Portugal would fulfil her promises in due time!

’Tis no fault of that poor girl! he mused. ’Tis her mother who has tricked me. But a fine laughingstock I shall be when the story of the sugar and spice is bruited about.

He lifted his shoulders characteristically; and went to sup at Barbara’s house.

Barbara was delighted to receive him.

She was now very large, for her confinement would take place within the next few weeks. She embraced the King warmly, having signed to all to leave them, for it was Barbara who on such occasions gave orders like a Queen.

She had had prepared his favorite dishes. “For,” she told him, “I heard of the manner in which these foreigners had cheated you, and I was assured that you would come to me this night for comfort.”

“It would seem,” said the King with a frown, “that news of my affairs reaches you ere it comes to me.”

“Ah, all know how solicitous I am for your welfare. Your troubles are mine, my dearest.”

“And what else have you heard, apart from the description of the cargo?”

“Oh, that Her Majesty is small of stature and very brown.”

“Your informants were determined to please you.”

“Nay, I had it from those that hate me. They say that her teeth do wrong her mouth, and that her hair is dressed in a manner most comic to behold. She has a barber with her who spends many hours dressing it. I hear too that she wears a fantastic costume. It is a stiff skirt designed to preserve Portuguese ladies from the sleight of hand of English gentlemen.”

Barbara burst into loud laughter, but there was an uneasiness in it which the King did not fail to detect.

“Doubtless,” he said, “I shall soon see those wonders for myself.”

“I marvel that you are not riding with all speed to Portsmouth.”

“Had I not promised to sup with you?”

“You had. And had you not kept your word I should not have let you forget it.”

“Methinks, Barbara, you forget to whom you speak.”

“Nay, I forget not.” Her jealousy of the Queen was too strong to be subdued. “No,” she added on a louder note, “I forget not. I speak to the father of this child I carry, this poor mite who will be born in a humble dwelling unworthy of his rank. He will be born in this miserable dwelling instead of the Palace in which he belongs. But then—he is not the first!”

The King laughed. “You speak of the child as though he were holy. Od’s Fish, Barbara, you bear no resemblance to the Blessed Virgin!”

“Now you are profane. But mayhap I shall not survive this confinement, for I have suffered so much during my pregnancy. Those who should cherish me care not for me.”

“And the sufferings you have endured have been inflicted by yourself. But I do not come here to quarrel. Mayhap, as you say, I should be on my way to Portsmouth.”

“Charles … pray sit down. I implore you. I beg of you. Do you not understand why I am nervous this night? I am afraid. Yes, it is my fear that makes me so. I am afraid of this woman with her cruel teeth, and her odd hair, and her farthingale. I am afraid that she will hate me.”

“I doubt not that she would—should your paths cross.”

Barbara had turned pale. She said quietly: “I beg you eat of this pheasant. I had it specially prepared for you.”

She held out the dish to him; her blue eyes were downcast.

For the rest of the meal she did not mention the Queen; but she became gay and amusing, as she well knew how to be. She was soothing; she was the Barbara he had always hoped she would be, and her pregnancy had softened the rather hard beauty of her face; and lying on a couch, a brilliantly colored rug hid her awkwardness, and her lovely auburn hair fell loose about her bare shoulders.

After a while others came to join them, and Barbara was merry. And when they had gone, and left the King alone with her—as it was their custom to do—he stayed talking to her; and she was tenderly tearful, telling him that she was sorry for her vicious ways towards him, and that she hoped in the future—should she live—to improve her manners.

He begged her not to talk of dying, but Barbara declared she had a feeling that she might not be long for this world. The ordeal of childbirth was no light matter, and when one had suffered during the weeks of pregnancy as she had suffered, death was often the result.

“You suffered?” asked the King.

“From jealousy, I fear. Oh, I am to blame, but that did not lessen my suffering. I think of all the sins I have committed, as one does when one approaches death, and I longed for a chance to lead a better life. Yet, Charles, there is one thing I could never do. I could never give you up. Always I shall be there if you should want me. I would rather face damnation than lose you.”

The King was disturbed. Not that he entirely believed her, but he thought she must be feeling very weak to be in such a chastened mood. He comforted her; she made him swear that he would not let this marriage interfere with their relationship; she must have a post which would result in her seeing him frequently; but she knew that, if she lived, she would have it, for had he not promised her the post in his wife’s bedchamber? She would be content with that, but she could never give him up.

“No matter,” she said, “if a hundred queens came to marry you bringing millions of bags of sugar and spices, still there would be one to love you till she died—your poor Barbara.”

And to be with Barbara, meek and submissive, was an adventure too strange and exciting to be missed.

It was early morning before he left Barbara’s house; and all London took notice that the King passed the night at his mistress’s house while his Queen lay lonely at Portsmouth. Outside the big houses of the city, bonfires had been lighted in honor of the Queen’s coming; but it was seen that there was none outside the door of that house in which the King spent the night with Lady Castlemaine.

What was detaining him? Catherine wondered. Why did he not come? Imperative business? What was that? After the second day she ceased to care, for she was smitten with that fever from which Elvira had suffered during and just after the voyage. Her throat was so sore and she was so feverish that she spent the hours lying in her bed while her maids of honor brought her dishes of tea, that beverage of which she was particularly fond and which was rarely drunk in England.

She would lie in her bed thinking of him, wondering when he would come. She longed to see him, yet she did not want him to come and see her as she was now, with dark shadows under her eyes, and her hair lusterless. She was terrified that he might turn from her in disgust.

Lady Castlemaine, she supposed, would be very beautiful. The mistresses of kings were beautiful because they were chosen by the kings, whereas their wives were thrust upon them.

She knew that her maids whispered together and wondered, as she did, what detained him. Perhaps they knew. Perhaps among themselves they murmured that name which, her mother had impressed on her, must never pass her lips.

Could it be that he, in her imagination the hero of a hundred romances, could so far discard his chivalry as to neglect his wife? Was he so angry about the dowry? Each day there came for her those charming letters from his pen. He wrote like a lover; he wrote of his urgent business as though he hated it, so it surely could not be Lady Castlemaine. He longed to be with her, he declared; he was making plans for the solemnization of their nuptials; ere long he would be with her to assure her in person of his devotion. She treasured the letters. She would keep them forever. Through them lived again the romantic hero of her imagination: Yet the days passed—three … four … five—and still there was no news of the King’s coming.

The fever left her, but, said the physicians, she was to remain in bed. And on the fifth day news came to her that the King had left his capital.

It was two days later, and she was still confined to her bed, but there had been a miraculous change in her. She wondered how long the journey from London to Portsmouth would take, and she pictured him, having done with his “imperative business,” riding with all speed to her, and thinking of her as she thought of him.

It was afternoon and Catherine was sitting up in bed, her luxuriant hair falling about her shoulders, when Elvira and Maria came hurrying into her room to say that the King was below.

Catherine was flustered. “I must be dressed … at once. How can I receive him thus? I pray thee, Donna Maria … call my women. I must wear my English dress…. Or should it be my own? …”

“You are trembling,” said Elvira.

“It is because I shall not be at my best when the King arrives.”

Elvira said: “The doctors’ orders are that you shall not leave your bed. Why, if you were to take a chill now … who knows what would happen? Nay! The King shall wait. We will let His Majesty wait to see you, as you have waited to see him.”

But at that moment there was a knock on the door and the Earl of Sandwich was craving permission to enter.

Elvira stood back and he came into the room, bowing to the Queen.

He said: “The King has ridden from London that he may be with his Queen. Your Majesty, he is ready to wait upon you now….”

Elvira said: “Her Majesty is indisposed. She has been ill these several days…. Mayhap tomorrow she will be well enough to receive His Majesty.”

But at that moment there was the sound of footsteps outside. A low musical voice cried: “Wait until tomorrow? Indeed I’ll not. I have ridden far to see the Queen, and I’ll see her now.”

And there he was, just as she had imagined him—tall, very dark, and smiling the most charming smile she had ever seen. He was as he had been in her dreams, only so much more kingly, she told herself afterwards, so much more charming.

Her first thought as he approached the bed was: Why was I afraid? I shall be happy. I know I shall be happy, because he is all and more than I hoped he would be.

Sweeping off the big plumed hat, he had taken her hand; his eyes had twinkled as he smiled at her.

Now the room was filling with his attendants. The ambassadors were there, the Marquis de Sande and his gentlemen who had accompanied him to England; there were the King’s cousin, Prince Rupert, my lord Sandwich, my lord Chesterfield, and others. Elvira had grown pale with horror on seeing so many gentlemen in the bedchamber of a lady.

The King said: “I am most happy at last to greet you. Alas, I do not speak your tongue. Nor you mine, I understand. ’Tis a merry beginning. We must speak in Spanish, which means that I must needs pause to think before I utter a word. And that may not be a bad thing, do you agree?” He was still holding her hand, pressing it firmly, and his eyes said: You are afraid. Of what? Not of me! Look at me. Do you think you should ever be afraid of me? Of these men! They are of no account, for you and I are their King and Queen, to rule over them.

She smiled tremulously, and her dark eyes never left his.

“It grieves me much to see you indisposed,” he continued. And then he did a strange thing which no Portuguese gentleman would have dreamed of doing: He sat on the bed as though it had been a couch; and he still kept his grip on her hand. He threw his hat from him. One of the gentlemen caught it.

He went on: “Catherine, my happiness on this occasion would have been greatly diminished had your doctors not assured me that there is no cause for anxiety concerning your indisposition.”

“Your Majesty is graciously kind to be so concerned,” she said.

He smiled and waved to the people who had come into the room to retire a little, that he and the Queen might converse together in more privacy.

The courtiers moved back and stood in little groups while the King turned to his Queen.

“We shall have time in the future,” he said, “for more private conversation. Then we shall be quite alone. Just now it would seem that your duennas are eager that you and I should not be left quite alone together.”

“That is so,” she said.

“And are you as solemn as they are?”

“I do not know. I have never had any opportunity to be other than solemn.”

“You poor little Queen! Then we must contrive many opportunities for making you the reverse of solemn. You shall see what I have planned for you. I thank God you have come to me in summertime, for our winters are long, and doubtless you will find them very cold. But we shall have sylvan entertainments; we shall have river pageants. I mean to show you that your new country can look tolerably well in summertime. I trust you will not be displeased with it.”

“I know I shall be very pleased.”

“It shall be our earnest endeavor to make you so. Ah! You smile. I am glad you smile so readily. I am an ugly fellow who likes those about him to look pleasant—and what is more pleasant than smiling faces?”

“But indeed you are not ugly,” she said.

“No? Doubtless the light of your bedchamber is favorable to me.” “No. Never, never ugly….”

“Ah, it would seem I have not made such an ill impression after all…. I rejoice in that. Now you must get well quickly, for your mother will expect our nuptials to take place as early as can be arranged. As soon as you are fit to leave your bed the ceremony must be performed.”

“I shall soon be well,” she promised him.

Her face was flushed, but not with fever, and her eyes were bright.

He rose from the bed. “Now I shall leave you, for this was a most unceremonious call. But you will soon learn that I am not overfond of ceremony. I wished to see my bride. I could contain myself no longer, so great was my eagerness. And now I have seen her, and I am content. I trust you too are not entirely disappointed?”

How kind he looked—eager, anxious, determined to tell her she must not be afraid!

It was as though that romanticized figure of her dreams had materialized; and in the flesh he was more charming than her dreams had fashioned him, for the simple reason that, before meeting him, she would not have believed so much that was charming and fascinating could be concentrated in one person.

“I am content,” she said; and she spoke from the bottom of her heart.

Then he kissed her hand again.

She heard her women, whispering together after he had gone, and they were talking of him. They were shocked because he had come thus unceremoniously, but she did not care. She would not care what they said in future. She was only anxious that she should please him.

She whispered to herself: “I am content.” He had said that; and she had answered: “I am content.”

The King was pensive as he left the apartment. He was pleasantly surprised. From some reports, and in view of the way the Queen Mother had cheated him over the dowry, he had half expected a bride who looked more like a bat than a woman. It was true that she was no beauty, and he was such an admirer of beauty; but he realized that he could hardly have expected a woman who was suitable as a wife to be also a suitable mistress.

He liked very much her manner; quiet, innocent, eager to please. That was such a change after the imperious conduct of Barbara. Had his Queen the temper of his mistress he would have visualized a very stormy life ahead.

No. He believed he had good reason to congratulate himself.

He could grow fond of his little Catherine; he could find it easy to forgive her for not bringing him the promised dowry—and indeed how could a man of his nature do aught else, since it was in truth no fault of hers?

He would be kind to her; he would help her overcome her fears; he would be a gentle lover and husband, for he knew that was what she would want. He would make her happy; and they would have a fine family—several sons as handsome as young James Croft, Lucy Water’s boy—and he would no longer have any need to sigh with regret every time his eyes fell on that young man.

He smiled, thinking of her shyness. What a life she must have led in her solemn Portuguese Court; and if her mother was anything like those dragons who had come to guard her daughter, it was no wonder that the poor child was eager for affection.

Have no fear, little Catherine, he mused. You and I can bring much good to one another.

He was looking forward to the nuptials, for a new woman was always a new adventure. Her eyes are good, mused the connoisseur, and there is certainly nothing in her face which could in the least way disgust one. In fact there is as much agreeableness in her lips as I ever saw in any woman’s face, and if I have any skill in physiognomy, which I think I have, she must be a good woman. Her voice is agreeable and I am sure our two humors will agree. If I do not do all in my power to make her happy—in spite of the spice and sugar—I think I shall be the worst man on Earth, and I do not believe I am that, although I am far from saintly.

It was not in his nature to grieve unnecessarily. He doubted not that this Jew, whom Queen Luiza had sent with the cargo, would be able to dispose of it satisfactorily; and it should be his pleasure to care for his new wife, to make her feel welcome in her new country, and perhaps in some measure compensate her for having led such a dull life before she came to England.

The meeting with the King had had its effect on Catherine. The remains of her illness had disappeared by the morning; she felt radiantly happy.

During that day and night she thought continually of her husband. That was real affection she had seen in his eyes; he had spoken so sincerely when he had said he was glad to see her and they would be happy together. And how he had smiled! And the manner in which he had sat on her bed had been most amusing—and quite charming. He had thrown his hat from him for one of the gentlemen to catch, a somewhat boyish and unkingly act! she thought indulgently; yet in what a kingly manner he had done it! He was so perfect that every gesture, every word, had a ring of nobility and became exactly right just because they were his.

He came to her that morning early, to the room which he called her presence chamber. He chatted easily and familiarly, and his warm dark eyes watched her closely. She blushed a little under the scrutiny, for she did not quite understand the meaning behind those eyes and she was very eager for his approval.

If he did not love me, she thought, I should want to die. And she found that every minute in his company increased her wish to please him.

He told her that their marriage should take place that day. “For,” he added, “your mother has shown great trust in me to send you to me thus.” He did not add, though he felt a temptation to do so: “And in particular considering she has sent me spice and sugar instead of the money she promised.” He could not say anything that might hurt her; he could see that she was vulnerable; and he had determined to make her happy, to keep from her anything that might prove hurtful, for he could well imagine how easily she could be wounded. She was a gentle creature and she should be treated gently.

“Catherine,” he said, “the ceremony shall take place here in this house and be registered in the church of St. Thomas A’Becket here in Portsmouth. Unfortunately you and I are not of the same religion; and my people, I think, should not be reminded that my Queen is a Catholic. It would be an unfortunate beginning to your life here if the Catholic ceremonial should be performed. So, my plan is that we shall dispense with it, and that there shall only be our Church of England ceremony.”

He was unprepared for the look of horror which came into her face.

“But …” she stammered “… to dispense with the ceremony of my church! It would be as though we are not married.”

“None could say that, Catherine. In this country all would consider the church ceremony completely binding.”

She looked about her in distress. She longed for her mother. Her mother would tell her what she ought to do. She feared to displease Charles, and yet she was sure her mother would never have agreed to her dispensing with the Catholic rites.

Charles regarded her with the mildest exasperation. Then he said: “Oh, I see you have set your heart on it. Well, we must find some means of pleasing you. It would not do for us to disappoint you on your first few days in our country, would it?”

She was immediately radiant. It amused him to see the fear fade from her face and joy take its place.

He took her hand and kissed it; then, with an expert gesture, he drew her towards him and kissed her on the lips. Catherine gasped with pleasure.

“There!” he said. “You cannot say I do not do my utmost to win your love! I will even submit to this ceremony—and I confess to you here and now that you will find me a wicked man who has no love for such ceremonies—and all to please you!”

“Oh, Charles …” she cried, and she felt as though she might weep or swoon with the delight which swept over her; but instead she laughed, for she guessed intuitively that that would please him more than any other expression of her pleasure. “I begin to feel that I am the most fortunate woman in the world.”

He laughed with her. “But wait!” he warned in mock seriousness. “You do not know me yet!”

Then he embraced her—an action which both terrified and thrilled her.

He was gay and lighthearted; she felt so moved by her emotions that she told herself: “If I should die now I know that I have discovered more happiness than I ever hoped to possess.”

The Catholic rites were performed in her bedroom with the utmost secrecy. How he loves me! she thought. For this is not easy for him. It must be done in secret because his people do not love Catholics. He himself is not a Catholic, yet he submits to this because he knows it gives me solace. He is not only the most charming man in the world, he is the most kind.

He whispered to her when the ceremony was over: “Now see what you have done! You will have to marry me twice instead of once! Do you think you can bear that?”

She could only smile and nod her head. She was afraid to speak, lest before witnesses she should find the words escape her which she knew it would not be wise to utter. She wanted to cry: “I love you. Even the man of whom I dreamed, I realize now, was a poor thing compared with the reality. You are good, and never did one seek to cover his goodness as you do. Never did such a kindly courtly gentleman cover his virtues with a laugh and such disparaging remarks concerning himself. I love you, Charles. And I am happy … happier than I ever thought to be.”

The Church of England ceremony took place in the afternoon of the same day.

Her six maids of honor helped her to dress in the pale pink gown cut in the English manner. This dress was covered in knots of blue ribbon, and secretly Catherine thought it most becoming, although all the Portuguese ladies were not so sure. They declared it almost gave her the appearance of the type of person modesty forbade them to mention. Perhaps, thought Catherine, it was the excitement of marrying the finest man in the world which made her look like that.

As soon as she was dressed, the King came to her and, taking her hand, led her into the great hall where there was a throne containing two seats setunder an elaborately embroidered canopy. One end of the chamber was crowded with those of the King’s ministers and courtiers who had come with him to Portsmouth.

Catherine was trembling as the King drew her down with him onto the throne; she scarcely heard Sir John Nicholas read the marriage contract. She was only aware of Charles’ twinkling eyes, which belied the solemnity of his tones, as he plighted his troth before them all. She tried to speak when it was indicated that she should join in the responses, but she found she had forgotten the unfamiliar English words which she had learned.

She was afraid, but Charles was beside her to indicate with his smiles that it did not matter; she was doing well all that was expected of her.

She was thinking: All through my life he will be there to support me; I need never be afraid again. He is the kindest, most affectionate of men.

When the ceremony was over, all the people in the hall cried: “Long may they live!” And the King took her hand once more and whispered to her in Spanish that it was over; she was truly his wife, and she could not run home to Portugal now if she wished to.

If she wished to! She wondered whether her eyes betrayed to him the depth of her feeling. I would die rather than leave you, she thought; and was astonished afresh that she could love so deeply, so completely, a man whom she had only known a few hours. Ah, she reminded herself, but I knew him long ago. I have known for long that he offered his life for his father; I knew then that he was the only man in the world whom I could love.

“Now we must go to my apartments,” he told her, “and they will all come to kiss your hand. I pray you do not grow too weary of kissing this day, for I would you should save a few to bestow on me this night.”

Those words made her heart beat so fast that she thought she would faint. This night the nuptials would be consummated, and she was afraid. Afraid of him? Perhaps afraid that she would not please him, that she was ignorant and would be stupid and mayhap not beautiful enough.

In his apartment the ladies and gentlemen took her hand and kissed it as they knelt to her. She stood beside Charles and every second she was conscious of him.

He was making jocular remarks as though this were not a most solemn occasion. I am not witty enough, she thought; I must learn to laugh. I must learn to be witty and beautiful, for if I do not please him I shall wish to die.

The Countess of Suffolk took one of the bows of blue ribbons from Catherine’s dress and said she would keep it as a wedding favor; and then everyone was demanding wedding favors, and Lady Suffolk pulled off knot after knot and threw the pieces of blue ribbon to those who could catch them.

And amid much laughter Catherine’s dress was almost torn to pieces; and this the English—and the King in particular—seemed to find a great joke, but the Portuguese looked on in silent disapproval as though they wondered into what mad company their Infanta had brought them.

When the merriment was ended, the King was the first to notice how pale Catherine had become. He put his arm tenderly about her and asked if she were feeling well; and she, overcome by the excitement of the ceremony and her own emotions, would have slipped to the floor in a faint but for his arms which held her.

He said: “This has been too much for the Queen. We forget she is but recently up from a sickbed. Let us take her back to it that she may rest until she is fully recovered.”

So the Queen was taken to her bedchamber, and her ladies disrobed her; and as she lay back on her pillows a feeling of despair came to her.

This was her wedding day and she had been unable to endure it. He would be disappointed in her. What of the banquet that was to be given in her honor? She would not be there. A wedding banquet without a bride! Why had she been so foolish? She should have explained: I am not ill. It was the suddenness of my emotions … this sudden knowledge of my love, which makes me uncertain whether to laugh or cry, to exult or to despair.

She could not bear that he should be disappointed in her, and she was on the point of calling to her women to help her dress that she might join the company in the banqueting hall, when the door was opened and trays of food were brought in.

“Your Majesty’s supper,” she was told.

“I could eat nothing,” she answered.

“But you must,” said a voice which brought back the color to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes. “I declare I’ll not eat alone.”

And there he was, the King himself, leaving his guests in the great banqueting hall, to sup with her alone in her bedroom.

“You must not!” she cried.

“I am the King,” he told her. “I do as I will.”

Once more he sat on the bed; once more he kissed her hands, and those dark eyes, which were full of something she did not understand, were smiling into hers.

So he took supper sitting on her bed, and he laughed and joked with those who served them as though they were his closest friends. He was intimate with all, it seemed, however lowly; he was perfect, but he was less like a great King than she would have believed anyone would be. Now all the ladies and gentlemen had left the banqueting hall and came to sup in her room.

And all the time he joked so gaily Catherine understood, from the very tender note which crept into his voice when he addressed her, that he was telling her he understood her fears and she was to dismiss them.

“You must not be afraid of me,” he whispered to her. “That would be foolish. You see that these serving people are not afraid of me. So how could you be, you my Queen, whom I have sworn to love and cherish?”

“To love and to cherish,” she whispered to herself. To share this merry life all the rest of her days!

What a simpleton she had been! She had not realized there could be joy such as this. Now the glorious knowledge was with her. There was no room for fear, there was no room for anything but joy—this complete contentment which came of giving and receiving love.

The royal honeymoon had begun, and with it the happiest period of Catherine’s life.

Charles knew well how to adapt himself to her company; to Catherine he was the perfect lover, all that she desired; he was tender, gentle and loving, during those wonderful days when he devised a series of entertainments for her pleasure. There were river pageants and sunny hours spent sauntering in the fields about Hampton Court whither they had gone after leaving Portsmouth; each evening there was an amusing play to watch, and a ball at which to lead the dancers in company with the King. There was none who danced so gracefully as Charles; none who was so indefatigable in the pursuit of pleasure.

She believed that he gave himself to these pleasures so wholeheartedly because he wished to please her; she could not tell him that the happiest times were when they were alone together, when she taught him Portuguese words and he taught her English ones, when they burst into laughter at the other’s quaint pronunciations; or when she was in bed and he, with a few of his intimates, such as his brother the Duke of York and the Duchess, sat with her and shared with her the delights of drinking tea, of which they declared they were growing as fond as she was.

But they were rarely alone. Once she shyly mentioned this to Charles because she wished to convey to him the tenderness of her feelings towards him, and how she never felt so happy, so secure, as at those times when there was no one else present.

“It is a burden we must carry with us, all our lives,” said Charles. “We are born in public, and so we die. We dine in public; we dance in public; we are dressed and undressed in public.” He smiled gaily. “That is part of the price we pay for the loyalty of our subjects.”

“It is wrong to regret anything,” she said quietly, “when one is as happy as I am.”

He looked at her quizzically. He wondered if she were with child. There was hardly time yet. He could not expect her to be as fertile as Barbara was. He had had news that Barbara had been delivered of a fine son. It was a pity the boy was not Catherine’s. But Catherine would have sons. Why should she not? Lucy Water had given him James Crofts, and there were others. There was no reason to suppose that his wife could not give him sons as strong and healthy as those of his mistresses.

Then he began to think longingly of Barbara. She would have heard of the life of domestic bliss he was leading here at Hampton Court; and that would madden her. He trusted she would do nothing to disturb the Queen. No, she would not dare. And if she did, he had only to banish her from Court. Banish Barbara! The thought made him smile. Odd as it was, he was longing for an encounter with her. Perhaps he was finding the gentle adoration of Catherine a little cloying.

That was folly. He was forgetting those frequent scenes with Barbara. How restful, in comparison, how charmingly idyllic was this honeymoon of his!

He would plan more picnics, more pageants on the river. There was no reason why the honeymoon should end yet.

As he was leaving Catherine’s apartment a messenger came to him and the message was from Barbara. She was in Richmond which was, he would agree, not so far from Hampton that he could not ride over to see her. Or would he prefer her to ride to Hampton? She had his son with her, and she doubted not he would wish to see the boy—the bonniest little boy in England, whose very features proclaimed him a Stuart. She had much to tell him after this long separation.

The King looked at the messenger.

“There is no answer,” he said.

“Sire,” said the young man, fear leaping into his eyes, “my mistress told me …”

How did Barbara manage to inspire such fear in those who served her? There was one thing she had to learn; she could not inspire fear in the King.

“Ride back to her and tell her that there is no answer,” he said.

He went to the Queen’s apartment. The Duchess of York was with her. Anne Hyde had grown fat since her marriage and she was far from beautiful, but the King was fond of her company because of her shrewd intelligence.

The Queen said: “Your Majesty has come in time for a dish of tea?”

Charles smiled at her but, although he looked at her so thoughtfully and so affectionately, he was not seeing Catherine but another woman, stormy, unaccountable, her wild auburn hair falling about her magnificent bare shoulders.

At length he said: “It grieves me that I cannot stay. I have urgent business to which I must attend without delay.”

Catherine’s face reflected her disappointment, but Charles would not let that affect him. He kissed her hand tenderly, saluted his sister-in-law, and left them.

Soon he was galloping with all speed towards Richmond.

Barbara, confined to her bed after the birth of her son, fumed with rage when she heard the stories of the King’s felicitous honeymoon. There were plenty of malicious people to tell her how delighted the King was with his new wife. They remembered past slights and humiliations, which Barbara had inflicted on them, and they came in all haste to pass on any little scrap of gossip which came their way.

“Is it not a charming state of affairs?” the Duchess of Richmond asked her. “The King has at last settled down. And what could be happier for the Queen, for the country and the King’s state of mind than that the person who should bring him so much contentment should be his own wife!”

“That crow-faced hag!” cried Barbara.

“Ah, but she is pretty enough when properly dressed. The King has prevailed upon her not to employ her Portuguese barber, and now she wears her hair as you and I do. And hers is so black and luxuriant! In an English dress one realizes that beneath that hideous farthingale she is as shapely as any man could wish. And such sweet temper. The King is enchanted.”

“Sweet temper!” cried Barbara. “She would need to have when the King remembers how he has been swindled.”

“He is, as you would know better than any, the most forgiving of monarchs.”

Barbara’s eyes glinted. If only I were up and about! she told herself. If I had not the ill luck to be confined to my bed at such a time, I would show this black bat of a Portuguese Infanta what hold she has on the King.

“I long to be on my feet again,” said Barbara. “I long to see all this domestic bliss for myself.”

“Poor Barbara!” said Lady Richmond. “You have loved him long, I know. But alas, there is a fate which often overtakes many of those who love Kings too well. Remember Jane Shore!”

“If you mention that name again to me,” cried Barbara, suddenly unable to control her rage, “I shall have you banished from Court.”

The Duchess rose and haughtily swept out of the room; but the supercilious smile on her face told Barbara that she for one was convinced that Lady Castlemaine would no longer have the power to decide on such banishment.

After she had gone, Barbara lay brooding.

There was the child in the cradle beside her—a bonny child, a child any man or woman would be proud of. And she had named him Charles.

The King should be at her side at such a time. What right had he to neglect his son for his bride, merely because they had chosen to arrive at the same time?

She thumped her pillows in exasperation. She knew that her servants were all skulking behind doors, afraid to come near her. What could she do? Only shout at them, only threaten them—and exhaust herself.

She closed her eyes and dozed.

When she awoke the child was no longer in his cradle. She shouted to her servants. Mrs. Sarah came forward. Mrs. Sarah, who had been with her since before her marriage, was less afraid of her than anyone in the household; she stood now, arms akimbo, looking at her mistress.

“You’re doing yourself no good, you know, Madam,” she said.

“Hold your tongue. Where’s the child?”

“My lord has taken him.”

“My lord! How dare he! Whither has he taken him? What right has he …?”

“He has a right, he would say, to have his own son christened.”

“Christened! You mean he’s taken the boy to a priest to be christened? I’ll kill him for this. Does he think to bring the King’s son up in the Catholic religion, just because he himself is a half-witted oaf who follows it?”

“Now listen to Mrs. Sarah, Madam. Mrs. Sarah will bring you a nice soothing cordial.”

“Mrs. Sarah will get her ears boxed if she comes near me, and her nice soothing cordial flung in her face.”

“In your condition, Madam …”

“Who is aggravating my condition? Tell me that. You are—and that fool I married.”

“Madam, Madam … there are scandals enough concerning you. Tales are carried to the people in the street about your rages….”

“Then find out who carries them,” she screamed, “and I’ll have them tied to the whipping post. When I’m up, I’ll do the whipping myself. When did he take my son?”

“It was while you slept.”

“Of course it was while I slept! Do you think he would have dared when I was awake? So he came sneaking in … while I could not stop him…. At what o’clock?”

“It was two hours ago.”

“So I slept as long as that!”

“Worn out by your tempers.”

“Worn out by the ordeal through which I have gone, bearing the King’s child while he sports with that black savage.”

“Madam, have a care. You speak of the Queen.”

“She shall live to regret she ever left her native savages.”

“Madam … Madam…. I’ll bring you something nice to drink.”

Barbara lay back on her pillows. She was quiet suddenly. So Roger had dared to have the child baptized according to the Catholic rites! She was tired of Roger; he had served his purpose. Perhaps this was not a matter to be deplored after all, for she could see all sorts of possibilities arising from it.

Mrs. Sarah brought her a dish of tea, the merits of which beverage Barbara was beginning to appreciate.

“There! This will refresh you,” said Mrs. Sarah, and Barbara took it almost meekly. She was thinking of what she would say to Roger when she next saw him.

Mrs. Sarah watched her as she drank. “They say the King is drinking tea each day,” she commented, “and that the whole Court is getting a taste for it.”

“The King was never partial to tea,” said Barbara, absently.

Mrs. Sarah was not a very tactful woman. It seemed to her that Barbara had to become accustomed to the fact that, now the King had married, her position would no longer be of the same importance.

“They say the Queen drinks it so much that she is giving the King a taste for it.”

Barbara had a sudden vision of teatime intimacy between the foolish simpering Queen and the gallant and attentive King. She lifted the dish and flung it against the wall.

As Mrs. Sarah was staring at her in dismay, Roger and some of his friends came into the room. A nurse was carrying the child.

Barbara turned her blazing eyes upon them.

“How dare you take my child from his cradle?”

Roger said: “It was necessary that he should be baptized.”

“What right have you to make such decisions?”

“As his father, the right is solely mine.”

“His father!” cried Barbara. “You are no more his father than any of these ninnies you have there with you now. His father! Do you think I’d let you father my child?”

“You have lost your senses,” said Roger quietly.

“Nay! It is you who have lost yours.”

Roger turned to the company. I beg of you, leave us. I fear my wife is indisposed.”

When they were alone Barbara deliberately assumed the manner of an extremely angry woman but inwardly she was quite calm.

“So, Roger Palmer, my lord Castlemaine, you have dared to baptize the King’s son according to the rites of the Catholic Church. Do you realize what you have done, fool?”

“You are legally married to me, and this child is mine.”

“This child is the King’s, and all know it.”

“I demand the right to have my child baptized in my own faith.”

“You are a coward. You would not have dared to do this had I been up and able to prevent you.”

“Barbara,” said Roger, “could you be calm for a few minutes?”

She waited, and he went on: “You must face the truth. When you get up from that bed, your position at Court will no longer be the same as it has been hitherto. The King is now married, and his Queen is young and comely. He is well pleased with her. You must understand, Barbara, that your role is no longer of any importance.”

She was seething with rage but with a great effort she kept a strong control over herself. As soon as she was up she would show them whether a miserable little foreigner with prominent fangs, a little go-by-the-ground, who could not speak a word of English, should oust her from her position. But in the meantime she must keep calm.

Roger, thinking she was at last seeing reason and becoming reconciled to her fate, went on: “You must accept this new state of affairs. Perhaps we could retire to the country for a while. That might make things a little more comfortable for you.”

She was silent; and Roger went on to talk of the new life they might build together. It would be foolish to pretend he could forget her behavior ever since their marriage, but might they not live in a manner which would stop malicious tongues clacking? They would not be the only married pair in the country who shelved their differences and hid them from public view.

“I have no doubt there is something in what you say,” she said as calmly as she could. “Now leave me. I would rest.”

So she lay making plans. And when she was up and about again she sought a favorable opportunity when Roger was absent for a few days, to gather together all her valuables and jewels; and, with the best of the household’s servants, she left Roger’s house for that of her brother in Richmond, declaring she could no longer live with a husband who had dared to baptize her son according to the rites of the church of Rome.

The King was more attentive to his Queen than ever he had been. Our love is strengthened day by day, thought Catherine, and Hampton Court will always be to me the most beautiful place in the world because therein I first knew my greatest happiness.

Often she would wander through the gallery of horns and look up at those heads of stags and antelopes which adorned it; it seemed to her that the patient glass eyes looked sadly at her because they would never know—as few could—the happiness which was hers. She would finger the beautiful hangings designed by Raphael, but it was not their golden embroidery depicting the stories of Abraham and Tobit, nor the Cesarean Triumphs of Andrea Montegna, which delighted her; it was the fact that within these elaborately adorned walls she had become more than the Queen of a great country; she had found love, which she had not believed existed outside the legends of chivalry. She would look at her reflection in the mirror of beaten gold and wonder that the woman who looked back at her could really be herself grown beautiful with happiness. Her bedroom in the Palace was so rich that even the English ladies marveled at it, and the people who crowded in to see her, as was the custom, would gasp at the magnificence of the colorful hangings and the pictures on the walls as well as the cabinets of exquisite workmanship, which she had brought with her from Portugal. But most admired of all was her bed of silver embroidery and crimson velvet, which had cost £8,000 and had been a present to Charles from the States of Holland. To Catherine this bed was the most valuable of all her possessions because the King had given it to her.

Now, as the summer days passed, there seemed to he nothing he would not give her.

Tiresome state business often detained him, but on his return to her he would be more gallant, more charming than he had seemed before, if that were possible. Never, thought Catherine, did humble shepherd and shepherdess—who chose each other for love, without any political motive—lead a more idyllic existence.

She could have been perfectly happy but for her fears for her country. She had had news from her mother. The Spaniards had been frightened off by the sight of English ships in Portuguese waters, the danger to the country was less acute than it had been, now that Portugal and England were united by the marriage, but England was far away, and Spain was on the borders of Portugal.

When the King asked tenderly what was causing her apprehension, she told him.

Then greatly daring, for she knew that the request she was about to make was one which the monarch of a Protestant country would be loath to grant, she told him what was in her mind.

“It is because you are so good to me, because you are always so kind and understanding, that I dare ask.”

“Come!” said the King. “What is this you would ask of me? What do you wish? I doubt if I shall find it in my heart to deny it.”

He smiled at her tenderly. Poor little Catherine! So different from Barbara. Catherine had never yet asked for anything for herself; Barbara’s demands were never ending. He was foolish to see her so often, foolish to ride so frequently to Richmond, foolish to have acknowledged the new child as his own. But what a charming creature that small Charles was! What flashing eyes, and there was such a witty look about the little mouth already! He was undoubtedly a Stuart, for how like a Stuart to get himself—the King’s bastard—born at the time of his father’s marriage! He was more foolish still to have acted as Sponsor to the boy, with the Earl of Oxford and the Countess of Suffolk, at the time of his christening in accordance with the rites of the Church of England. And now that Barbara had declared she would never again live with Roger Palmer, and Palmer himself had left the country in his fury, there was certain to be more trouble; but if he could prevent its touching poor little Catherine, he would do so.

His one concern was to keep from the Queen knowledge of the state of his relationship with Lady Castlemaine; and as all those about him knew this was his wish, and as he was a most optimistic man, he did not doubt his ability to do so.

In the meantime he wished to indulge Catherine in every possible way; it pleased him to see her happy, and it seemed the easiest thing in the world to make her so. Now he listened to her request almost with eagerness, so ready was he to grant it.

“It is my country,” she said. “The news is not good. Charles, you do not hate the Catholics?”

“How could I, when that would mean hating you?”

“You are being charming as usual, and not saying all you mean. You do not hate them for other reasons?”

He said: “I owe much to Catholics. The French helped me during my exile, and they are Catholics. My little sister is a Catholic, and how could I hate her! Moreover, a Mr. Giffard, who did much to make possible my escape after Worcester, was also a Catholic. Indeed no, I do not hate Catholics. In truth, I hold it great folly to hate men because their opinions differ from my own. Women of course I should never hate in any circumstances.”

“Charles, be serious to please me.”

“I am all seriousness.”

“If the Pope would promise his protection to my country, it would have less to fear from Spain.”

“The Pope will support Spain, my dear. Spain is strong, and Portugal is weak, and it is so much more convenient to support that which is in little danger of falling down.”

“I have thought of a way in which I might appeal to the Pope, and with your permission I would do it.”

“What is this way?”

“I am a Catholic, here in a Protestant country. I am a Queen, and it may be that all the world knows now how good you are to me.”

Charles looked away. “Nay,” he said quickly. “Nay…. I am not so good as I ought to be. Mayhap the whole world but you knows that.”

She took his hand and kissed it.

“You are the best of husbands, and I am therefore the happiest of wives. Charles, would you grant me this permission? If you did, it would make my happiness complete. You see, the Pope and others will know how you love me, and they will think I am not without influence with you … and thus this country. If I might write to the Pope and tell him that now that I am in England I will do everything within my power to serve the Catholic Faith, and that my reason for coming here was not for the sake of the Crown which would be mine but for the sole purpose of serving my faith, I think the Pope will be very pleased with me.”

“He would indeed,” said Charles.

“Oh, Charles, I would not attempt to persuade you to act against your conscience.”

“Pray you, have less respect for my conscience. He is a weak, idle and somnolent fellow who, I fear, often fails in his duty.”

“You joke. You joke continually. But that is how I would have it. It is that which makes the hours spent in your company the happiest I have ever known. Charles, if I could make the Pope believe that I would work for the Catholic Faith in England, I could at the same time ask for his protection of Portugal.”

“Yes, that is so; and I doubt not that you would get it for such a consideration.”

“And Charles, you … you … would agree?”

He took her face in his hands. “I am the King of a Protestant country,” he said. “What think you my ministers would say if they knew I had allowed you to send such a letter?”

“I know not.”

“The English are determined never to have a Catholic Monarch on their throne. They decided that, more than a hundred years ago on the death of Bloody Mary, whom they will never forget.”

“Yes, Charles. I see you are right. It was wrong of me to ask this of you. Please forget it.”

As he continued to hold her face in his hands, he asked: “How would you convey such a letter to Rome?”

“I had thought to send Richard Bellings, a gentleman of my household, whom I can trust.”

“You suffer because of your country’s plight,” he said gently.

“So much! If I could feel that all was well there, I should be happy indeed.”

He was thinking how sweet she was, how gentle, how loving. He wanted to give her something; he wanted to give all that she most desired. A letter to the Pope? What harm in that? It would be a secret matter. What difference could such a letter make to him? And how it would please her! It might be the means of securing Papal protection for the poor harassed Queen Regent of Portugal, who had trials enough with her half-imbecile son as King and the Spaniards continually threatening to depose the pair of them. What harm to him? What harm in promises? And he felt a guilty need to make Catherine happy.

“My dearest wife,” he said gently, “I ought not to allow this. I know it well. But, when you ask me so sweetly, I find it mighty hard to refuse.”

“Then Charles, let us forget I asked you. It was wrong of me. I never should have asked.”

“Nay, Catherine. You do not ask for jewels or money, as so many would. You are content to give of your love, and that has given me great pleasure. Let me give something in return.”

“You … give me something! You have given me such happiness as I never knew existed. It is not for you to give me more.”

“Nevertheless I shall insist on granting this. To please me, you shall write this letter and despatch it. But do this yourself—let none know that I have any part in it, or the thing would be useless. Tell the Pope what you intend, ask his protection. Yes, Catherine, do it. I wish it. I wish to please you … greatly.”

“Charles, you make me weep … weep with shame for asking more of you who have given so much … weep for the joy of all the happiness which has come to me, so that I wonder why Heaven should have chosen me to be so singularly blessed.”

He put his arms about her and kissed her gently.

While she clung to him he remembered a paper he carried in his pocket, which he had meant to present to her at a convenient moment.

He patted her arm gently and disengaged himself.

“Now, my dearest, here is a little matter for you to attend to.”

He took the scroll from his pocket.

“But what is this?” she asked, and as she was about to look over his shoulder, he handed it to her.

“Study it at your leisure. It is merely a list of ladies whom I recommend for appointments in your household.”

“I will look at it later.”

“When you can no longer feast your eyes upon your husband!” he said lightly. “You will find all these ladies worthy and most suitable for the posts indicated. I know my Court far better than you can in such a short time, so I am sure you will be happy to accept these suggestions of mine.”

“Of a certainty I shall.”

She put the scroll away in a drawer and they went out into the gardens to saunter with a few ladies and gentlemen of the Court.

It was some time later when Catherine took out the scroll and studied the list of names.

As she did so her heart seemed to stop and plunge on; she felt the blood rush to her head and drain away.

This could not be real. This was a bad dream.

At the head of the list which the King had given her was the name Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine.

It was some time before, trembling with fear and horror, she took a pen and boldly crossed out that name.

The King came to the Queen and dismissed all attendants so that they were entirely alone.

He began almost suavely: “I see that you have crossed out the name of one of the ladies whom I suggested you should take into your household.”

“It was Lady Castlemaine,” said Catherine.

“Ah, yes. A lady to whom I have promised a post in your bedchamber.”

Catherine said quietly: “I will not have her.”

“But I have told you that I myself promised this post.”

“I will not have her,” repeated Catherine.

“Why so?” asked the King. His voice sounded cold, and Catherine had never known coldness from him before.

“Because,” she said, “I know what relationship this woman once had to you, and it is not meet that she should be given this post.”

“I consider it meet, and I have promised her this post.”

“Should a lady have a post in the Queen’s bedchamber against the wishes of the Queen?”

“Catherine, you will grant this appointment because I ask it of you.”

“No.”

He looked at her appraisingly. Her face was blotched with weeping. He thought of all he had done for her. He had played the loving husband for two months to a woman who aroused no great desire within him, and all because her naivety stirred his pity. Being considerate of her feelings he had never once reminded her of the fact that her mother had cheated him over the dowry. He had only yesterday given her permission to write a letter to the Pope, which he should not have done, and yet because he had wished to give her pleasure he had agreed that she should write it. And now when he asked this thing of her because he, in a weak moment, had promised the appointment to a woman of whose rages he was afraid, Catherine would not help him to ease the situation.

So she knew of his liaison with Barbara, yet she had never uttered a word about it. Then she was not so simple as he had thought. She was not the gentle, loving creature he had believed her to be. She was far more subtle.

If he allowed her to have her way now, Barbara’s rage would be terrible and Barbara would take her revenge. Barbara would doubtless lay bare to this foolish Queen of his the intimacies which had taken place between them; she would show the Queen the letters which he had carelessly written; and Catherine would suffer far more through excluding Barbara from her bedchamber than by accepting her.

How could he explain to the foolish creature? How could he say, “If you were wise you would meekly accept this woman. You have your dignity and through it could subdue her. If you would behave now with calm, dignified decorum in this matter, if you would help me out of a difficult position in which I, with admittedly the utmost folly, have placed myself, then I would truly love you; you would have my devotion forever more. But if you insist on behaving like a silly jealous girl, if you will not make this concession when I ask you—and I know it to be no small thing, but I have given you in these last two months far more than you will ever know—then I shall love you truly, not with a fleeting passion but with the respect I should give to a woman who knows how to make a sacrifice when she truly loves.”

“Why are you so stubborn?” he asked wearily.

“I know what she was to you … this woman.”

He turned away impatiently. “I have promised the appointment.”

“I will not have her.”

“Catherine,” he said, “you must.”

“I will not. I will not.”

“You have said you would do anything to please me. I ask this of you.”

“But not this. I will not have her—your mistress—in my service … in my own bedchamber.”

“I tell you I have promised her this appointment. I must insist on your giving it to her.”

“I never will!” cried Catherine.

He could see that she was suffering, and his heart was immediately touched. She was, after all, young and inexperienced. She had had a shock. He should have prepared her for this. But how could he when she, in her deceit, had given him no indication that she had ever heard of Lady Castlemaine?

Still he realized the shock she had sustained; he understood her jealousy. He must insist on her obeying him, but he wished to make the surrender as easy as possible for her.

“Catherine,” he said, “do this thing for me and I shall be forever grateful. Take Lady Castlemaine into your service, and I swear that if she should ever be insolent to you in the smallest degree I will never see her again.”

He waited, expecting the floods of tears, the compliance. It would be so easy for her, he was sure. Queens had been asked to overcome these awkward situations before. He thought of Catherine de’ Medici, wife of Henri Deux, who had long and graciously stood aside for Diane de Poitiers; he thought of the many mistresses of his respected ancestor Henri Quatre. He was not asking his wife anything to compare with what those monarchs had asked of theirs.

But he had been mistaken in Catherine. She was not the soft and tender girl. She was a determined and jealous woman.

“I will not receive her into my household,” she said firmly.

Astonished and now really angry, the King turned abruptly and left her.

Charles was in a quandary. It grieved him to hurt Catherine, yet less than it would have done a week before, for it seemed to him that her stubborn refusal to understand his great difficulty dearly showed that her vanity and self-love was greater than her love for him; he was able to tell himself that he had been deceived in her; and this helped him to act as he knew he would have to act. Charles wanted to be kind to all; to hurt anyone, even those whom he disliked, grieved him; revenge had always seemed to him a waste of time, as was shown by his behavior when those men who had been instrumental in bringing about his father’s death and his own exile had been brought to trial; he wished to live a pleasant life; if some painful act had to be performed it was his main desire to get it over as quickly as possible or look the other way while someone else carried it out.

Now he knew that he was going to hurt Catherine, for he was sure that to allow Barbara to disclose to the Queen the intimate details of their relationship—which Barbara had hinted she might do, and he knew her well enough to realize that she was capable of carrying out her threat—would result in hurting Catherine more than would quietly receiving Barbara into her household.

Catherine had right on her side to a certain extent, but if she would only be reasonable, if she would only contemplate his difficulties instead of brooding on her own, she could save them all much trouble.

But she was obstinate, narrow-minded and surrounded by a group of hideous prudes; for it was a fact that those ladies-in-waiting and duennas of hers would not sleep in any beds unless all the linen and covers had been changed—lest a man might have slept there before them and so would, they believed, defile their virginity.

Catherine had to grow up. She had to learn the manners of a Court less backward than that ruled over by her stern old mother.

He would not plead with her anymore; that only resulted in floods of tears; but he was convinced that to allow her to flout him would be folly. It was bad enough to have Barbara flouting him. He had to be firm with one of them; and Barbara had the whip hand—not only because of the revelations she could make, but because of her own irresistible appeal.

So he made up his mind that if Barbara could be presented to Catherine—and Barbara had promised that she would behave with the utmost decorum, and so she would, provided she had her way—the Queen would not make a scene in front of a number of people; and then, having once received his mistress, she would find there was nothing very extraordinary in doing so.

Catherine was holding a reception in her presence room, and many of the ladies and gentlemen of the Court were with her there.

Charles was not present and Catherine, heartbroken as she was, could not prevent her gaze straying every now and then to the door. She longed for a sight of him; she longed to return to that lost tender relationship. She let herself dream that he came to her full of sorrow for the way in which he had treated her; that he implored her to forgive him and declared that neither of them should ever see or speak of Lady Castlemaine again.

Then she saw him. He was making his way to her, and he was smiling, and he looked so like the Charles he had been in the early days of their marriage. He laughed aloud and the sound of that deep attractive voice made her whole body thrill with pleasure. He had caught her eye now; he was coming towards her and his smiles were for her.

She noticed his companion then. He was holding her hand, as he always held the hands of those ladies whom he would present to her. But Catherine scarcely looked at the woman; she could see none but him, and absorb the wonderful fact that he was smiling at her.

He presented the lady, who curtsied as she took Catherine’s hand and kissed it.

The King was looking at the Queen with delight, and it seemed in that moment of incomparable joy that their differences had been wiped out. He had stepped back, and the lady he had presented remained at his side; but he continued to look at Catherine, and she felt that only he and she existed in that large assembly.

Then quite suddenly she became aware of tension in the atmosphere; she realized that the ladies and gentlemen had stopped murmuring; it was almost as though they held their breath and were waiting for something dramatic to happen.

Elvira, who was standing behind her chair, leaned forward.

“Your Majesty,” whispered Elvira, “do you know who that woman is?”

“I? No,” said the Queen.

“You did not catch the name. The King deliberately mispronounced it. It is Lady Castlemaine.”

Catherine felt waves of dizziness sweeping over her. She looked round at that watching assembly. She noted the smiles on their faces; they were regarding her as though she were a character in some obscene play.

So he had done this to her! He had brought Lady Castlemaine to her reception that she might unwittingly acknowledge his mistress before all these people.

It was too much to be borne. She turned her eyes to him, but he was not looking her way now; his head was bent; he seemed absorbed in what that woman was saying.

And there stood the creature—the most lovely woman Catherine had ever seen—yet her loveliness seemed to hold an evil kind of beauty, bold, brazen, yet magnificent; her auburn curls fell over bare shoulders, her green and gold gown was cut lower than all others, her emeralds and sparkling diamonds about her person. She was arrogant and insolent—the King’s triumphant mistress.

No! She could not endure it. Her heart felt as though it were really breaking; she suffered a violent physical pain as it leaped and pranced like a mad and frightened horse.

The blood was rushing to her head. It had started to gush from her nose. She saw it, splashing on to her gown; she heard the quick intake of breath as the company, watching her, gasped audibly.

Then she fell swooning to the floor.

The King was horrified to see Catherine in such a condition; he ordered that she be carried to her apartments, but when he realized that only the feelings of the moment—which he preferred to ascribe to anger—had reduced her to such a state, he allowed himself to be shocked by such lack of control.

He, so ready to seek an easy way out of a difficulty, so ready to accept what could not be avoided, felt his anger increasing against his wife. It seemed to him that it would have been so simple a matter to have received Barbara and feigned ignorance of her relationship with himself. That was what he himself would have done; that was what other Queens had done before her.

He knew that he must placate Barbara; he had promised to, and she would see that this was one of the promises he kept. He hated discord, so he decided that he would shift to Clarendon the responsibility of making Catherine see reason.

He sent for his Chancellor.

He was not so pleased with Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, as he had once been. In the days when he had been a wandering exile he had felt unsafe unless Clarendon was beside him to give him the benefit of his wisdom and advice. It was a little different now that he was a King. He and Clarendon had disagreed on several matters since their return to England; and Charles knew that Clarendon had more enemies in England than he ever had in exile.

Clarendon wished to go back to the prerevolutionary doctrine. He believed that the King should have sole power over the militia; and he wished to inaugurate in place of Parliament a powerful privy council who would decide all matters of state.

The King agreed with him on this but on very little else. Clarendon continually deplored the King’s wish to shape his own monarchy in the pattern of that of France. The King was too French in his outlook; he looked to his grandfather, Henri Quatre, as a model, not only in his numerous love affairs but in his schemes of government. Again and again Clarendon had pointed out that England was not France, and that the temperament of the two countries was totally different.

They also disagreed on religious matters. Clarendon thought Charles’ policy of toleration a mistaken one. There were many in the Court who sensed the mild but growing estrangement between the King and his most trusted minister, and they were ready enough to foster that growth. Buckingham was one, and with him in this was his kinswoman, Lady Castlemaine.

Clarendon, as a wise old man, knew that his enemies were watching, quietly as yet but hopefully.

Still he persisted in his frankness with the King; and although he had been against the Portuguese marriage he now attempted to take the side of the Queen.

“Your Majesty is guilty of cruelty towards the Queen,” he said; “you seek to force her to that with which flesh and blood cannot comply.”

Charles studied the man. He no longer completely trusted him. A few years ago he would have listened respectfully and he might have accepted Clarendon’s view; but he now believed that his Chancellor was not wholly sincere, and he looked for the reasons which had impelled him to take such views as he now expressed.

Charles knew that Clarendon hated Barbara. Was this the reason why he now urged the King not to give way to his mistress’s cruel desires, but to support his wife? How could he be sure?

“I have heard you say,” went on the Chancellor, “when you saw how King Louis forced his wife to receive his mistresses, that it was a piece of ill nature that you would not be guilty of, for if ever you had a mistress after you had a wife—which Your Majesty hoped you never would have—she should never come where your wife was.”

“It is good for a man who has a wife not to have a mistress,” said Charles testily, “but if he has, he has, and there’s an end of it. We would all like to be virtuous, but our natures drive us another way. I hold that when such a matter as this arises the best road from it is for good sense to be shown all round. If the Queen had quietly received my Lady Castlemaine there would not then be this trouble.”

“Your Majesty, I would beg you to please your wife in this, for she is the Queen and the other but your mistress. I can assure Your Majesty that Ormond and others agree with me in this. You should repudiate my Lady Castlemaine and never allow her to enter into your wife’s household.”

The King was rarely angry, but he was deeply so on this occasion. He remembered the hypocrisy of Clarendon when the Duke of York had married his daughter. Then he had said he would have rather seen Anne James’ mistress than his wife. It seemed at that time he had a little more respect for mistresses, since he was eager to see his daughter one.

No! He could trust none. Clarendon, Ormond, and the rest urged him to repudiate Barbara, not because she was his mistress, but because she was their enemy. They would have been howling for the destruction of the Queen if they did not think her an ineffectual puppet who could harm them not.

Then Charles fell into one of his rare moods of obstinacy.

He said: “I would beg of you all not to meddle in my affairs unless you are commanded to do so. If I find any of you guilty in this manner I will make you repent of it to the last moments of your lives. Pray hear what I have to say now. I am entered upon this matter, and I think it necessary to counsel you lest you should think by making stir enough you might divert me from my resolution. I am resolved to make my Lady Castlemaine of my wife’s bedchamber; and whosoever I find using any endeavors to hinder this resolution, I will be his enemy to the last moment of his life.”

Clarendon had never seen the King so stern, and he was shaken. He remembered all his enemies at Court, and how again and again when he was in danger from them it was the King who had come to his aid.

He hated Lady Castlemaine; he hated her not only because she was his enemy but because of the influence she had over the King. But he knew that in this instance, the King’s will being so firm, he must remember he was naught else but the King’s servant.

“Your Majesty has spoken,” he said. “I regret that I have expressed my opinions too freely. I am Your Majesty’s servant, to be used as you will. I beg you forgive the freedom of my manners, which freedom has grown out of my long affection for Your Majesty.”

The King, regretting his harshness almost immediately, laid his hand on Clarendon’s shoulder.

He gave a half-smile. “I am pledged to this. It’s a mighty unpleasant business. Come, my friend, extricate me; stand between me and these wrangling women. Be my good lieutenant as you have been so many times before, and let there never more be harsh words between us.”

There were tears in the older man’s eyes.

The charm of the King was as potent as it had ever been.

Oddly enough, thought Clarendon, though one believes him to be in the wrong, one desires above all things to serve him.

Clarendon made his way to the Queen’s apartment and asked for audience.

She received him in bed. She looked pale and quite exhausted after her upset, but she greeted him with a faint smile.

Clarendon intimated that his business with her was secret, and her women retired.

“Oh, my lord,” she cried, “you are one of the few friends I have in this country. You have come to help me, I know.”

“I hope so, Madam,” said Clarendon.

“I have been foolish. I have betrayed my feelings, and that is a bad thing to do; but my feelings were so hard to bear. My heart was broken.”

“I have come to give you my advice,” said the Chancellor, “and it is advice which may not please Your Majesty.”

“You must tell me exactly what you mean,” she said. “I can glean no help from you if you do not talk freely of my faults.”

“Your Majesty makes much of little. Has your education and knowledge of the world given you so little insight into the conduct of mankind that you should be so upset to witness it? I believe that your own country could give you as many—nay more—instances of these follies, than we can show you here in our cold climate.”

“I did not know that the King loves this woman.”

“Did you imagine then that a man such as His Majesty, thirty-two years of age, virile and healthy, would keep his affections reserved for the lady he would marry?”

“I did not think he loved her still.”

“He has the warmest feelings for you.”

“Yet his for her are warmer.”

“They would be most warm for you if you were to help him in this,” said the Chancellor slyly. “I come to you with a message from him. He says that if you will but do what he asks on this one occasion he will make you the happiest queen in the world. He says that whatever he entertained for other ladies before your coming concerns you not, and that you must not enquire into them. He says that if you will help him now he will dedicate himself to you. If you will meet his affection with the same good humor, you will have a life of perfect felicity.”

“I am ready to serve the King in all ways.”

The Chancellor smiled. “Then all is well. There is no longer discord between you.”

“Save,” went on Catherine, “in this one thing. I will not have that woman in my household.”

“But only by helping the King in this—for he has given a promise that it should be so—can you show that devotion.”

“But if he loved me he could not … could not suggest it! By insisting on such a condition he exposes me to the contempt of the Court. If I submitted to it I should believe I was worthy to receive such an affront. No. No. I will not have that woman in my household. I would prefer to go back to Lisbon.”

“That,” said Clarendon quickly, “it is not in your power to do. Madam, I beg of you, for your own sake, listen to my counsel. Meet the King’s wishes in this. It is rarely that he is so insistent. Pray try to understand that he has given his word that Lady Castlemaine should have a post in your bedchamber. Demean yourself in this—if you consider you should demean yourself by so obeying your husband—but for your future happiness do not remain stubborn.”

Catherine covered her face with her hands.

“I will not,” she moaned. “I will not.”

Clarendon left her and her women came round her, soothing her in their native tongue. They cursed all those who had dared insult their Infanta; they implored her to remember her state; they swore to her that she would forfeit all respect, not only of the Court but of the King, if she gave way.

“I cannot have her here,” Catherine murmured. “I cannot. Every time I saw her my heart would break afresh.”

So she lay back and her women smoothed her hair away from her brow and spread cooling unguents on her heated face; they wiped away the tears which she could not restrain.

That night the King came to her chamber.

Clarendon had failed, and Charles no longer felt impelled to pretend he cared for her. She had disappointed him. Her charm had been in her soft tenderness, her overwhelming desire to please. Now she was proving to be such another termagant as Barbara, and not nearly so handsome a one.

They are alike, thought the King; only the method of getting what they want is different.

“Charles,” she cried tearfully, “I pray you let us have done with this matter. Let us be as we were before.”

“Certainly let us have done with it,” he said. “You can decide that quicker than any of us.”

“I could not bear to see her every day in my chamber…. I could not, Charles.”

“You who have talked of dying for me … could not do this when I ask it?” He spoke lightly, maliciously.

She said: “When you speak thus I feel as though a hundred daggers pierce my heart.”

“That heart of yours is too easily reached. A protection of sound good sense might preserve it from much pain.”

“You are so different now, Charles. I scarcely know you.”

“You too are different. I feel I knew you not at all. I had thought you gentle and affectionate, and I find you stubborn, proud and wanting in your sense of duty.”

“I find you wanting in affection and full of tyranny,” she cried.

“You are inexperienced of the world. You have romantic ideals which are far from reality.”

“You have cynical ideas which shock and alarm me.”

“Catherine, let us have done with these wrangles. Let us compromise on this. Do this one thing for me and I promise you that Lady Castlemaine shall never, in the smallest way, show the slightest disrespect for you; she shall never, for one moment, forget that you are the Queen.”

“I will never have her in my household!” cried Catherine hysterically. “Never … never. I would rather go back to Portugal.”

“You would do well to discover first whether your mother would receive you.”

Catherine could not bear to look at him. He was so aloof and angry, and anger sat so unfamiliarly on that dark face. That he could talk so coldly of her going home frightened her.

He went on: “Your Portuguese servants will soon be going back, so doubtless they could lay this matter of your return before your mother; then we should see whether she would be willing to receive you.”

“So you would send my servants away from me—even that?”

Charles looked at her in exasperation. She was so innocent of the world, so ignorant of procedure. She thought that in sending her servants from her he would be guilty of another act of cruelty; she did not understand that in all royal marriages a bride’s servants stayed with her only until she was settled into the ways of her new country, and that it was considered unwise for them to stay longer since they created jealousy and were inclined to make great matters of small differences—such as this one—which arose between a king and his queen.

He did not explain to her; he was exasperated beyond endurance. Moreover it seemed to him she was ready to misconstrue all his actions and doubtless would not believe anything he told her.

“I did not know,” she said, “that you could find it in your heart to treat me so ill. My mother promised me that you would be a good husband to me.”

“Your mother, alas, made many promises which were not fulfilled. She promised a handsome dowry which has not yet been delivered.”

He immediately hated himself for those words, for he had told himself again and again that the defalcation of her mother was no fault of Catherine’s.

He longed to be done with the matter. It was absurd. A quarrel between two women, and he was allowing it to give him as much anxiety as the threat of a major war. He was wrangling with her through the night in such loud tones that many in the Palace would hear him.

It was undignified; it was folly; and he would do it no more.

He hurried from the apartment, leaving Catherine to weep through the rest of the night.

The days passed most wretchedly for Catherine. She seldom spoke to the King. She would see him from the windows of her apartment sauntering with his friends; she would hear their laughter; it seemed that wherever he was there was merriment.

She was lonely, for, although she was the Queen, there was no one in the Palace who did not know of the estrangement between herself and the King, and many who had been eager to please her in the hope of receiving her favor, no longer considered her capable of bestowing benefits.

She knew something of what was said of her. The King’s devotion of the last two months had been given out of the kindness of his heart: there had been no real love, no passion. How could there be? There were many ladies of the Court more beautiful than the Queen, and the King was deeply affected by beauty.

For two months he had given his affections exclusively to her, and she, being simple and ignorant, had not realized what a great sacrifice that was for the King to make.

She was humiliated and heartbroken. She did not know how foolish she was; she did not realize that, since there could be no happiness for her while the King was displeased with her, she could quite easily win back his grateful devotion. Charles hated to be on bad terms with anyone, particularly a woman; his tenderness for her sex was apparent in all he did; even to those women who attracted him not at all he was invariably courteous. He was sorry for Catherine; he understood her difficulties; he knew she was an idealist while he was very much a realist; and if at the time she had given way in this matter, if she had understood his peculiar problem, if she had been able to see him as the man he was—charming, affable, easy-going, generous, good-natured but very weak, particularly in his relationship with women—Catherine could have won his affectionate regard for all time; and although she could never have roused his passion she could have been his very dear friend. But her rigid upbringing, her lack of worldly knowledge, her pride and the influence of her prudish Portuguese attendants robbed her of not only her temporary peace of mind but of her future happiness.

So she sat aloof, sometimes sullenly, sometimes weeping bitterly; and the King ignored her, his courtiers following his example. Thus Hampton Court, the scene of those first weeks of triumphant happiness, became the home of despair.

Henrietta Maria, the King’s mother, arrived in England; she wished to meet her son’s wife and let the whole world know how she welcomed the marriage.

Then it was necessary for Charles to behave towards Catherine as though all was well between them.

They rode out from Hampton Court side by side while a brilliant cavalcade accompanied them. The people lined the roads to cheer them, and Catherine felt new pride stir within her when she realized how the English loved their King.

That was a happy day, for Charles was chatting with her as though there had been nothing to disturb their relationship; and when they arrived at Greenwich, Henrietta Maria, determined to dispense with ceremony, took her daughter-in-law in her arms and assured her in her volatile way that this was one of the happiest moments in the life of one whose many sorrows had made her call herself la reine malheureuse.

She accepted a fauteuil and sat on the right hand of Catherine. Charles sat next to his wife, and on his left hand sat Anne Hyde the Duchess of York, while the Duke stood behind his mother.

It was Henrietta Maria who talked continually, studying the face of her daughter-in-law, trying not to let her eyes betray the fact that she was wondering if she were yet pregnant. Those lively dark eyes missed little, and she could see no signs of a child.

“This is indeed a pleasure, my dearest daughter. And how like you your country, eh? I thank the saints that you have come to it in summer weather. Ah, I remember my first visit to this country. That was in the days of my youth … the happiest time of my life! But even then I had my little worries. I was so small—smaller than you, my dear daughter—and it grieved me lest my husband should wish me taller. How we suffer we princesses sent to strange lands! But I found my husband to be the best man in the world … the kindest and most faithful husband … the best of fathers….”

Charles interrupted: “I beg of you, Mam, say no more. My wife will expect too high a standard of me.”

“And why should she not expect you to be like your father! I trust that you may bring her as much happiness as he brought me … though … through my love of him I suffered much. But is not that the way with love? To love is to suffer….”

Catherine said fervently: “It is true, Your Majesty. To love is to suffer.”

“Well, let us not talk of suffering on such a happy occasion,” said the King. “Tell me, Mam, how is my sister?”

Henrietta Maria frowned. “She has her trials. Her husband is not kind to her.”

“I am sorry for her,” said Catherine.

“Ah … indeed, yes. When I think of the regard the King of France has for her … when I think of what might have been….”

“It is useless to dwell on what might have been,” said the King. “It grieves me that my sister is not happy.”

“You must not be jealous of his love for his sister,” said Henrietta Maria to Catherine. “I declare that my daughter’s husband is jealous of hers for him. They have been devoted all their lives.”

The Duke of York joined in the conversation and Henrietta Maria chattered on in her garrulous way; her manner was faintly cool to the Duchess of York whom Charles had forced her to accept, but James had always been a favorite of hers. She made little attempt to veil her likes and dislikes. She asked how fared that man Hyde—she refused to give him his title of Earl of Clarendon—and she asked if her son was still as strongly under his influence as he always had been.

The King turned aside her awkward remarks with his easy manner, and Catherine felt more deeply in love with him than ever before.

She could not be unhappy while they were together thus, for although it might only have been for the sake of etiquette, the King would turn to her again and again, and it was delightful to enjoy the warmth of his smiles and his tender words once more.

She felt desolate when it was time to return to Hampton Court, but she found that the King’s manner towards her did not change as they rode away from London. He remained friendly and charming; though of course she knew that he would not be her lover.

Even then she did not see how much happier her life might have been had she given way on this one matter; and although she had been able to set aside her misery during the visit to Greenwich, still she determined to nurse it, and the matter of Lady Castlemaine’s admittance to the household was still between them.

Henrietta Maria visited the King and Queen at Hampton Court, and during the month of August Catherine made her first public entry into the capital of her new country.

She rode down the river in the royal barge; and by her side was Charles, delighted to be on water, and returning to his capital. Full of charm and gaiety he was tender and affectionate. The Duke and the Duchess of York were with them in the brilliantly decorated barge, as well as those Princes, cousins of the King, Rupert and Edward, with the Countess of Suffolk; other members of the royal household followed. All along the riverbanks cheering people watched them; and when they were within a short distance of London they left the barge for a large boat with glass windows. The awnings were covered in gold-embroidered crimson velvet.

Now they were ready for the triumphal entry.

“And this,” Charles told his wife, “is all in honor of you.”

The river was crowded with craft of all description, for the Lord Mayor and companies had turned out in force to play their Queen, to the tune of sweet music, into her capital. On the deck of their boat, beneath the canopy which had been made in the form of a cupola with Corinthian pillars decorated with flowers, sat Catherine and Charles.

To Catherine it was inspiring and thrilling. The music enchanted her as did the shouts of the people acclaiming their loyalty to the royal pair; but what delighted Catherine more than anything else was the fact that Charles was beside her, her hand was in his, and his affable smiling face turned again and again from his cheering people to herself.

It was possible to believe that their differences were forgotten, that all was well between them, and that they were lovers again.

And so to Whitehall, of which the King had often talked to her, where the public crowded into the banqueting hall to watch the royal party dine.

Catherine realized now how much a part of this merry boisterous existence Charles himself was, how his ready smiles to the humblest, how his quick retorts, his dispensing with royal dignity, appealed to the people. They were delighted—those who crowded about Whitehall and came into the private apartment to see their royal family—with the easy manner of their King and his friendliness to all; they were enchanted with the extravagance of his Palace and glittering splendor of the gentlemen of his Court and the beauty of the ladies.

They loved their King not only because of his good nature—and when he had returned to England he had brought with him a colorful way of life—but also for his weaknesses, for providing them with many a titbit of scandal; they loved him for his love affairs, which could always be relied upon to raise a laugh in any quarter, and were such a contrast to the dull, drab and respectable existence of men such as Cromwell and Fairfax.

Now he joked with the Queen and his mother at the royal table, and the crowd looked on and enjoyed his wit.

Catherine was shocked when, before them all, he discussed the possibility of her bringing an heir to England.

“I believe he will soon put in an appearance,” said Charles.

“This is wonderful news!” cried Henrietta Maria.

Catherine looked from one to the other, trying to follow the conversation which was taking place in English.

The King turned to her and explained what had been said. Catherine blushed hotly, and the people laughed. She stammered in English: “You lie.”

At which the whole assembly burst into loud laughter on hearing the King so addressed; and none laughed more heartily than the King.

He said: “And what will my people think of the way in which I am treated by my wife? These are the first words in English she has uttered in public.” His face wore a look of mock seriousness. “And she says I lie!”

He then turned to her and said that she must talk more in English, for that was what his people would like to hear; and he made her say after him such phrases as set the people rocking with hilarious laughter in which all the noble company joined.

But Catherine’s joy was short-lived, for it was not long before Barbara appeared at Whitehall. No more was said as to her becoming a lady of the bedchamber; she was just there, always present, brilliantly beautiful; so that whenever Catherine compared herself with Charles’ notorious mistress she felt plain—even ugly—quite dull and completely lacking in charm.

She grew sullen; she sat alone; she would not join any group if Barbara were there, and, as the King always seemed to be where Barbara was, all the brilliant and amusing courtiers were there also.

Almost everyone deserted the Queen; the Earl of Sandwich, who had been so charming when he had come to Portugal, no longer seemed to have any time to spare for her; young Mr. James Crofts, a very handsome boy of about fifteen, scarcely noticed her at all, and moreover she felt that the fact that he was received at Court was an affront to herself, for she knew who he was—the son of a woman as infamous as Lady Castlemaine. And the boy’s features, together with a somewhat arrogant manner would have proclaimed him to be Charles’ son—even if the King did not make it openly obvious that this was so.

James Crofts was often with the King; they could be seen sauntering in the Park, arm in arm.

Catherine heard what was said of the King and this boy. “Greatly His Majesty regrets that he was not married to the mother of such a boy, for it is clear that handsome Mr. James Crofts is beloved by his father.”

James gave himself airs. He was at every state occasion magnificently dressed, and already ogling the ladies. He was a fervent admirer of Lady Castlemaine and sought every opportunity of being in her company; and there was nothing this lady liked better than to be seen with the King and his son, when they laughed and chatted together.

There were some who said that young James’ feeling for his father’s mistress was becoming too pronounced, and that the lady was not displeased by this, but that when the King realized that this boy of his was fast becoming a man he would be less fond of Master James. The King however was human and, like all parents, took far longer than others to become aware that his son was growing up.

Although the King was outwardly affectionate to his wife, all knew of his neglect of her. It was said that he was pondering whether he might not proclaim Mr. Crofts legitimate, give him a grand title, and make him his heir. If he did this it would mean that he had decided no longer to hope for an heir from the Queen; and all understood what that implied.

So Catherine grew more and more wretched during those summer months. It seemed to her that she had only two friends at Court. Most of her attendants were returning to Portugal and all her most intimate friends were to leave her, with the exception of Maria the Countess de Penalva for, it was said, the King thought Maria too old and infirm to influence Catherine and support her in her stubbornness.

That other friend was a younger brother of the Earl of Sandwich—Lord Edward Montague—who held the post of Master of Horse in her household.

Edward Montague had by his demeanor shown his sympathy with her and had told her that he considered she was shamefully treated.

She found some pleasure therefore in listening to his words of sympathy, for it was comforting to think that in the royal household there was at least one who understood her.

When she said goodbye to her servants she continued to believe that Charles had deprived her of their company in order to spite her. She would not accept the fact that custom and the wishes of English members of the household demanded their departure.

She withdrew herself more than ever; she began to see that in refusing to accept Lady Castlemaine she had brought nothing but sorrow to herself. She had lost the King’s affection, which had been given to a meek and gentle woman; and at the same time Lady Castlemaine had become a member of her household in spite of her dissent. Now James Crofts was made Duke of Monmouth, and was taking precedence over every other Duke in the kingdom with one exception—that of the King’s brother James.

She herself was of no account; she had brought no good to her husband; her dowry was unpaid; her country was begging for England’s military help; valuable English ships were kept in the Mediterranean to assist Portugal should Spain attack.

She was the most wretched of Queens for, in spite of all she had suffered, she continued to love her husband.

She paced up and down her apartment.

Her country was in danger, she knew. If Charles withdrew his fleet Portugal would be once more the vassal of Spain. All the political advantages which this marriage had been intended to secure would be lost.

And it was due to her obstinacy. Was it obstinacy? She did not know. Was it her pride? Was it her vanity? She had dreamed of his chivalry; she had set him up in her mind and heart as the perfect man; and when she had met him in the flesh she had discovered him to be—so she had thought—more lovable than her ideal. That ideal had been noble, a little stern; she had never thought of his making merry. The reality had seemed noble but never stern; he was fond of laughter; lie was affectionate—the kindest man in the world.

And suddenly one night as she lay alone, the knowledge came to her. She loved him; she would always love him; she loved him not only for his virtues but for his faults. She no longer wanted that ideal; she wanted Charles the living man. Suddenly she realized that she was married to the most fascinating Prince in the world and that, although she was not sufficiently beautiful or charming, so kindly was his nature that she could still expect much affection from him.

He had asked one thing of her, and she had failed to give it because it had seemed impossible to give. He had asked her to accept him as he was—frail, a lover of women other than herself—and she had failed him in the one important thing he had asked of her.

She remembered now the kindness with which he had first received her; she remembered how, when he had come into her bedchamber, he had made her feel that she was beautiful and desirable, not because he found her so, but because he knew that that was what she wished to be. He would deceive in order to please; she had failed to appreciate that. She had set him stern rules, conventional rules; she had tried to make a saint of the most charming sinner in the world, little realizing that saints are often uncomfortable people and that their saintliness is often attained at the cost of that kindly good nature which was an essential part of Charles’ character.

She saw clearly his side of their disagreement, as she had never thought to see it, and she cursed herself for a fool because she had failed him when he asked her help.

She loved him; any humiliation was not too much to suffer for the sake of his affection.

She determined to regain that affection. She would not tell him of her decision; she would startle him by her friendly manner towards Lady Castlemaine. Mayhap it was not too late.

In the early hours of the morning as he left his mistress’s apartment in the Cockpit and strolled back to his own in the main Palace, Charles was thinking of Catherine. He wondered how many people in the Court knew of these nightly wanderings of his to and from Barbara’s apartment. Did Catherine know? Poor Catherine! He had been wrong to show coldness to her. He had asked too much of her. Could he have expected an innocent and ignorant girl, brought up as she had been, to understand his blasé point of view?

No! Catherine had acted in accordance with what she had considered to be right. She had clung to her duty. He, who would have sought an easy way out of the difficulty, must admire her for her strength of purpose. She had endured his neglect without much complaint, and he had behaved very badly.

She was the Queen, and he must put an end to this state of affairs. Barbara was often unbearable. He would tell her she must leave the Court. That should be his first concession to Catherine. Gradually he would let her see that he wished them to return to a happier relationship.

Poor homely little Catherine! She was a good woman, though a stubborn one, but well within her rights he doubted not.

“I will see what may be done about remedying this difference between us,” he mused.

And so, salving his conscience, he returned to his apartment.

Catherine’s change of manner towards Lady Castlemaine caused great astonishment.

It was so sudden, for not only did she speak with her as hitherto she had not done, but she seemed actually to enjoy that lady’s company more than that of any other. She referred to Barbara as “my friend Lady Castlemaine.”

Poor Catherine! So eager was she for the King’s regard that, having once made up her mind to turn about, she could not do so quickly enough.

Those few who had sought to curry favor with the Queen for what it might be worth, were now alarmed and tried to remember what derogatory remarks they had made about Barbara. Those who had ignored Catherine were equally astonished.

Clarendon thought her inconsequent and unreliable. “This,” he said to Ormond, “is the total abandonment of her greatness. She has lost all dignity; for, although I continued to warn her against her stubborn conduct, yet I was forced to admire it. In future none will feel safe with her. The Castlemaine herself is more reliable.”

The King, too, was astonished. He had not asked for such affability. He would have preferred her to have been cool with Barbara. It seemed folly to have expressed such abhorrence and now to have assumed a completely opposite attitude.

I was a fool, he told himself. I worried unduly. She is not the woman I thought her. She gives way to sudden passions. Her persistent refusal to receive Barbara did not grow out of her sense of rightness; it was pure perversity.

He shrugged his shoulders and decided to let matters take their course.

It was the end of the year—Catherine’s first in England—and the King gave a grand ball in his Palace of Whitehall to mark the passing of the old year and the coming of the new.

Into the great ballroom the public crowded to watch the dancing. There was the King, the most graceful dancer of all, more merry than any, clad in black with flashing diamonds adorning his person, surrounded by his fine courtiers and beautiful ladies. A little apart sat the Queen with Edward Montague and a few of her friends; and although she smiled often, chatted in her quaint English and seemed to be enjoying the ball, it was noticed how her eyes wistfully went back and back again to the tall figure of her husband.

She watched him leading the Duchess of York out for the brantle. And how ungainly was the poor Duchess beside such an elegant partner! The Duke led the Duchess of Buckingham, poor Mary Fairfax, for whom Catherine had a feeling of deep sympathy, for Mary was plain, ungainly and so eager to please the brilliant handsome man she had married; Catherine noticed how all eyes were on that other pair which joined the brantle with the King’s group. Tall, dark James Crofts, the Duke of Monmouth, looking amazingly like his father, had chosen for his partner the most strikingly handsome woman in the ballroom. There were gasps from the people who had come in from the streets to watch the royal party at their pleasure; there was a titter of grudging admiration for the auburn-haired beauty with the flashing blue eyes.

Her jewels were more brilliant than those of any woman in the room, and she held herself imperiously as though conscious of her power; and now she was amused because she knew that the King was aware of the warm looks of this very young boy who was her partner in the dance.

A murmur went through the crowd. “’Tis my Lady Castlemaine! Was there ever such a woman, such beauty, such jewels?”

The courtiers followed her with their eyes. None could refrain from looking at Barbara. Some of the jewels she was now wearing had been Christmas presents to the King, but already Barbara had grasped them with greedy hands. And as she danced in the brantle the King watched her, Mon-mouth watched her, and Lord Chesterfield watched her, but none watched her quite so closely nor so sadly as the Queen of England.

The brantle over, the King led the dancers in a coranto; and when that was ended and more stately dances followed, the King, with more energy than that possessed by most of his courtiers, signed to the fiddlers to play the dances of old England, with which country dances, he declared, none could compare.

“Let the first be ‘Cuckolds all awry!’ The old dance of old England.”

The Court grew very merry in the light of tall wax candles, and the crowds cheered and stamped with pleasure to see the old English dance; and they laughed and shouted to one another that Charles was indeed a King, with his merry life and his bland good humor, and the smiles he lavished freely on his subjects; they wanted no saint on the throne, who knew not how to laugh and found a virtue in forbidding pleasure to others.

They looked at the sad-faced Queen who did not seem to share in the fun; and from her they turned their gaze on dazzling Barbara.

The King was a man whom the English would never cease to love. And at the great Court ball in Whitehall Palace on the last night of the year 1662, all those present rejoiced once more that their King was a merry monarch and that he had come home to rule his kingdom.