A Health Unto His Majesty

FOUR

In the great ballroom at Windsor Castle the most brilliant ball of the year was taking place. This was to celebrate not only St. George’s Day but the marriage of the young man whom the King delighted to honor, his son, the Duke of Monmouth.

Catherine watched the dancers, and beside her sat the little bride, Lady Anne Scott, the heiress of Buccleugh and one of the richest in the kingdom; but the bridegroom seemed more interested in Lady Castlemaine than in his bride, and the young girl gazed at the pair with apprehension.

How sad it was, thought the Queen, that so many seemed to love those who were not their lawful partners! No wonder the King with sly humor liked to summon them all to dance “Cuckolds all awry.” Was he the only man who knew that he could rely on the good faith of his wife? Yet he seemed not to love her the more for her fidelity, and to love Barbara none the less for the lack of it in her. It was said that Sir Charles Berkeley and George Hamilton were Barbara’s lovers now and it seemed as though, before many weeks were out, young Monmouth might be; for the youth of the latter would be no deterrent to Barbara. She would look upon that as piquant. Catherine heard that she took lovers on the spur of the moment merely because some novelty in them appealed to her. She did not care whether they were noble or not; a lusty groom, she had been heard to say, was a better bedfellow than an impotent noble lord. The King also would hear these rumors, yet they seemed to affect him little; he still visited her on several nights each week and was often seen coming back early in the morning and all alone through the privy gardens. How could one hope to please such a husband as Catherine’s by one’s chastity?

Chastity! Who at Court cared about that? Their King clearly did not, and the courtiers were only too ready to follow his lead.

The Court was growing extremely elegant; Charles was introducing more and more French customs; he wrote continually to his sister, the wife of the French King’s brother, asking her to send him any novelties which had appeared in the Court of her brother-in-law. Making love was the main pursuit, it seemed, of all; rarely did any drink to excess at the Court; there again the custom of the King was followed. There was less gambling now, although this was a sport much loved by Lady Castlemaine. The King would anxiously watch her at play; he had good reason, for she was a reckless gambler, and who would pay her debts but himself? He did not forbid her or any of the ladies whom he so admired, to gamble; he could not bring himself to spoil their pleasure, he admitted; but he tried to lure them from the gaming tables with brilliant balls and masquerades. How indulgent he was to the women he loved!

Why could they not be content with the partners whom they had married? Catherine wondered. She looked at little Anne beside her and felt a wave of tenderness for her. Poor child! She was young yet, but Catherine felt that if she ever grew to love her handsome young husband she was going to suffer deeply.

Lady Chesterfield was standing beside the Queen’s chair and Catherine turned to her and smiled. A very charming lady—Elizabeth Butler now Lady Chesterfield—and married to that man who had seemed as much a slave of Barbara’s as the King himself.

Catherine had been sorry for Elizabeth Chesterfield; she had felt she understood her sadness for she had heard how innocent she had been when she had married the profligate Earl, and how she had tried to win his love only to be repulsed.

Catherine said in her faltering English: “I rejoice to see you look so well, Lady Chesterfield.”

Lady Chesterfield bowed her head and thanked Her Majesty.

Yes, she had changed, thought Catherine; she had lost her meek looks. Her dress of green and cloth of silver fell from beautifully rounded shoulders, and her thick hair was in ringlets falling about them; her eyes sparkled and she watched the dancers almost speculatively.

So she had come to terms with life, thought Catherine. She had decided not to grieve because her husband preferred the evil beauty of Lady Castlemaine.

The Earl of Chesterfield had come to his wife’s side, and would have taken her hand to lead her into the dance, but Elizabeth had withdrawn it and seemed not to see him standing there.

Catherine heard the whispered words.

“Come, Elizabeth. I would lead you to the dance.”

Elizabeth’s voice was lightly mocking. “Nay, my lord, your place is by the side of another. I would not deprive you of your pleasure in her company.”

“Elizabeth, this is folly.

“Nay, ’tis sound good sense. And I advise you to watch what is afoot, for your dear friend seems mightily taken with the young Duke. You endanger your chances with her by dallying with me. Ah, here comes my cousin George Hamilton to claim me in the dance. George, I am ready.”

And the graceful creature had laid her hand in that of George Hamilton, her cousin, who, it was said, had lately been the lover of my Lady Castlemaine. Chesterfield stood watching them with a frown between his eyes. It was like a mad dance, thought Catherine, in which, after a clasping of hands and a merry jig, they changed partners. Was Chesterfield more interested in the wife who flouted him than in the one who had been ready to love him? Or was it merely his pride which was wounded?

She noticed, however, that as the evening progressed his eyes were more frequently on his wife than on Lady Castlemaine.

Nor was he the only one who had seemed to change the course of his affections.

Catherine, whose eyes never strayed far from the King, saw that he was giving much of his attention to one of her maids of honor.

Frances Theresa Stuart was a distant relative of the King’s; she was the daughter of Walter Stuart, the third son of Lord Blantyre, and Henrietta Maria had brought her to England when she came over, and had left the girl with Catherine to act as maid of honor.

Henrietta Maria had told Catherine that Louis Quatorze had been interested in her, and had suggested that she remain in his Court. “But,” said Henrietta Maria, “I thought it well not to leave her there; for her family lost much during the Civil War and I have a duty to them. I would not wish to see her become one of Louis’ mistresses. She has been brought up to live virtuously, so I pray you take her into your household and let her serve you.”

Catherine had not wondered then whether removing Mrs. Stuart from the lecherous orbit of Louis to that of Charles was not after all somewhat pointless, because at that time she had regarded the King’s attachment to Lady Castlemaine as largely the result of an evil spell which that woman had put upon him. Now she was beginning to understand her husband and to realize that if there had been no Lady Castlemaine there would have been others.

Previously Frances had been looked upon as little more than a child, but it seemed that in her dazzling gown and the few jewels she possessed, this night she had become a young woman; and Catherine realized that if Barbara’s beauty had a rival it was in this lovely girl.

Frances’s hair was thick, fair and hung in curls over her shoulders; her pink and white complexion was dazzling; her eyes were blue; and she was tall and very slender; Barbara had a rare beauty with which any woman would find it difficult to compete, but Frances, in addition to beauty, was possessed of an elegance which she had acquired during her education at the French Court; her manners were gentle and quite modest—a complete contrast to the vulgarity of Lady Castlemaine. Barbara was, of course, full of wiles, full of cunning and, compared with her, Frances Stuart seemed simple as a child. It was perhaps these qualities, as much as her youth, which had made Catherine regard her as a little girl.

But on this night she seemed to have grown up, and the King was noticing the change in her.

Others were noticing it too. Barbara’s enemies, ever on the watch for her decline, were triumphantly asking each other and themselves: Could this be the end of her long domination of the King? Never had they seen Charles so completely absorbed in another woman, while Barbara was present, as he was in Frances.

Catherine was sad at heart. She had believed that one day the King would come to notice what a vulgar woman Barbara was and, full of shame and repentance, he would turn to his wife and they would resume that idyllic relationship they had enjoyed at Hampton Court.

Now she must wonder whether he ever would turn to her again, whether she had lost him forever when she had failed to do that one thing which he had asked of her.

She continued to watch Lady Chesterfield who, flushed and triumphant, had many admirers now, including her husband perhaps. There was the Duke of York, watching her with dark, slumberous eyes. James was so clumsy in his devotions to women that he always aroused the amusement of the Court, and particularly of Charles. Catherine doubted not that ere long there would be whispers concerning the attraction Lady Chesterfield was exerting over the susceptible Duke.

It was a strange world, this Court of her husband. She was once more reminded that it was a Court in which beauty and the power to charm were of greater importance than virtue. Lady Chesterfield provided an example. Could Catherine herself follow it?

There was young Edward Montague who was often at her side. But were his feelings for her inspired by pity for her plight rather than admiration for her person?

Now she must dance, and here was the Duke of Monmouth, in whose honor the ball was held, ceremoniously asking for the hand of the first lady of the Court.

Catherine rose and put her hand in his. He was a very graceful dancer, and Catherine, who loved to dance, found herself enjoying this one.

How like Charles he was! A younger, more handsome Charles, but lacking that kingliness, that great elegance, that wit, that charm. In comparison Monmouth was merely a pretty boy.

And as he danced with her—holding his plumed hat in his hand, since he danced with the Queen—Charles came to them and, there before the whole assembly, in an access of tenderness for this boy whom it was his delight to honor, stopped the dance, took the boy in his arms, kissed him on both cheeks and bade him put on his hat and continue the dance.

Everyone was astonished at this action of the King’s. It could mean only one thing, it was whispered. The King so doted on his handsome son that he had determined to make him legitimate. Then the Duke of Mon-mouth would be heir to the throne.

Rumor began to grow. Had the King truly married Lucy Water? Had the creature prevailed upon him to go through a ceremony of marriage? Charles had been an exile then, and all knew how easy-going he was with his women.

Catherine sadly continued to dance; she feared that the King’s regard for her was so slight that he was telling her—and the Court—that whatever children she might bear him, they could not mean more to him than did young Monmouth.

In the little octagonal building which was part of Whitehall Palace and was called the Cockpit, Barbara had her apartments and here she held court. Hither flocked those ambitious men who believed that through Barbara lay the way to glory.

The chief of these was George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham and Barbara’s second cousin once removed; he was recognized, not only as one of the most handsome men of the day, but one of its most brilliant statesmen.

He saw in close association with Barbara a means of getting that power for which he had always longed, and there was one man whom he felt stood between him and his goal; that man was Clarendon, and in their hatred of the Chancellor, he and Barbara were united.

There in her rooms at the Cockpit they would meet frequently, and about them would gather all those who hoped to follow them to power. In the light of candles they would make merry, for, in addition to being a wily statesman, Buckingham was a man of many social graces: he was one of the most entertaining men at Court, and his imitations of well-known figures could set guests laughing so much that they became almost hysterical, so clever was he at caricaturing those little vanities and dignities of his enemies to make them appear utterly ridiculous. He used this gift in order to bring ridicule to those he disliked, and his caricature of Clarendon was in constant demand.

Another great enemy of Clarendon’s who came to Barbara’s parties was the Earl of Bristol. He was bold and vivacious but somewhat unreliable. He had written a book about the Reformation and, during the course of writing this, had become a Catholic; he was looked upon as the leader of the Catholic party in England and because of this was watched eagerly by those who hoped to see the Catholics more firmly established in the land. There was not a man at Court who hated the Chancellor more than did the Earl of Bristol.

Henry Bennet, who had been with the King in exile, was another; he was a clever, ambitious but rather pompous man who bore a scar on his nose of which he was so proud that he called attention to it by wearing a patch over it which was far greater than the scar warranted; this was meant to be a constant reminder to the King that he had been wounded in the Royalist Cause. Henry Bennet had shared Lucy Water with Charles when they were in Holland, and it was a matter of opinion whether Lucy’s daughter Mary was Bennet’s child or the King’s. Barbara had included Bennet in her own little circle of men she could use, and it was largely through her that he had replaced Nicholas as Secretary of State.

It was these three men—Buckingham, Bristol and Bennet—with whom Barbara sought to intrigue after that New Year’s ball during which the King had clearly shown his interest in Frances Stuart.

They all wished to bring about the downfall of Clarendon, and at the same time it was Barbara’s desire to damage Frances Stuart in the eyes of the King.

Barbara was seriously alarmed about Frances Stuart. The girl had in the first place seemed to be a simpleton. She was young and artless and seemed unaware of the fact that there was not a woman at Court whose beauty could compare with hers; and in a Court where the King was instantly moved by beauty in any form—and in particular the beauty of women—that meant a passport to power.

Barbara watched Frances closely. Each day she seemed to grow in beauty. The girl was perfect; her figure was enchanting, her face, with that expression of supreme innocence, delightful. Had she not been the most beautiful girl at Court, her very grace of movement would have made her stand out among them all, and allied with this was a charming air of innocence. She laughed easily; she prattled of nothing in a lighthearted way; she seemed almost simpleminded in her childishness. But Barbara had her own ideas. She did not believe in Mrs. Stuart’s innocence. She remembered the case of Anne Boleyn, who had remained haughty, pure and aloof, and had murmured to an enamored King: “Your wife I cannot be; your mistress I will not be.”

Barbara was furious with the girl, but the situation was too delicate to allow her to give full vent to that fury. Barbara was in her twenties; Frances in her teens; Barbara lived riotously, never denying her senses what they craved; Frances slept the sleep of the innocent each night and arose in the mornings fresh as a spring flower.

Barbara had realized that where this sly little prude was concerned she would have to play a wary game.

So she took Frances under her wing. She believed that, if she had not, the King might have been found supping where Frances was and Barbara was not. She made Frances her little friend; she even had her sleep in her bed.

She knew, of course, that the King had made the usual advances to the girl—the languishing looks, the pressing of hands, the stolen kisses, the gifts. All these she had received with wide-eyed pleasure as though the insinuation which accompanied them was quite beyond her understanding.

So Barbara played those games which Frances loved, childish games which made the simple little creature shriek with pleasure. They played “marriage”—with Barbara the husband and Frances the wife, and they were put to bed with a sack posset and the stocking was flung. Unfortunately the King had come in while that game was in progress and had declared that it was a shame poor Frances had been married to one of her own sex. He was sure she would have preferred a man for her husband; he therefore would relieve Barbara of conjugal responsibilities and take them on himself. What shrieks of laughter from sly Mrs. Stuart! What nudging and whispering of those participating in the game! Had the bride been anyone else, Barbara knew full well that the frolic of that night would not have ended as it did. But sly, virtuous Mrs. Stuart knew when to draw back; and Barbara, with murder in her heart, believed the sly creature was contemplating very high stakes indeed.

So the dearest wish of Barbara’s heart was to see Mrs. Stuart exposed in the eyes of the King as a wanton. She knew that he was growing more and more tender towards the girl, that he believed in all that innocence, and that it was having a devastating effect which might prove disastrous to Barbara. Dearly as she wished to see the fall of Clarendon she wished even more to see the fall of Mrs. Stuart.

It was in the Cockpit that she conferred with her friends.

“It should not be difficult now,” she said, “for you gentlemen to assure the King of how this man works against him.”

“The King is too easy-going,” growled Bennet.

“Yet,” said Buckingham, “his opposition to the Declaration of Liberty for Tender Consciences has, I am certain, incensed the King.”

“I have assured him,” said Barbara, “that Clarendon opposed the Declaration, not because he believed it to be wrong, but because of his hatred towards those who promoted it.”

“And what said he to that?”

Barbara shrugged her shoulders. “He said that Clarendon was a man of deep conscience. He had reason to know it, for he knew the man well.” “Still he was displeased with Clarendon.”

“Indeed he was,” said Bristol, “and it was solely because of his need for money that he agreed to those laws which deal harshly with all who differ from the Act of Uniformity.”

“And now,” said Buckingham, “he has been forced to proclaim that Papists and Jesuits will be banished from the kingdom, although I have good reason to believe that he will do everything in his power to oppose the banishing. You know his great wish for tolerance, and it is solely because he needs money so badly that he is forced to fall in with the Parliament’s wishes.”

“But he loves them all a little less for forcing him to agree,” said Barbara. “And he knows that it is Clarendon who has led those against him.”

“So,” cried Bristol, “now is the time to impeach the fellow. If the King fails to support him as he failed to support the King, all those who feign friendship towards him will drop away like leaves in an autumn gale.”

“Yes,” said Barbara, “now is the time.”

“There is another matter,” said Bristol. “I am a Catholic and I know how friendly the King has been to Catholics. There are rumors—and always have been—that one who can be so lenient towards Papists must surely be of their Faith.”

“It is nonsense,” said Barbara. “He is often more lenient when he does not agree. It is due to some notion he has of suspecting all points of view.”

“Clarendon deplores his tolerance,” said Buckingham. “I have it! Someone has been spreading reports of the King’s devotion to the Catholic cause. It might well be Clarendon.”

“It shall be Clarendon!” said Barbara.

“Moreover,” said Bristol, “I have heard that a correspondence has taken place between the Queen and the Pope. His Majesty is weary of the Queen; that much is certain. There is no sign of a child. Doubtless the woman is unfruitful; princesses often are. And the King has proved his ability—nay his great good fortune—in getting children elsewhere. It may be that he would wish to rid himself of the Queen.”

Barbara’s eyes were narrowed. Could it be that these friends of hers were concocting some plot of which she was not acquainted? Had Bristol betrayed it; and could it by any chance concern Frances Stuart?

“Nay,” she said quickly, “I warn you. If you should try to turn the King against the Queen you would be greatly mistaken.”

Better, thought Barbara, a plain little Portuguese Catherine as Queen than beautiful Frances Stuart.

“Barbara is right in that,” said Buckingham. “Let us not take the plot too far as yet. Let us settle this one matter first, and we will deal with others afterwards. Let us rid ourselves of the Chancellor; let us set up a new Chancellor in his place….” Buckingham looked at Bristol, and Bristol looked at the ceiling. Why not Buckingham? thought Buckingham. Why not Bristol? thought Bristol. Bennet was smugly content as Secretary of State.

They parted soon afterwards. Barbara was hoping the King would call upon her.

A few days later she had an opportunity of speaking to Buckingham alone.

She immediately began to discuss Frances.

“Do you believe she is as virtuous as she feigns to be?”

“There is no proof that she is otherwise.”

“Mayhap no one has tried hard enough.”

“The King is a skillful player. Would you not say he is trying very hard indeed?”

“George, you may not be the King, but you are the handsomest man at Court.”

Buckingham laughed.

“Dear cousin,” he said, “I know full well how mightily it would please you should I take the Stuart for my mistress. It is galling for one of your high temper to see His Majesty growing more deeply enamored every day. It would be pleasant for me to bask in your approbation, Barbara, but think what goes with it: the fury of the King.”

“Nay, he’d not be furious. It is her seeming virtue that plagues him. He only half believes in it. Prove it to be a myth and he’ll love you better than he loves the silly Stuart.”

“And you too, Barbara?”

But Buckingham went away thinking of this matter. He was a handsome man; he was irresistible to many. Might it not be that for all his royalty, Charles as a man had failed to appeal to Frances? Might it not be that she realized that Charles in pursuit might be more amusing—and profitable—than Charles satisfied?

He decided to cultivate the fair Stuart.

Barbara whispered to Sir Henry Bennet: “She is beautiful, is she not—Frances Stuart?”

“She is indeed. Apart from yourself, I would say there is not a more handsome woman at the Court.”

“I know that you admire her.”

“’Tis a pity she is determined not to take a lover.”

“So far!” said Barbara.

“What mean you by that?”

“Mayhap the man she would wish for has not yet claimed her!”

“The King, it is said, has had ill fortune in his pursuit of her.”

“The King may not always be victorious. I have heard it said that Lucy Water, who knew you both well, had a more tender heart for Henry than for Charles.”

Bennet was a vain man. He postured and laughed aloud at the memory of Lucy Water.

And when he left Barbara, he was thoughtful.

The plot to discredit Clarendon failed completely, largely through Charles’ interference. Charles fully realized that the charge had been brought against him, not because those who brought it believed that Clarendon was working against him and the country, but because the plotters were working against Clarendon.

The Chancellor’s judges decided that a charge of high treason could not be brought by one peer against another in the House of Lords; and that even if those charges against Clarendon were true, there was no treason in them. The House of Lords therefore dismissed the charges.

Bristol, who had been the prime mover against Clarendon in this case, seeking to justify himself with the King and believing that Charles wished to rid himself of Catherine, added a further charge against Clarendon, declaring that he had brought the King and Queen together without any settled agreement about marriage rites, and that either the succession would be uncertain, in case of Catherine’s being with child, for want of the due rites of matrimony, or His Majesty would be exposed to suspicion of being married in his own country by a Romanish priest.

When the King heard of this he was indignant.

“How dare you suggest that there would be an inquiry into the secret nuptials between myself and the Queen?” he demanded.

“Your Majesty, I thought that in raising this point I should be acting as you wished.”

“You carry your zeal too far.”

“Then I crave Your Majesty’s pardon.”

“It would be easier to grant it if I did not have to see you for a little time. I would have you know—and all those who are with you—that I will not have slights cast on the Queen.”

“There was no desire to slight the Queen, Your Majesty.”

“Then let us hear no more of the matter. It is astonishing to me that you, a Catholic yourself, should have added this article to the impeachment of Clarendon. What caused your conversion to Catholicism?”

“May it pleasure Your Majesty, it happened whilst I was writing a book for the Reformation.”

The King turning away, said with a half smile: “Pray, my lord, write a book for Popery.”

It was necessary after that for the Earl of Bristol to absent himself from Court for a while.

The people in the streets and about the Court had said that Bristol and his friend had cast the Chancellor on his back past ever getting up, but Clarendon retained his post, although the rift between the King and his Chancellor had widened.

The Queen had become very happy. She was certain now that she was to have a child.

This made the King very tender towards her; he longed for a legitimate heir. He had not proclaimed Monmouth legitimate and he had denied the rumors that he had married Lucy Water. He was seen often in company with the Queen; but he was deeply in love with Frances Stuart.

He still continued to visit Barbara, who retained her hold over him, and she kept her title as his first mistress.

She made no attempt to control her temper, and she was pregnant again.

“It would seem,” she said, “that I have no sooner borne a child than the next is conceived. Charles, I hope our next will be a boy.”

“Our next?” said Charles.

“Indeed it is our next!” shouted Barbara.

The King looked about him. Barbara was not the only one who had her apartments in the Cockpit, for the building was large and had been built by Henry the Eighth to lodge those whom he wished to keep near him. Clarendon had a suite of rooms there; so had Buckingham.

Charles knew that these people were quite aware of the stormy nature of his relationship with Barbara, but he did like to keep their quarrels private.

“I doubt it,” said Charles. “I very much doubt this one to be mine.”

“Whose else could it be?”

“There you set a problem which you might answer more readily than I, though I confess you yourself might be hard put to it to solve it.”

Barbara looked about for something that she might throw at him; there was nothing to hand but a cushion; she would not throw that; it would seem almost coy.

“Oh, Barbara,” said the King, “let another man father this one.”

“So you would shift your responsibilities!”

“I tell you I do not accept this responsibility.”

“You had better change your mind before the child is born … unless you would like me to strangle it at birth and set it up in the streets with a crown upon its head proclaiming it the King’s son.”

“You’re fantastic,” said the King, beginning to laugh.

She laughed with him and leaping towards him threw her arms about his neck. In the old days such a gesture would have been a prelude to passion, but today the King was pensive and did not respond.

In Frances Stuart’s apartment the light of wax candles shone on all the most favored of the gallant gentlemen and beautiful ladies of the Court.

The King sat beside Frances who looked more beautiful than even she had ever looked; she was dressed in black and white, which suited her fair skin, and there were diamonds in her hair and about her throat.

From her seat at another table Barbara watched the King and Frances.

Frances seemed unaware of everything except the house of cards she was building. She was like a baby! thought Barbara. Her greatest delight was in building card houses; and everyone who sought to please her must compete with her in the ridiculous game. There was only one who could build as she did; that was Buckingham.

They built their card houses side by side. The King was handing Frances her cards; Lady Chesterfield was handing Buckingham his; all the other builders of card houses had given up the game to watch these two rivals. Frances was breathless with excitement; Buckingham was coolly cynical; but his hand was so steady that it seemed that his calmness would score over Frances’s excitement.

Imbecile! thought Barbara. Is she really so infantile that a card house can give her that much joy? Or is she acting the very young girl in the hope that the King is weary of such as I? We shall see who wins in the end, Mrs. Frances.

Lady Chesterfield caught Barbara’s attention momentarily; she had changed much since those days when she had first married Chesterfield and had been another simpleton such as Frances would have them believe she was. Simplicity had not brought Lady Chesterfield all she desired. Now George Hamilton sought to be her lover—and he had been Barbara’s lover too—and the Duke of York was paying her that attention with which he was wont to honor ladies; it consisted of standing near them and gazing longingly, at them in a manner which made all secretly laugh, or writing notes to them which he pushed into their pockets or muffs; and as the ladies concerned were not always willing to accede to his advances, there had been much amusement when the notes had been allowed to fall, as though unnoticed, from muff or pocket and left lying about for any to read.

Barbara thought of Chesterfield, her first lover, her first experience in those adventures which were more important to her comfort than anything else. Chesterfield had been a good lover.

She realized with some dismay that it was a long time since he had been to see her. She verily believed that he was more interested in another woman than he was in herself; and it was rather comic that that woman should be his wife.

Ah, but he had turned too late to Lady Chesterfield, who would not forget the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. It delighted her now to be cold to him, to accept the admiration of George Hamilton and to return the yearning gazes of the Duke of York, to set new fashions in the Court such as this one of green stockings which had begun with her appearing in them.

The King’s attention was all for the fair Stuart; Chesterfield’s for his wife; and Buckingham—for naturally Barbara and Buckingham had slipped into amorous relationship now and then—was also paying attention to the Stuart, although, Barbara reminded herself, it was at her suggestion he did this.

Three of her lovers looking at other women! It was disconcerting.

George Hamilton too, she remembered, was paying attention to Lady Chesterfield and hoping to persuade her to break her marriage vows.

Could it be that Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine, was finding herself deserted?

Not deserted, never deserted. There would always be lovers, even if she chose one of her grooms—although she would not do that unless he was a very appealing fellow. Yet it was disconcerting to find so many of those who had once sought her favors eagerly looking elsewhere. It was certainly time Frances Stuart was exposed to the King as a hypocrite and humbug. He would find it harder to forgive her infidelity than he ever had Barbara’s, for Barbara’s he took for granted. He knew Barbara; she was like himself. They could not curb their desires; he understood that of her as she did of him. They were not the sort to wrangle if the other took an odd lover or two.

The building of card houses was over; Buckingham had allowed Frances to win, and now was singing one of his songs set to his own music. He was a good performer and he sang in French and Italian as well as English. His poor, plain Duchess looked on with wistful tenderness as he performed. They were rarely together, but Frances liked husbands and wives to come to her gatherings; she was so very respectable, thought Barbara cynically.

Now there was dancing; and it was left to Monmouth to partner Barbara.

A spritely young fellow, thought Barbara, but she had not allowed him to become her lover; she was not sure how the King would feel about that. Monmouth, as his son, would be in a different category from other men; and she was not going to offend Charles more than she could help at this point.

When they were tired of dancing, Frances called on Buckingham to do some of his imitations, and that night the Duke excelled himself. He did his favorite—Clarendon, carrying a shovel in place of the mace, so full of self-importance, slow and ponderous; and this made the company roll and bend double with merriment; then he did the King, the King sauntering, the King being very gallant to a lady—who, of course, it was implied, was Frances herself. Charles led the laughter at this. And finally the versatile Duke approached Frances and began to make what he called a dishonorable proposal. It was Bennet to the life. The phrases were Bennet’s, slow, flowery and wordy, spiced with those quotations with which Bennet liked to adorn his parliamentary addresses.

Frances shrieked with laughter and clutched the King in a very paroxysm of merriment—all of which delighted the King mightily; and made of that evening a very merry one.

The French ambassador who was present was, after the merriment subsided a little, so delighted with the company that he whispered to the King that he had heard Mrs. Stuart was possessed of the most exquisite legs in the world, and he wondered whether he dared ask the lady to show him these—up to the knee; he would dare ask for no more.

The King whispered the request to Frances, who opened her blue eyes very wide and said but of course she would be delighted to show the ambassador her legs. Whereupon, still in the manner of a very young girl, she stood on a stool and lifted her skirt as high as her knees that all might gaze on the legs which had been proclaimed the most beautiful in the world.

The King was quite clearly enchanted with Frances’s manners, with her ingenuity and with the grace she displayed.

The French ambassador knelt and said that he knew of no way in which to pay homage to the most beautiful legs in the world except to kneel to them.

Then was the whole assembly made aware of how deep was the passion of the Duke of York for Lady Chesterfield, for he said in his somewhat ungracious way that he did not consider Mrs. Stuart’s legs the most beautiful in the world.

“They are,” he declared, “too slender. I would admire legs that are plump, and not so long as Mrs. Stuart’s. Most important of all, the legs I most admire should be clothed in a green stocking.”

The King burst into merry laughter, for, like everyone else, he knew that the Duke was referring to Lady Chesterfield who had introduced the green stocking to Court; Charles clapped his brother on the back and pushed him in the direction of the lady.

Barbara continued to watch this horseplay. She saw Lord Chesterfield’s angry glance at the royal brothers.

To think, thought Barbara, in rising fury, that I should ever live to see Chesterfield in love with his own wife!

She looked about her for the man whom she would invite to her bed that night. It would not be the King, nor Buckingham, nor Chesterfield, nor Hamilton.

She wished to have a new lover, someone young and lusty, who would take the memory of this evening with its warning shadows from her mind.

The Chesterfield scandal burst suddenly on the Court. It was astonishing to all, for Chesterfield was known as a rake and a libertine, and none would have suspected him of having any deep feelings for a woman, least of all for his own wife.

Music was the delight of the Court, and Tom Killigrew, one of the leading lights in the theatrical world, had brought with him from Italy a company of singers and musicians who had a great success at Court. One of these, Francisco Corbetta, was a magnificent performer on the guitar, and it was due to this that many ladies and gentlemen determined to learn the instrument. Lady Chesterfield had acquired one of the finest guitars in the country, and her brother, Lord Arran, learned to play the instrument better than any man at Court.

Francisco had composed a Sarabande, and this piece of music so delighted the King that he would hear it again and again. All at Court followed the King’s example, and through courtyards and apartments would be heard the Sarabande, in deep bass and high sopranos, played on all kinds of musical instruments, but the favorite way of delivering the Sarabande was to strum on the guitar and to sing at the same time.

When the Duke of York expressed his desire to hear Arran play the Sarabande on his sister’s guitar, Arran immediately invited the Duke to his sister’s apartments.

Chesterfield, hearing what was about to happen, stormed into his wife’s chamber and accused her of indulging in a love affair with the Duke of York.

Elizabeth, laughing inwardly, and remembering that occasion when she had first discovered that the husband she loved was in love with the King’s mistress, merely turned away and would neither deny nor admit that the Duke was her lover.

“Do you think,” cried Chesterfield, “that I shall allow you to deceive me … blatantly like this?”

“My thoughts are never concerned with you at all,” Elizabeth told him.

She sat down and took up the guitar, crossing those plump legs encased in green stockings for which the Duke had displayed public admiration.

Chesterfield cried: “Is he your lover? Is he? Is he?”

Elizabeth’s answer was to play the first notes of the Sarabande.

She looked at him coolly, and she remembered how she had loved him in the first weeks of their marriage, how she had sought to please him in every way, how she had dreamed of a marriage as happy as that enjoyed by her parents.

And then, when she had known that Barbara Castlemaine was his mistress—that woman of all women, that blatant, vulgar woman of whom there were so many stories current, that woman who had lost count of her lovers—when she had allowed herself to imagine them together, when she had seen how foolish she had been to hope for that happy marriage, quite suddenly she had ceased to grieve, she had come to believe that she would never care about anything anymore. It had seemed to her that in loving there could only be folly. The Court was corrupt; chastity and fidelity were laughed at even by the kindly King. Her feeling for her husband died suddenly. She had stood humiliated as a simple fool; and she would be so no longer.

Then she had discovered that there was much to enjoy in the Court; she had found that she was deemed beautiful. Gradually this understanding had come to her, and it was amusing to dance, to flirt, to astonish all by some extraordinary costume which, on her beautiful form, was charming. Like any other beautiful woman at Court she could have her lover. The King’s brother now sought her; mayhap soon the King himself would.

As for her husband, she could never look at him without remembering the acute humiliation he had inflicted on a tender young spirit which had been too childlike to bear such brutality.

One of her greatest joys henceforth would be to try to inflict on him a little of the torture he had carelessly made her suffer. She had never thought to accomplish it; but now the perverse man was, in his stupidity, ready to love a wife who would be cold to him forever more, although he had turned slightingly away from her youthful love.

That was life. Cynical, cruel. The Sarabande seemed to explain it far better than she could.

“I ask a question!” cried Chesterfield. “I demand an answer.”

“If I do not wish to answer you, I shall not,” she said.

“So he comes to hear the Sarabande! What an excuse! He comes to see you.”

“Doubtless both,” she said lightly.

“And that brother of yours has arranged this! He is in this plot against me! Do you think I’ll stand aside and allow you to deceive me thus?”

“I told you I do not think of you at all. And I do not care whether you stand aside or remain here. Your actions are of the utmost indifference to me.”

She was very beautiful, he thought, insolent and cold, sitting there with her pretty feet and a green stocking just visible below her gown. He often wondered how he could have been such a fool as not to have recognized her incomparable qualities; he had been mad to prefer the tantrums of Barbara to the innocence of the young girl whom he had married. He remembered with anguish her jealousy of his first wife. If he could only arouse that jealousy again he would be happy. Yet he knew that he would never arouse anything within her but cold contempt.

There was no time to say more, for at that moment the arrival of the Duke of York with Arran was announced. The Duke was flatteringly attentive to Lady Chesterfield and it was clear that he was far more interested in her than in her guitar.

Chesterfield refused to leave the little party to themselves, and stood glowering while Arran instructed the Duke in the playing of the famous Sarabande.

But, before the lesson had progressed very far, a messenger arrived to say that Chesterfield’s services as Lord Chamberlain to the Queen were required in the royal apartments, as the Muscovite ambassadors were ready to be conducted to her.

Furious at being called away at such a time, Chesterfield had no choice but to comply with instructions and leave Arran as chaperone for Lady Chesterfield and the Duke. When he arrived in the Queen’s presence chamber, to his complete horror, he found that Arran was there. The Duke and Lady Chesterfield must be alone together, in her apartments!

A mad fury possessed Chesterfield. He could scarcely wait for the audience to end. He was convinced that a trick had been played on him and that he had been cunningly removed that the Duke might be alone with his wife.

So great was his jealous rage that he went straight to his apartments. Neither the Duke nor Lady Chesterfield were there; and the first thing his eyes alighted on was the guitar; he threw it to the floor and jumped on it again and again till it was broken into many pieces. Then he set about searching for his wife, and the first person he found was George Hamilton, his wife’s cousin and admirer; and to him Chesterfield poured out the story of his miserable jealousy.

Hamilton, believing with Chesterfield that the Duke must certainly have succeeded with Lady Chesterfield where he had failed, nursed his own secret jealousy. He could not bear the thought of anyone’s enjoying those favors for which he had long sought; he would prefer to lose sight of the lady rather than allow her to enjoy another lover.

“You are her husband,” he said. “Why not take her to the country? Keep her where you will know that she is safe and entirely yours.”

This seemed good sense to Chesterfield. He made immediate arrangements and, by the time he saw his wife again, he was ready to leave with her for the country; and she had no alternative but to fall in with his wishes.

So they disappeared from the Court and, in accordance with the light-hearted custom of the time, witty verses were written about the incident, and what more natural than that they should be set to the tune of the Sarabande and sung throughout the Court?

The Duke of York began pushing notes into another lady’s muff. But Barbara could not forget that yet another lover had deserted her.

Catherine was happier during those months than she had been since the days of her honeymoon. At last she was to bear a child; she saw in this child a new and wonderful happiness, a being who would compensate her for all she had suffered through her love for the King. She pictured him; for, of course, he would be a boy; he would have the manners of his father; yes, and the looks of his father; the kindliness, the affability and the good nature; but he would be more serious—in that alone should he resemble his mother.

She saw him clearly—the enchanting little boy—the heir to the throne of England. She built him as firmly in her imagination as, in the days when she was awaiting her marriage, she had pictured Charles. She found great happiness in daydreams.

And indeed the King was charming to her. He seemed to have forgotten all their differences. He declared she must take the utmost care of herself; he was solicitous that she should not catch a chill; he insisted on her resting from arduous state duties. It was pleasant to believe that he cared, for her sake as well as for that of the child.

They rode hand in hand in the Park, and the people stood in groups to watch and cheer them. She was quite pretty in her happiness, and she heard the people confirm this to one another—for they were not a people to mince their words—as she rode forth in her white-laced waistcoat and her crimson short petticoat which was so becoming, with her hair flowing about her shoulders. Behind her and the King, rode the ladies, and of course Lady Castlemaine was there, haughty and handsome as ever, but just a little out of humor because she had not been invited to ride by the side of the King; and surely a little subdued, for previously she would have pushed her horse forward and made sure that she was seen riding near the King and Queen.

Her face under her great hat with its yellow plume was sullen; and, when she was ready to alight, she was very angry because no gentleman hurried forward to her aid but left her own servants to look after her.

Barbara’s day is done, thought Catherine. Had this something to do with her own condition? Or was it because of the meek little beauty who rode with them and was even more lovely than haughty Castlemaine, determined that the people should not see her riding side by side with the King when his wife was present, and looking so charming, in her little cocked hat with the red feather, that everyone gasped at such beauty.

Good news came from Portugal of the defeat of the Spaniards at Amexial. The battle had been fierce, for the Spaniards were led by Don John of Austria, but the English and the Portuguese Allies had won this decisive battle on which hung the fate of Portugal. The English had fought with such bravery and resource that the Portuguese had cried out that their allies were better to them than all the saints for whose aid they had prayed.

Catherine, hearing the news, wept with joy. She owed the security of her country to the English; it was true that she had been born to be of great significance to Portugal. She looked upon Charles as the savior of her country; and when she thought of that, and all he had been to her since their marriage, she wondered afresh how she could have been so blind in the first days as to have refused him the one thing he asked of her. He had given her the greatest happiness she had ever known; he had saved her country from an ignoble fate, and when he had asked her to help him out of a delicate situation, she had not considered his feelings; she had thought only of her own pride, her own wounded love. She could weep for her folly now; but it was too late for tears; all she could do was wait for opportunities to prove her love, to pray that one day she might be able to win back his affection which her stupidity had made her throw away.

Her simpleminded brother had given the English soldiers a pinch of snuff apiece as a token of his gratitude, and she blushed for her brother. Pinches of snuff for a kingdom! The English soldiers had been outraged and had thrown the snuff on the ground; but Charles had saved the situation by ordering that 40,000 crowns should be distributed among them as a reward for their services to his Queen.

She knew how hard pressed he was for money, how often he paid the country’s expenses out of his own personal income; she knew the constant demands made on him by women like Barbara Castlemaine, and how his generosity made it impossible for him to refuse what they asked.

She prayed earnestly that her child might be big and strong, a boy of whom he would be proud.

She looked into the future and saw a period of happiness ahead, for she was mellowed; she was no longer a hysterical girl who could not adjust herself to the exigencies of a cynical world.

Barbara was thinking seriously.

It might, she supposed, be necessary to have a husband again. If she was to lose the King’s favor, she would need the protection of Roger.

As the Queen grew larger, so did she; and was the King going to admit paternity of her child? It was true he came to her nurseries now and then, but that was to see the children who would clamber over him and search his pockets for gifts.

“I see,” he had said on one occasion, “that you have your mother’s fingers.”

He would always look after the children—she need have no fear of that—but he was certainly growing cooler to their mother.

She could, of course, threaten him; she could print his letters. But what of that? All knew of their relationship; there was little fresh to expose.

Moreover, there was a possibility that he might banish her from Court. She knew him well. Like most easygoing people, there came to him now and then a desire to be firm, and then nothing could shake him. Barbara knew that although his great good humor could be relied upon, when he decided to stand firm none could be firmer.

She began to plan ahead and called a priest to her that she might make good study, she said, of the Catholic Faith, for there was something within her which told her that she ought to do this in preparation for a reconciliation with Roger.

The whole Court laughed at the thought of Barbara closeted with her priest; she declared he was teaching her the tenets of the Catholic Faith, but they ribaldly asked each other what she was teaching him.

Buckingham approached the King concerning his cousin. “Your Majesty, could you not forbid the Lady Castlemaine from this new religion?”

Charles laughed lightly. “You forget, my lord,” he said, “I have never interfered with the souls of ladies.”

Barbara heard this and was more alarmed than ever. She was becoming more and more aware that she was losing some of her power over the King.

Buckingham had been sent from the presence of Frances Stuart. He was no longer her very good friend. He had dared make improper suggestions to her. She, who had professed to be so innocent, had been by no means at a loss as to how to deal with the profligate Duke.

He returned to the Cockpit and consulted with Barbara. “It would seem the lady is determined to be virtuous,” he said.

Bennet tried his luck but, when he stood before Frances and made that declaration in the pompous tones which Buckingham had imitated so well, Frances was unable to contain her mirth, for, as she said afterwards, it was well nigh impossible to know whether she was listening to Bennet in person or Buckingham impersonating Bennet.

The King also made his proposals to the beautiful young girl. She was sad and remote. She did not think His Majesty was in a position to say such things to her, she declared; and even though she might incur his displeasure, she could only beg him not to do so.

The King, in exasperation, went to sup at Barbara’s house.

She was delighted to see him and received him with warmth; she was determined to remind him of all that they had enjoyed together.

She succeeded in doing this so certainly that he was back the next night and the next.

Barbara’s hopes began to rise; she forgot her priest and the need to accept the Catholic religion. She ordered a great chine of beef to be roasted for the King; but the tide rose unusually high and her kitchens were flooded, so that Mrs. Sarah declared she could not roast the beef. Barbara cried aloud: “Zounds! Set the house afire but roast that beef.”

And Mrs. Sarah, far bolder with Lady Castlemaine than any other servant dared be, told her mistress to talk good sense, and she would carry the beef to be roasted at her husband’s house; and as her husband was cook to my Lord Sandwich she doubted not that she could get the beef roasted to a turn.

This was done; and the King and Lady Castlemaine supped merrily, but all London knew of the chine of beef which had to be roasted in the kitchens of Lord Sandwich. It was known too that the King stayed with my Lady Castlemaine until the early hours of the morning.

Catherine, resting in the Palace of Whitehall and shut away from rumor, was waiting for her baby to be born. She had allowed herself to believe that when the child came she and Charles would be content with one another. It was true that he was enamored of the beautiful Mrs. Stuart, but Frances was a good girl, who conducted herself with decorum and had made it quite clear that the King must give up all hope of seducing her.

When the child came he would forget his schemes concerning Frances Stuart, Catherine persuaded herself; he would give himself up to the joys of family life. He was meant to be a father; he was tolerant, full of gaiety and a lover of children. There would be many children; and they would be as happy a family as that in which she had been brought up—nay, happier, for they would not have to suffer the terrible anxiety which had beset the Duke of Braganza’s.

All this must come to pass as she knew it could, once he was free of that evil woman. The name Castlemaine would always make her shiver, she feared. When she saw it she would always remember that terrible occasion when she had seen it written at the top of the list; and that other when she had given her hand to the woman to kiss, without realizing her identity; and the shame of the scene that followed.

But in the years to come the name of Castlemaine would be nothing but a memory, a memory to provoke a shiver it was true, yet nothing more.

So now she thought exclusively of the child, hoping it would be a boy; but if that should not be, well then, they were young, she and Charles, and they had proved themselves capable of getting children.

I knew I should be happy, she told herself. It was only necessary for him to escape from that evil woman.

The women below her window were giggling together. She wondered what this was about. She gathered it concerned a certain chine of beef. The stupid things women giggled about!

She turned away from the window, wondering when she would see Charles again.

Perhaps she would tell him of her hopes for their future—such confidences were often on her lips, but she never uttered them. Although he was tender and solicitous for her health, he was always so merry; and she fancied that he was a little cynical regarding sentimental dreams.

No! She would not tell him. She would make her dreams become realities.

Donna Maria came to her, and Donna Maria had been weeping. Old and infirm, hating the English climate, not understanding the English manners, Donna Maria constantly longed for her own country, although nothing would have induced her to leave her Infanta.

Poor Donna Maria! thought Catherine. She always had a habit of looking on the dark side of life as though she preferred it to the brighter.

“So you have heard this story of the chine of beef?” she asked.

“Well, I heard some women laughing over it below my window.”

“It was for the King’s supper, and the kitchens were flooded, so it must needs be carried to my Lord Sandwich’s kitchens to be cooked.”

“Is that the story of the chine of beef?”

“A noisy story because Madam Castlemaine cried out to burn the place down—but roast the beef.”

“Madam … Castlemaine!”

“Why, yes, have you not heard? The King is back with her. He is supping with her every night and is as devoted to her as he ever was.”

Catherine stood up. Her emotions were beyond control as they had been on that occasion when the King had presented Lady Castlemaine to her without her knowledge and consent.

All her dreams were false. He had not left the woman. In that moment she believed that as long as she lived Lady Castlemaine would be her evil genius as she was the King’s.

“Why … what ails you?” cried Donna Maria.

She saw the blood gushing from Catherine’s nose as it had on that other occasion; she was just in time to catch the Queen as she fell forward.

The King stood by his wife’s bed. She looked small, frail and quite helpless.

She was delirious; and she did not know yet that she had lost her child.

Donna Maria had explained to him; she had repeated the last words she had exchanged with Catherine.

I have brought her to this, thought the King. I have caused her so much pain that the extreme stress of her emotional state has brought on this miscarriage and lost us our child.

He knelt down by the bed and covered his face with his hands.

“Charles,” said Catherine. “Is that you, Charles?”

“I am here,” he told her. “I am here beside you.”

“You are weeping, Charles! Those are tears. I never thought to see you weep.”

“I want you to be well, Catherine. I want you to be well.”

He could see by the expression on her face that she had no knowledge of the nature of her illness; she must have forgotten there was to have been a child. He was glad of this. At least she was spared that agony.

“Charles,” she said. “Hold my hand, Charles.”

Eagerly he took her hand; he put his lips to it.

“I am happy that you are near me,” she told him.

“I shall not leave you. I shall be here with you … while you want me.”

“I dreamed I heard you say those words.” A frown touched her brow lightly. “You say them because I am ill,” she went on. “I am very ill. Charles, I am dying, am I not?”

“Nay,” he cried passionately. “Nay, ’tis not so.”

“I shall not grieve to leave the world,” she said. “Willingly would I leave all … save one. There is no one I regret leaving, Charles, but you.” “You shall not leave me,” he declared.

“I pray you do not grieve for me when I am dead. Rejoice rather that you may marry a Princess more worthy of you than I have been.” “I beg of you, do not say such things.”

“But I am unworthy … a plain little Princess … and not a Princess of a great country either…. A Princess whose country made great demands on you … a Princess whose country you succored and to whom you brought the greatest happiness she ever knew.”

“You shame me.” And suddenly he could no longer control his tears. He thought of all the humiliations he had forced her to suffer, and he swore that he would never forgive himself.

“Charles … Charles,” she murmured. “I know not whether to weep or rejoice. That you should care so much for me … what more could I ask than this? But to see you weep … to see you so stricken with sorrow … that grieves me … it grieves me sorely.”

Charles was so overcome with remorse and emotion that he could not speak. He knelt by her bed, his face hidden, bent over the hand that he held. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she felt his tears on her hand.

Donna Maria came to stand beside the King.

“Your Majesty can do no good to the Queen … now,” she said.

He turned wearily away.

He was at her bedside night and day. Those about the Queen marveled at his devotion. Was this the man who had supped nightly with my Lady Castlemaine, the man who was deeply in love with the beautiful Mrs. Stuart? He wished that his should be the hand to smooth her pillows, his the face she would first see should she awake, his the voice she should hear.

She was far gone in fever, and so light-headed that she thought she was the mother of a son.

Perhaps she was thinking of the tales she had heard of Charles’ babyhood, for she murmured: “He is fine and strong, but I fear he is an ugly boy.”

“Nay,” said the King, his voice shaken with emotion, “he is a very pretty boy.”

“Charles,” she said, “are you there, Charles?””

Yes, I am here, my love.”

“Your love,” she repeated. “Is it true? But I like to hear you say it as you did at Hampton Court before … Charles, he shall be called Charles, shall he not?”

“Yes,” said the King, “he shall be called Charles.”

“It matters not if he is a little ugly,” she said. “If he be like you he will be the finest boy in the world, and I shall be well pleased with him.”

“Let us hope,” said the King, “that he will be better than I.”

“How could that be?” she asked.

And the King was too moved to continue the conversation. He bade her close her eyes and rest.

But she could not rest; she was haunted by the longing for maternity.

“How many children is it we have, Charles? Three, is it? Three children … our children. The little girl is so pretty, is she not?”

“She is very pretty,” said Charles.

“I am glad of that, for I should not like you to have a daughter who was not lovely in face and figure. You care so much for beauty. If I had been blessed with great beauty …”

“Catherine,” said the King, “do not torment yourself. Rest. I am here beside you. And remember this: I love you as you are. I would not want to change you. There is only one thing I wish; it is that you may get well.”

Newly slaughtered pigeons were laid at her feet; she was bled continuously; a nightcap, made of a precious relic, was put upon her head; but the King’s presence at her bedside seemed to give her more comfort than any of these things.

In the streets the people talked of the Queen’s serious illness which might end in death; and it was generally believed that, if she were to die, the King would marry the beautiful Frances Stuart whose virtue had refused to allow her to become the King’s mistress.

This thought excited many. Buckingham, in spite of his being banished from Mrs. Stuart’s company on account of his suggestion that she should become his mistress, had been restored to her favor. No one could build card houses as he could; no one could sing so enchantingly, nor do such amusing impersonations; so Frances had been ready to forgive him on the understanding that he realized there were to be no more attempts at love-making. Buckingham, who thrived on bold plans, was already arranging in his mind for the King, on the death of the Queen, to marry Frances; and Frances’s greatest friend and adviser would be himself.

Barbara, knowing these plans were afoot, was watching her relative cautiously. Buckingham had been her friend, but he could easily become her enemy. So Barbara was one of those who offered up prayers for the recovery of the Queen.

As for the King, he was so assiduous in his care for Catherine, so full of remorse for the unhappiness which he had caused her, that his mind was occupied solely with his hopes for her recovery.

The Duke and Duchess of York also prayed for Catherine’s recovery, for it was said that she would be unable to bear children; and if this were true and she lived, it would mean that the King would be unable to remarry, thus leaving the way clear for their children to inherit the throne.

Speculation ran high through the Court and the country, but this ended when Catherine recovered.

One morning she came out of her delirium, and her anguish on discovering she was not a mother was considerably lessened by the sight of her husband at her bedside, and the belief that she might be a beloved wife.

He continued full of care for her, and the days of her convalescence were happy indeed. The King’s hair had turned so white during her illness that he laughingly declared he looked such an old man that he must follow the fashion of the day and adopt a periwig.

“Could those gray hairs have grown out of your anxiety as to what would become of me?” she asked.

“Assuredly they did.”

“Then I think mayhap I shall enjoy seeing you without your periwig.”

He smiled, but the next time she saw him he was wearing it. He looked a young man with the luxuriant curls falling over his shoulders, although his face was lined and on his dark features there were signs of the merry life he lived. But he was tall and slender still and so agile. Then she remembered with horror that she had had all her beautiful hair cut off when the fever was on her, and that she must be plainer than she had ever been before.

Yet he seemed determined to assure her of his devotion; and when she was told that she must impute her recovery to the precious relics which had been brought to her in her time of sickness, she answered: “No. I owe my recovery to the prayers of my husband, and the knowledge that he was beside me during my trial.”