The Merry Monarch's Wife

THE LONG BETROTHAL

I REMEMBER THE DAY CLEARLY, FOR IT WAS THE BEGINNING. It was then that I realized that the dream which had haunted me so long could come true.

We were working on an altar cloth — my ladies and I — and it was a task which had occupied us for weeks; the work was detailed and delicate and while we stitched one of us would play some musical instrument and we would sometimes sing together; at other times, one of the party would read aloud from some holy book. A great deal of our time was spent thus.

Presiding over us were those two ladies who were never far from me, for they had been specially selected by my mother to guard me. One was Donna Maria de Portugal, the Countess of Penalva; the other Donna Elvira de Vilpena, the Countess of Pontevel. They were much aware of their dignity and determined to do their duty by watching over me.

I was often exasperated by this, but I was generally of a docile disposition. I had led a very sheltered life and had scarcely been outside the palace walls or those of the convent where I had been educated; and I was inclined to accept my fate with a certain placidity.

Donna Maria was the senior of the two. She was the sister of Don Francisco de Mello, of whom my mother thought very highly. He was not only my godfather but he held a very important post, Ambassador to England.

England had always been held in great respect by my mother, even when the English murdered their King and set up a Commonwealth. Strong-minded, practical woman though she was, she had a strange premonition about that country, which was alien to her nature, for she was in all other matters firmly realistic; but where England was concerned she allowed her wishes to get the better of her usually logical reasoning.

As we sat there on that sunny afternoon, she came into the room. I knew at once that something important had happened. She rarely visited us unexpectedly. If she wished to speak to us she would send for us, and anything concerning us was generally of small consequence compared with matters of state with which she was usually concerned.

She was Regent of Portugal because my brother Alfonso was not suitable to be King. She had been in that position since my father’s death four years before, and though Alfonso was no longer a boy — he must have been seventeen at this time — she still considered him unfit to take on the burden of state; and she continued to rule.

None in royal circles questioned my mother — not even my father had done that; she had always been actively involved in state matters, so we knew something of great moment must have brought her to us on this afternoon.

We all rose and curtsied as she entered, and my mother turned to the ladies, which was a sign that meant they were to leave us.

“Donna Maria, Donna Elvira, you may remain,” she said.

A smile of satisfaction spread over Donna Maria’s face. She was delighted when her special place in the household was acknowledged. She immediately placed her chair for my mother and took another herself.

My mother acknowledged the service with a nod and, sitting, said: “I have news. The best of news. Dispatches have arrived from England.”

Donna Maria nodded her head to remind us all that they would have come from her shrewd and clever brother Don Francisco.

My mother’s eyes were on me. “The King of England has been recalled to his country. I have had several account of the scenes there in the English capital. It would seem that they are a good augury for the future.”

Donna Maria said: “I believe, Your Highness, the people there must have been heartily tired of the Puritan rule.”

“It would appear so,” said my mother, smiling. I, who knew her so well, could see that she was so delighted by the turn of events that she had dispensed with some of her dignity and was not averse to a little light conversation.

“My envoys tell me that the bells are ringing all over the capital and the people are in the streets dancing and making merry, as they did in the old days before Oliver Cromwell came to put a stop to their gaiety.”

My mother paused. I could imagine she was thinking that that much merriment was not entirely to be praised, and that the people would be better engaged in attending church to give thanks to God for the return of the King.

“How glad they must be to have him back!” I said.

“Not more than he is to be there, I’ll swear,” said Donna Elvira.

“It is certain that the King is pleased to come back to his country,” said my mother. “He is now a king not merely in name. England will return to its greatness.”

“I wonder what all those Roundheads are thinking now,” said Donna Elvira.

“There will be some to mourn and regret, I doubt not,” replied my mother, “but there will be many to rejoice — and none more than the King!” She was looking at me. “This is a very important day for us. As you know, the English have been good friends to this country. I have always wanted to strengthen the alliance between us. I am recalling Don Francisco. I have much to discuss with him.”

Donna Maria was slowly nodding her head again.

“We must all watch events in England,” went on my mother. “I believe this to be a time of great importance, not only to England but to Portugal.”

“Amen,” said Donna Maria.

“Great events could come out of the restoration of King Charles,” continued my mother. She was smiling at me. “We must be prepared. As yet…perhaps it is early. But…we shall talk of this later.”

I knew why she was recalling Don Francisco. Long ago, I had been suggested as a wife for Prince Charles — as he had been at that time. It was when I was not quite seven years old and he was fourteen. That had been the beginning of my dreams.

The matter had been set aside then. How could it have been otherwise with the country in turmoil? And then his father had been murdered, and he became an exile, wandering through Europe from court to court, wherever he could find some refuge. The years had passed and I was at this time twenty-two years of age. He was now thirty and it was time he married.

And through the years my mother had waited. She had some premonition and she had refused all offers for my hand. What she wanted was an alliance with England. She had waited all these years. It might have been too late for me to marry at all; it was getting near to that time now. But she had always believed that the King would recover his throne and, when he was safely there, she would set about pursuing her dream.

No wonder she was delighted; no wonder she forgot her royal dignity and came to the sewing room to chat with us.

This was a great day. It was the beginning.

So clearly I remember that day: the wonderment in Donna Elvira’s face, the pride in Donna Maria’s, because she believed her wonderful brother would play a big part in bringing this about. There was my mother’s exultation, and my own excitement because the dream which had never really left me could now be coming true.

EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED really began on that important day, some twenty years before, on the second anniversary of my birth.

I had heard so much of that occasion from Donna Maria and Donna Elvira — and not only those two — that I am not sure whether I remember or imagine I do. It was such an important day, for if my father had taken a different decision then, it is almost certain that I should never have gone to England.

When I visited the Villa Viçosa, I believed I remembered it, for it was so easy to visualize the idyllic life we led there. I know my father was very happy there, for he had often told me so; and I shall never forget the sadness, the nostalgia in his eyes when he spoke of it. He was so contented there…in obscurity…in that quiet paradise, with his beloved wife, whom he greatly revered, his two little boys and his two-year-old daughter. The little boys, alas, were to die before they grew up, but there was no shadow over his life at that time.

He died when I was eighteen, so I had time to know him well. He was a gentle and kindly man who valued peace and the life he shared with his family. I understand what his feelings were on that significant day.

Guests had gathered to celebrate my birthday. My arrival into the world had been greeted with great joy. There was none of that disappointment so often felt in royal circles because a child proves to be a girl and not a boy. Why should there have been? They already had their two boys. How were they to know then that they were going to lose them?

Donna Maria liked to tell me about it, so I heard often of the joy at the Villa Viçosa when I was born.

“There was rejoicing throughout the palace…the whole country, in fact…for although your father lived the life of a country gentleman, it was not forgotten that he was the Duke of Braganza, and it was hoped that one day he would be in his rightful place on the throne of Portugal, and our country would no longer be the vassal of the hated Spaniards. Only the best was good enough for the Duke’s daughter, and, as you know, your godfather was the great nobleman Don Francisco de Mello, the Marquis of Ferreira.”

“Who,” I never forgot to say at this point, “is your brother.”

“That is so, my child. We are a highly respected family, and have always been the good friends of the House of Braganza, which is one of the reasons why your mother has entrusted you to my care.”

“I know, dear Donna Maria.”

And she would go on: “As you were born on St. Catherine’s Day, it seems right and proper that you should be named after the saint.”

My first two years had been spent at the Villa Viçosa in the province of Alemtejo, and very happy they must have been until that fateful day.

According to Donna Maria, from all over the country, people had come to celebrate my birthday.

“It was not only that,” added Donna Maria, anxious as ever that I should not grow up with an inflated idea of my importance. “The occasion was used to express the people’s loyalty to the Duke of Braganza, and to remind him that they were aware that, although he was living as a country gentleman, they did not forget that he was the rightful King of Portugal.”

Our country had been a vassal state of Spain for sixty years. The Portuguese had lived through troublous times since the death of Henry, the Cardinal King, who had died before he named his successor. Consequently there were several claimants to the throne. My great-grandmother, the Duchess of Braganza, was in the direct line and considered herself the rightful heiress, but she was a woman. Philip of Spain laid claim to the throne. He was perhaps the most powerful ruler in Europe, and he was successful, which was a sad day for Portugal; and the people never ceased to chafe against the invader.

So…now my father, grandson of Donna Maria, Duchess of Braganza, was in truth the King of Portugal.

That was the state of affairs on that November day when the celebrations of my second birthday were in progress. There was great joy and merriment until Don Gaspar Cortigno arrived, with his special mission which was to change our lives.

Knowing my father as I did, I understood his feelings on that day. He would be enjoying the merry company, delighting in his family, revelling in the serenity and peace of the Villa Viçosa with his loved ones around him. He was not an ambitious man.

Gaspar Cortigno had been selected for this mission. He must have been an eloquent man and a fervent patriot. I could imagine his words. “The time has come for you to do your duty to your people, Your Highness. The throne could be yours for the taking. The country is behind you. We want you to leave this place and come to Lisbon. We have the men. We have the means. The time has come for Portugal to be free.”

And my father’s dismayed response, what had that been? At first, I was sure, he would have vehemently refused. Others had tried and failed. He wanted to cling to his pleasant life. He had large estates; he was wealthy; he did not seek to rule; he only wanted to live in peace with his family; he had little stomach for battle; blood would be shed, lives would be lost.

But there was my mother. She was different from her husband.

She was the daughter of the Duke of Medina Sidonia; she was proud; she had decided views of right and wrong; and she was ambitious for her family. She believed that my father’s rightful place was on the throne.

Gaspar Cortigno’s words made a deep impression on her. The people of Portugal were asking my father to rise against the Spaniards and they were ready to stand beside him.

I can imagine my father’s dismay when she joined her pleas with those of Gaspar Cortigno.

“Your father said he could not do it,” said Donna Maria. “He said it would plunge the country into war. It was better to let life go on as it was. But there was one thing which persuaded him to change his mind.” She looked at me proudly. “It was because of you.”

I was delighted to think that I was so important — at least had been on this occasion.

“There you were, in your birthday gown. You looked…er…very pleasant. Your mother took you by the hand, and she said to your father: ‘Could you deny this child her due? Could she grow up the daughter of a mere duke when she is indeed the daughter of a king? It is your duty, if for no other reason than for the sake of this child…and your boys.’ After that your father gave way. What could he do? If he would not act for himself, he must for his family.”

I knew that Donna Maria’s version was near the truth because I had heard the story from other sources, and I think I remember my father’s serious look as he took me into his arms, holding me tightly and saying: “This must be.”

And soon after that he left the Villa Viçosa and went to live in Lisbon, where my father was proclaimed King Juan IV of Portugal.

I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD when the next momentous event occurred. Both my little brothers were dead. I did remember the sorrowful atmosphere throughout the palace when it happened — one death following quickly on another.

My mother shut herself in her apartments and appeared rarely, and when she did her grief was apparent; but she was not of a nature to flaunt her sorrow and soon she was emerging to dominate us all.

I was delighted to see her with us again. I think she had a special fondness for me. She had loved her boys, but they had always been delicate and, although she had never failed in her tenderness toward them, she had a natural distaste for weakness of any kind. I was a healthy girl and she delighted in me.

I realized that something was happening when I heard Donna Maria and Donna Elvira whispering together.

“Can it be true?” murmured Elvira.

“What a blessing it would be…after the tragedy.”

“Do not speak of that. It is too grievous…even now. But if this should be…”

“I shall pray for it.”

“And so shall I.”

I was not sure of what they were speaking, but I sensed there was some secrecy about it, so I refrained from asking my mother.

We had moved to the palace at Sintra and I saw little of my father. He was always away, driving the Spaniards out of Portugal, I supposed. He was known as King Don Juan, and my mother was very anxious that everyone should be aware of the family’s rank.

She was angry because my father was not generally recognized as King outside Portugal. The Pope, terrified of the Spaniards, had refused to acknowledge the title. There were only two countries who did. France was one, England the other. Both of these countries had reason to hate the Spaniards.

I discovered that my mother did not always trust the French, but she did have special feelings of friendship toward the English.

I had heard a great deal of talk about the troubles in England. It would appear they were in a worse state than Portugal. Their King was fighting his own Parliamant and there was civil war in that land. We, at least, were only trying to free ourselves from the usurper, and the Portuguese nation stood firmly together, whereas Englishmen were fighting Englishmen.

Reluctant as my father had been to take up arms, he had had several successes. This was encouraging, but not decisive; there was great rejoicing throughout the country at every success and hopes were high.

“It is Donna Luiza who is behind the King,” I heard Donna Maria say to Donna Elvira; and they nodded in agreement.

“The day will come,” said Donna Maria prophetically, “when King Don Juan with Donna Luiza will free this country absolutely.”

I wondered when that time would come and whether we should then go back to the Villa Viçosa.

Then the long-awaited event took place. My mother retired to her bedchamber and a hushed atmosphere pervaded the house. Everyone was waiting.

It had happened. There was rejoicing throughout the palace.

Later I was taken to see my new brother Alfonso in his cradle.

I WAS NEARLY SEVEN YEARS OLD when I first heard of Prince Charles.

My father’s success had continued, and although to the Spaniards he was still the Duke of Braganza, to the English he was King Juan of Portugal, which was no longer the subject state it had been before that important day at Villa Viçosa.

My mother sent for me, and I could see at once from her demeanor that she was about to talk of a very serious matter.

She was gentle but tender toward me as always, which gave me a feeling of warm comfort, for she was inclined to be severe when dealing with most people.

“Catherine, come here,” she said, and when I stood before her, she kissed me on both cheeks.

“You are growing up,” she went on. “Have you ever thought that one day you might marry?”

“I do not want to leave you,” I said in alarm.

She smiled. “Certainly you do not. But it will not be for some time. Your father and I have been talking of your future, and, as you know, it is the duty of us all to consider our country in every way.”

I was beginning to feel uneasy. She saw that and went on quickly: “There is no need to be afraid. Your father and I have decided that you should know now what is happening, as it concerns you. We did not want you suddenly to be presented with a situation of this nature…as has happened to so many. You know something of the state of our country, and that we are trying to rid ourselves completely of Spanish tyranny. You know of the great work your father has done and that we are succeeding in our task. Your father is the rightful King of Portugal, and we are determined that soon every state shall recognize him as such. The English have always been good friends to us. They are a more powerful nation that we are…one of the most powerful in Europe. But the King is now engaged in a war with his Parliament, who are trying to impose their will on the people. They will not succeed. The King has a son — more than one — but it is the eldest in whom we are interested — Charles, Prince of Wales. It is your father’s wish, and mine, that you shall marry him.”

“Go to England?” I cried.

“It would not be for some time. I am just telling you that your father has sent our ambassador with a suggestion that this might be. They are a great nation, but at war. We are a small one in semi-captivity. These matters depend on negotiations. Your father is in a position to bestow a good dowry on you and the King of England will need money to conduct his war.”

“So because of the money…”

“No, because you are the daughter of a king and young Charles is the son of one. We must accept these things as they are. It is the rulers who decide them. To marry a man who will one day be a king is a great destiny and one must be prepared for it.”

“I should like to know something about this prince.”

“He is fourteen years old — a charming boy, so I have heard.”

“That seems very old,” I ventured.

“You think so because you are younger. As you grow up, these seven years will seem nothing. It is better for a husband to be older than his wife. Charles is clever and charming, a loyal son and he will be a good husband.” My mother drew me to her. “You must not be anxious,” she went on. “It will not be for a long time, but I tell you now so that you will be prepared when the time comes. So far this is only a suggestion. With Oliver Cromwell at his heels, the King may have many matters with which to concern himself as well as the marriage of his son.”

It proved to be that he had, for there was no enthusiastic response brought back by my father’s ambassador. I learned from little scraps of gossip that my religion was a handicap. The King of England had had enough trouble through marrying a Catholic wife. He did not want his son to fall into the same trap.

That startled me. Our religion was of the utmost importance to us and I had always believed that anyone not of the Catholic faith was doomed.

I asked my mother about the King of England’s objection to our religion.

“Where do you hear such things?” she demanded.

I did not way to betray anyone, so I said vaguely: “Oh, it must have been something I heard someone say…”

“Who has been talking?”

“Oh…several…Not talking to me but to each other. I cannot remember who…but there was a good deal of talk about the proposed marriage.”

She was thoughtful for a moment, then she said: “The people of England have rejected the true faith. It happened a long time ago after Queen Mary died and Queen Elizabeth came to the throne. And after Elizabeth there came the Stuarts.”

“But if they are not of the true faith…”

“First,” she said, cutting me short, “we have to think of an alliance which would bring honour to you and to our country.”

“But…”

“My dear child, you are too young to concern yourself with such matters which can safely be left to your father and to me.”

“But if Prince Charles is a Protestant…a heretic…”

“The Prince of Wales must be brought up in the religion of the country he will one day rule.”

“Then how…?”

She smiled secretively and whispered: “Who knows? If he had the right wife…”

“But the King himself married a Catholic…and…”

Again I was interrupted. “How knowledgeable you have become! That pleases me. You must learn what is going on. King Charles of England married the daughter of the great King Henri of Navarre who became the fourth Henri of France. It was a match of great benefit to both France and England. King Henri was a Huguenot at one time and he became a Catholic. Sometimes these matters are necessary. Who knows what might happen?”

“Prince Charles’s mother did not make his father a Catholic.”

“Perhaps she was not clever enough. If the Prince married a good Catholic wife, who knows what influence she might have on him…”

“You mean, I might lead him to the Truth?”

“Hush, my child. You must not say such things. You must learn to keep such matters to yourself. What people in our position say is often repeated. We must be careful at all times…even little girls. It is different with humbler folk. We do not know what the future holds, but I believe that one day you are going to be Queen of England, and when you are, you will do your duty to God and your country.”

“Oh yes,” I said fervently, “I will.”

I had a mission now. Not only was I going to marry Prince Charles, but I was going to save his soul.

I set about discovering all I could about him. It was not much. I did hear that he was taller than most boys of his age; he was dark and somewhat swarthy, not handsome, but of great charm. He bore a strong resemblance to his maternal grandfather, the great Henri, who had been known in France as the Evergreen Gallant because he had loved so many women.

I was constantly thinking of Charles.

Even when the overtures of our ambassador came to nothing, and there was no more talk of a possible marriage, he remained in my mind.

MY MOTHER WAS DETERMINED that I should have the best education possible, and that it should be presided over by herself; and I was sent to the convent of her choosing.

The Mother Superior of the chosen one received me very graciously and I was soon absorbed in the rules of the establishment.

It was a change from life in royal palaces. Lessons and prayers took up the greater part of my time. My actions were regulated by the bells which summoned us to our duties throughout the day. I joined the nuns in meals and religious duties and longed to be like them; it was a quiet and peaceful life if one obeyed the rules, and as I was of a docile nature I fitted in with comparative ease.

I learned a great deal about the saints, their endurance, their unshakeable faith and the sacrifices they made for their religion. I prayed with especial fervor for those who sinned against the Church, for I was thinking of Charles who, for no fault of his own, was in danger of losing his soul; and even greater than my desire to be a saint was my longing to save him.

I grew to love the hushed and holy atmosphere of the convent. I never strayed from its walls, but took exercise in the gardens which were tended by the nuns and in which was produced most of the food on which we lived.

It was a life of peace lived in the service of God. There was little excitement but I realized it had compensations for those who shared it. The nuns seemed content and at peace with the world. They believed that they were doing their duty on Earth and that they would in due course go to glory in Heaven.

I was different. I had a duty to perform. I had to marry for the good of my country and save Charles from eternal damnation. I had to think beyond the convent. But in the meantime I could enjoy the serene life.

I had a new brother. My parents were delighted and there had been great celebrations when Pedro was born. Alfonso was then five years old.

During my years at the convent I paid periodical visits to the royal palaces when my mother would question me closely about convent life. She was satisfied with my progress and the strong religious feelings which were being inspired in me.

I discovered that my elder brother Alfonso gave some cause for anxiety. He was a wayward child, given to tantrums, and he was not very pleased with the arrival of a brother.

It was during my visits to the palace that I was able to learn something of what was going on in the world. I was very eager to hear what was happening in England, and grieved to discover that the situation had not improved there. This news, because of our friendship with England, caused disquiet throughout Portugal.

Donna Maria and Donna Elvira knew of my interest in England, although they believed that those plans for my marriage to the Prince of Wales had long been set aside. It was just another of those suggested marriages between royal houses which came to nothing. It was happening all the time.

Donna Maria said one day: “It would seem as though this is the end of the monarchy in England.”

“How can that be possible?” I cried.

“You have seen what can happen in your own country. Kings can be dethroned.”

“Unless there is a miracle…this seems possible,” said Donna Elvira.

“Then there must be a miracle,” I said. “Or Prince Charles will not be King.”

“I think his father will not be King for long,” said Donna Maria. “Oliver Cromwell is going to see to that.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said.

“You dream too much, my dear Catherine,” said Donna Maria gently. “It was only a suggestion all those years ago that you should marry into England. It came to nothing, as so many such suggestions before. There will be many offers for you, and some of them may again come to nothing. It is the way with these proposed marriages. They are never certain until the marriage ceremony has been performed.”

“This is different,” I insisted. “The English have always been friends of Portugal.”

“That does not mean that you will marry a king without a throne.”

“How can you know?”

“I know from what I hear.”

Donna Elvira and Donna Maria exchanged glances. Then Donna Maria said: There is no point in keeping it a secret. Soon everyone will be talking of it. The King is now a prisoner in the Isle of Wight and, having him in his keeping, it is hardly likely that Oliver Cromwell will let him go.”

“And what will happen?”

“There is talk that he may lose his head.”

“They dare not.”

“Catherine, you must face the truth. It is never wise to delude yourself that it does not exist because it is unpleasant to you. The King is defeated. He is a prisoner. The Royalist army is routed. The Parliament is supreme. They will dare.”

“And Charles…the Prince?”

“He has fought bravely.”

“Is he their prisoner?”

“Not yet.”

“What will they do to him?”

There was silence and another exchange of glances.

I knew that Donna Maria was deciding whether I should be told the truth or be kept in ignorance. Then she made up her mind that I must know the worst.

“The same thing as they do to his father,” she said.

“You mean…they will kill him?”

“They will think he is a threat,” said Donna Elvira.

“But I was going to…”

“It is in God’s hands,” said Donna Maria. “He is a brave young man. I have heard that he sent a blank paper to Cromwell — no, not entirely blank, because his signature was at the bottom of it. With it was a note saying that Cromwell could write his terms for saving the King’s life. The Prince’s signature meant he would accept them, whatever they were.”

“He has in truth done that?”

“I have heard it from several sources,” said Donna Elvira.

“I think we can vouch for its truth,” added Donna Maria.

“What could they ask of him?”

“Perhaps that he take his father’s place on the scaffold. They could ask anything.”

“And he would do this to save his father’s life? How noble he is! And yet he is a Protestant.”

Donna Maria smiled affectionately.

“It is God’s will,” she said.

I was sad thinking of him and what he must be suffering now. He was in danger…acute danger. He could lose his life and die a heretic because there was no one to save his soul.

I was in the palace when the news came. It was a shock to us all even though we had known the King was the prisoner of his enemies.

They had taken him to London where his trial had lasted seven days; and at the end of it they took him to the scaffold in front of Whitehall and cut off his head.

There was no longer a King of England.

That should have been the end of my hopes of marrying the Prince of Wales; but they persisted and I could not stop them. His image was as strong as ever. He was noble and brave; he had offered his life for his father’s. I believed that he would live forever in my mind.

I HAD LEFT THE CONVENT. I was eighteen years old and still unmarried. It was seven years since the English Parliament had murdered their King. The Prince had eluded them all those years; he was a wandering exile on the continent going from court to court, wherever he could find a friendly refuge. I often told myself that one day he would be successful and come back to rule the country of which he was undoubtedly King.

I was sure that my usually practical mother felt the same, for although there had been several offers for my hand her reception of them had been lukewarm.

This surprised my ladies, for I was no longer young. Most princesses were affianced at a very early age, as I should have been to Charles if our plans had gone as we hoped. I was not disturbed by the rejections, for the only bridegroom I wanted was living a nomadic life far from home.

He had found refuge in France, Holland and Jersey. His sister, the Princess of Orange, had been especially hospitable. I learned that he was liked by most and, in spite of his precarious position, he was far from being a tragic figure. He was said to be merry, amusing and witty and his company was sought, but that was poor compensation while his kingdom was in the hands of his enemies.

I had never forgotten him through the years and I had a strange feeling that it was right for me to wait and that one day some miracle would happen and all would be well.

I remember my father paying one of his rare visits to the palace.

I was shocked when I saw him: he had aged so much. He seemed fatigued but happy to have this respite with his family. I was gratified that he sought my company.

My mother was deeply immersed in state affairs, for she had taken over many duties which would have been my father’s if he had not been away fighting. My brother Alfonso was a not very serious thirteen, and of little help. I believed his nature was causing my parents some concern. Pedro, of course, was very young. Perhaps that was why my father turned to me.

I asked about his health and he admitted to a certain exhaustion.

“Dear father,” I said, “I believe you would be happy to return to the country. Do you remember when we were at the Villa Viçosa all those years ago?”

“Ah, Viçosa! Yes, I well remember those days.”

“It was my second birthday.”

“That was when it started.”

“You must be proud of what you have done for your country.”

“Perhaps. But although we have to some extent had our successes, we cannot rest there. They will be ready to strike again at the first opportunity. They do not give up easily. Your mother is a wonderful woman. She should have been the King.”

“But you are the King, and she is happy to be of service to you.”

“Without her it would have been so different.”

Yes, I thought, we should be at the Villa Viçosa, living quietly, contentedly. But perhaps not. There would never have been a suggestion that I should marry the Prince of Wales. The daughter of a duke would not have been for him. And if my father was not recognized as a king by some countries, he was one in the eyes of the English.

“It was God’s will,” he said.

“And you have done your duty.”

“Under God’s will…that may be so.”

And, I thought, you have worn yourself out in doing so.

“Dear father,” I said, “you are unwell.”

“No,” he replied, “just tired. I cannot tell you how contented I am to sit here with you. You are a child no longer, Catherine.”

“I am eighteen years old.”

“It is an age of maturity. Do you regret that no marriage has been arranged for you?”

“No…I believe…”

“I know. You share your mother’s belief. She has always wanted you to marry into England.”

“It was talked of once.”

“That was long ago. It must have been more than ten years ago. Of a surety that was no time for the King to think of the marriage of his son.”

“No. It was a tragic time.”

“With an even more tragic end. There have been approaches, you know, but your mother has rejected them all. She cannot rid herself of the belief that you are going to England…and for that reason she has rejected all offers for your hand. I cannot understand her. It is a kind of dream of hers. It is so unlike her to cling to fancies.”

“I think I understand,” I said.

“I have been the most fortunate of men in my marriage, and I trust when the time is ripe you will find a partner who is as good to you as she has been to me. My greatest regret has been that I have had to be away from you for so long. I have had too little of my family and too much of war.”

“It has been a sadness for us all, dear father. But you are here now.”

“For a short time. I confess to you, daughter, while we are alone, that I should have been a happier man if I had not been a king. Now let us talk of other matters. You are eighteen years old — as I said, an age of maturity and wisdom.”

“I feel sure I fall short of the last.”

“You are as I would have you, my daughter, and to show my love for you, I have gifts for you. I propose to put certain lands into your possession. First, there is the island of Madeira. It is a beautiful spot, fertile and temperate. The city of Lanego is also to be yours, with the town of Moura. There will be tributes from these which will come to you.”

“But, father, it is too generous…I do not need…”

“My dear daughter, you are a child no longer. You need independence and security. So…they will be yours. But we must remember that they belong to Portugal and if you should marry out of the kingdom you would perforce relinquish these. On the other hand, if you married some Portuguese nobleman they would remain in your possession.”

I saw that my father thought this would be my eventual fate…if I married at all; and he wanted to assure himself that I was in the possession of independent wealth.

It was good of him, but I, with my mother, shared the feeling that one day I should go to England. I was, though, deeply touched by his generosity and care for me.

I told him this.

“I want you to be happy,” he said, “whatever may befall you.”

It was only a few months after that when he died.

IT WAS MORE THAN the loss of a beloved parent. The court was thrown into turmoil. My brother, Alfonso, at thirteen, had few of the qualities necessary to a ruler. There was rejoicing in Spain, where they must have been assuring themselves that it would not be long before Portugal was once more their vassal.

They had reckoned without my mother.

She said firmly: “I shall complete the work my husband has begun.”

Our people had always been aware of her strength and many of them knew of the part she had played in my father’s successful campaigns. She was without hesitation proclaimed Regent and the Spaniards’ jubilation was short-lived. Very soon they began to realize that they had little cause for rejoicing. Donna Luiza, Queen Regent, was not only a leader of resolution and dedication, she was a shrewd and skillful politician. My father had been right when he had said she should. And now she was the ruler.

She was more decisive than my father had been, less sentimental, more ruthless. Our armies were more successful under her direction and the government more secure.

Within two years of her dominance, Portuguese independence from Spain was established and there was growing prosperity throughout Portugal.

We now had some standing in Europe and Donna Luiza was one of its most respected sovereigns.

There were two offers for my hand which my mother feigned to examine with care, but nothing came of them. My worth had risen. Alfonso might not be recognized universally as king, but my mother could not be ignored; and her daughter was considered an important match.

And I was getting older.

“Is there never going to be a marriage for the Infanta?” my ladies were asking each other. “Is she going to spend her days as a spinster in Lisbon?”

I wondered, too. But the dream was still there, incongruous though it might seem. Charles, King of England in name only, was still wandering about the continent, flitting from court to court in search of hospitality. The Puritans still reigned in England. Charles was getting older, as I was — and we were still apart.

And then one day my mother sent for me and she said, with an excitement rare in her: “There is news from England. Oliver Cromwell is dead.”

I stared at her in amazement. “Does that mean…?”

“We shall see,” she replied. “His son Richard will succeed him. Oliver Cromwell was a strong man.”

“And Richard…?”

“It is not easy to follow a strong man. People want change. Whatever they have they dream of something different. They believe that what they cannot get from one they will get from another. Then the disappointment comes and the desire for change.”

“Do the English want change?”

“I am not sure. They are not a puritanical people by nature and are inclined to be pleasure-loving and irreligious. It surprises me that they have endured Puritan rule for so long. But Oliver Cromwell was such a strong man.” There was a grudging admiration in her voice which she tried to suppress.

“We shall see, daughter, we shall see,” she went on.

There were plans in her mind. I knew it. I wanted to talk to her but she would say no more. She was not given to speculation. She just wanted me to know that it would not altogether surprise her if the death of Oliver Cromwell was significant, and perhaps it would not be long before there were changes in England.

I was thinking of Charles more persistently than ever.

MY MOTHER HAD BEEN RIGHT when she said it was difficult to follow a strong man like Oliver Cromwell. He had died on the third of September of that year 1658, and less than two years after his death the King was restored to the throne.

Richard Cromwell, who followed his father, it appeared, was of a likeable nature. Perhaps the same could not have been said of his father, but Richard was pleasure-loving, fond of the sporting life and prone to extravagance, which led to trouble with his creditors. He was certainly no Oliver Cromwell.

The English were restive. Under Oliver Cromwell they had been kept under control. Now the resistance grew. The truth was that they were tired of Puritan rule, which was alien to them. It must soon have become clear that the majority of them wanted the return of the monarchy.

Charles was in Breda when an emissary was sent to him to discover whether he would come back to England and take the crown. With the offer came a gift of 50,000 pounds, that he might discharge any debts and equip himself for the journey.

I can imagine his joy. He was now asked to accept that for which he had fought and struggled for more than ten years.

He accepted with alacrity.

And what a welcome he received! I could picture it all so clearly when later he talked to me of that day. I know he never forgot it.

The people were exultant. I can picture his riding among them. He would have looked — all six feet of him — the perfect king. I knew how he could mingle that quality of regality with familiarity which enchanted all. I doubt whether there was ever a king of England so loved by his people.

He always called himself an ugly fellow, and when one considered his features that could be true, but his charm was overwhelming. There could never have been a more attractive man. I know that I loved him and one is apt to be unaware of the faults of the object of one’s devotion, but I can vouch for it that I was not alone in my opinion.

He used to talk of the ringing of bells, the flowers strewn in his path, the women who threw kisses at him, the shouts of loyalty.

“Odds fish!” he said. It was a favorite oath of his. “They gave me such a welcome home that I thought it must have been my own fault that I had stayed away so long.”

But he was home, and from that moment the excitement grew.

My mother was exultant. She had known, she said, that this must be. She had planned for it since my seventh birthday when the matter had first been raised. Keeping me from suitors, which had amazed so many, had proved to be right. She had not been fanciful, as so many had thought. She had been shrewd and realistic. She had one regret — that my father was not alive to see how she had been vindicated.

But we were not there yet. A king restored to his throne, fêted by his people, having learned the lesson of his father’s downfall, being determined — in his own phrase—“never to go wandering again,” seemed secure on the throne. He would need to be married, of course — and such a king was a very desirable parti.

My mother was very much aware of that. And, being herself, she immediately took action. Don Francisco de Mello was already in England.

She talked to me a good deal, for indeed I was at the very center of her plans. She watched me anxiously, wondering, I was sure, how well I should play my part. She took me into her confidence as she never had before.

One day I said to her: “England is an important country. There will be many eager to marry the King.”

“That is true,” she replied. “The King of Spain will have his protégées. But I trust Don Francisco. He is an able man. He knows the importance of this match to us. I tell you, Catherine, we need this marriage. I wonder if you realize how much.”

“I have always known that you wanted a union between our two countries.”

“It does go deeper than my personal hopes for you, my daughter. At this time we have freed ourselves from the hated Spaniards, but our hold on freedom is frail. We must remember that they have the might. We have been fighting for our freedom which has given us great strength. That is good, but it is not everything. They are a mighty nation. We shall live in fear until we have strong allies to support us.”

“You mean the English.”

She nodded. “The nation the Spaniards fear most is the English. They do not forget, though it is some hundred years ago, the ignoble defeat of their so-called invincible armada. They still talk of El Draque — the Dragon — their name for Sir Francis Drake who drove them to disaster and destroyed their dreams of conquest. They will say it was the storm which defeated them, but they were defeated before the storm arose, and they know it was the English sailors and El Draque who beat their armada. If England were allied to us, they would not dare attack us. So, my dear daughter, you must marry the King of England to strengthen the alliance we already have with them. Your country needs this.”

“Do you think I shall?”

She looked fierce. “Anything else is unthinkable. It would be the happiest day of my life if I could see you Queen of England.”

“Countries always look for gain in marriages,” I said.

“Our country would gain a good deal from this. I may tell you that the English will not be without gain. I have sent a good offer by Don Francisco. I believe it will be one which the impoverished King of England will not be able to refuse.”

I waited and she seemed to be convincing herself that, as I was deeply involved, I should be told the facts.

She said: “Five hundred thousand pounds in ready money, the possession of Tangiers, which is on the African coast, and Bombay in India, shall be part of your dowry. We shall grant them the right to free trade in Brazil and the East Indies. Of course, the possession of Tangiers and Bombay will give the English immense opportunities for increasing their trade.”

“Am I worth so much?”

“This alliance with England is worth everything we could reasonably give. In it lies the security of our nation and the final triumph over our enemy Spain.”

“I see,” I said slowly, “that it must succeed.”

THE TIME WAS PASSING. There were prolonged delays, for, in spite of my tempting dowry, there was hesitation.

My mother was watchful of the Spanish. The last thing they wanted was an alliance between Portugal and England and they were going to do everything in their power to stop it.

Vatteville, the Spanish ambassador at Charles’s court, was spreading evil tales about me. I was deformed; I was ugly; I was barren. I did not know then of Charles’s great admiration for female beauty, otherwise I might have been alarmed.

I was passably good-looking. My eyes were dark and large; my hair was abundant and chestnut brown. I had always disliked my teeth which protruded in the front — not a great deal, but too much for beauty. I was short in stature, which made me lack grace. But I was certainly not ugly, only just not handsome.

The delays must mean that our offer had not been entirely acceptable and my mother could not hide her anxiety.

Every day we had news that Spanish troops were massing on the border. They were waiting for the match to founder. Then they would attack. I began to wonder whether even my mother’s optimism was beginning to wane.

Dispatches reached us from England. My mother was taking me more and more into her confidence because the matter so deeply concerned me.

“It is that villain Vatteville who is doing everything he can to stop the match. It shows clearly how much Spain is afraid of this alliance. If it were to fail…but it will not…but if it were to, they would immediately attack us. We need more troops…we need ammunition. It must not be…It would be the end of all our endeavors. Oh, why is there this delay?”

I went to her one day and found her laughing.

“Vatteville is a fool,” she said. “I think he has gone too far this time. Francisco writes of this. Until now I did not realize how very much those Spaniards are set on breaking this match. They are really alarmed. Did I not say they were still in awe of the English? Oh, Catherine, this must come to pass. How right I was to hold out. Listen to this. They can be arrogant, those Spaniards. It blinds them to the truth. They are powerful…very powerful…but not quite as powerful as they believe themselves to be. Vatteville had the temerity to tell Charles that if he went through with this marriage to a daughter of the rebel Duke of Braganza he, Vatteville, had been ordered by his master, the King of Spain, to withdraw from the court and war would be declared on England.”

“Could that really be so?” I asked.

She snapped her fingers. “It was nonsense. He could have had no such orders. He was just a little too clever that time.”

“And what did Charles say to that?”

“He replied that Vatteville might be gone as soon as he wished, for he, the King of England, did not receive orders from the King of Spain as to whom he might marry.”

I clasped my hands and said: “He is so wise, so brave, so clever…”

“Well, of course, Vatteville realized he had gone too far. He immediately became ingratiating, and I am sure the King must have been amused. But that wretched Vatteville is still fighting hard to stop the marriage and the alliance between our countries. He dared to make a suggestion that the King should marry the Princess of Orange and that, if he did, the King of Spain would give her a marriage portion to equal that of a princess of Spain. She is reputed to be a beauty.”

My heart sank. I pulled my lower lip over my teeth — a habit I had formed when I was conscious of my physical defect.

“And what said the King?” I faltered.

“There again Vatteville showed his folly. There had already been negotiations for a match between the King and the Princess of Orange some years before. The Dowager Princess, whose daughter she was, had stood firmly against the match. The King of England was a king in name only, she said, and she saw no sign that he would ever be anything else. Naturally the King’s pride would not allow him to accept a princess who had scorned him in the past. So nothing came of that.”

“But still there is this delay.”

My mother frowned. “It must be decided soon. Don Francisco is hopeful. He is certain that all will be well in the end.”

And still we waited.

The days seemed long. We watched for messengers from England. Meanwhile, the Spaniards were gathering on all fronts for the attack. My mother would not give up hope. She dared not. This was not only the marriage of her daughter, for which she had schemed for so many years; it was also the salvation of her country.

Then there came a glimmer of hope.

Louis XIV of France had seen an advantage in a marriage between England and Portugal. He realized that if the marriage did not take place, Portugal most likely would become a vassal state of Spain, increasing the power of that country. That was the last thing Louis wanted. Spain was too powerful already. Moreover, an alliance between England and Portugal would be to the detriment of Spain, so he advised Charles to marry me and declared his support for the match.

Another supporter was the King’s mother, Henrietta Maria. Her reasons were different. She was an ardent Catholic and she wanted her son to marry a Catholic. And who better than the Infanta of Portugal?

Then came the day of triumph.

My mother summoned me to her, and when I came she forgot all formality and waved a paper at me.

She was between laughter and tears, and my delight to see her so was great.

“It is a letter from the King of England,” she said. “He is eager that your marriage should take place as soon as possible.”

She took me in her arms and held me tightly.

“The day is won,” she said. “Let us get onto our knees and thank God.”

This we did, and there was joy in my heart.

DON FRANCISCO DE MELLO had returned to Lisbon where he received a warm welcome. He was given the title of the Conde da Ponte for his services. His assiduous care and shrewd diplomacy had helped to bring about this happy result, said my mother.

She was in his company constantly and the matter that now concerned them was that of religion.

There must be a clause in the treaty to give me freedom of worship. It was not easy to be a Catholic queen in a Protestant country; and much as my mother desired this match, necessary as it was to preserve us from defeat at the hands of the Spaniards, duty to God must come first in all things.

It seemed that no sooner had we overcome one obstacle than another one presented itself.

One of the most lovable facets of Charles’s character — which I was to discover later — was his lack of dogmatism and his tolerance of the views of others. It was really due to the fact that he had an inherent abhorrence of conflict; he hated trouble and difficulties were often smoothed over in order to avoid it. He was lazy in a way; he liked life to flow smoothly. He immediately confirmed that I should have freedom to worship and I might have my own chapel fitted up wherever I lived.

My mother was immensely relieved.

But no sooner had that matter been settled than a more serious one arose. It was from Donna Maria that I first heard of this.

“There will have to be a proxy marriage,” she said. “You cannot leave the country without it.”

“Why not?” I asked. “I am going to marry Charles. Why should I need a proxy?”

“The King cannot come here and you cannot go into a strange country as an unmarried woman.”

“What harm would it do?”

“My lady Infanta, you are very innocent of the world. Unprotected virgins do not leave their homes unless chaperoned.”

“I should be surrounded by attendants.”

“How could we know what might happen to you?” she said mysteriously.

“Well, there will have to be a proxy marriage, I suppose, but it seems unnecessary.”

My mother was even more concerned than Donna Maria, but for a different reason.

“But why?” I cried. “You have the King’s letter. He says he is sending the Earl of Sandwich to take me back to England.”

“There should be a proxy marriage first,” said my mother.

“Well, there will be a proxy marriage. Is that so difficult?”

“If everything were as it should be there would be no difficulty,” she said. “But if you are married by proxy, it will be necessary to get a dispensation from the Pope because your husband is a Protestant.”

“Does that mean waiting?”

“It is not that so much which makes me anxious. The Pope does not recognize you as the daughter and sister of kings. He will give the dispensation; he would not dare offend Charles by not doing so, but at the same time your name will appear on it as the daughter of the Duke of Braganza, and that is something I will not allow.”

“What shall we do then?”

“There is only one thing we can do, and I do not like it overmuch.”

“What is that?”

“You must go to England without having a proxy marriage first.”

I smiled. “I think we need not worry about that,” I said. “Charles has said he wants me to go to England to marry him.”

She looked at me searchingly, and I thought she was about to tell me something; but she evidently decided not to. She merely nodded and said: “Well, there cannot be a proxy marriage.”

I did not attach too much importance to this. I was going to England to marry Charles after this long delay, and I was very happy about that.

DISPATCHES ARRIVED FROM LONDON which made me realize more than ever how very important it was for me to marry Charles, apart from my own inclination.

There were riots in London. These had been inspired by none other than the villain Vatteville, who had circulated rumors that if the King married a Catholic there would be trouble in England. Had the people forgotten the days of that Queen whom they knew as Bloody Mary? Did they remember that the last queen had been a Catholic? They were ready to blame Henrietta Maria for what was beyond her control. But it served a good reason for objecting to me.

For Vatteville and his master to act in this way was certainly ironical. They themselves were ardent Catholics. Why did they campaign against me? The answer was obvious. What they wished to avoid above everything was an alliance between England and Portugal.

The King and his ministers acted promptly. They had long become weary of Vatteville’s meddling. He was found to be in possession of subversive papers when his lodgings were searched, and was forthwith ordered to leave the country. Even then he tried to stay, to plea his cause, but Charles was tired of him, and refused to see him.

It was a great relief to know that Vatteville was no longer in England.

My mother said: “The fact that the Spaniards have shown themselves so eager to stop the match will make the English realize how important they think it. That is all to the good.”

As for me, my joy was complete, for I had received a letter from Charles. It had had to be translated, for it was in English, and I shall always treasure it. I know it by heart.

It ran as follows:

My Lady and Wife,

Already, at my request, the Conde da Ponte has set off for Lisbon. For me the signing of the marriage has been a great happiness; and there is about to be dispatched at this time after him, one of my servants, charged with what would appear to be 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 tranquillity in my restlessness; hoping to see the beloved person of Your Majesty in these dominions, already your own; and that, with the same anxiety with which, after my long banishment, I desire to see myself within them; and my subjects desiring also to behold me amongst them, having manifested their most ardent wishes for my return well known to the world.

The presence of your serenity is only wanting to unite us, under the protection of God, in the health and contentment I desire. I have recommended to the Queen, our lady and mother, the business of the Conde da Ponte who, I must here avow, has served me in what I regard as the greatest good in this world, which cannot be mine less than it is that of Your Majesty…

The very faithful husband of Your Majesty whose hand he kisses.

Charles Rex

London, the 2nd of July, 1661

It was the perfect love letter and I felt ecstatically happy.

I am glad I did not know then that after he had written this, he went off to spend the night with the woman who was to prove one of my greatest enemies.

THE MARRIAGE TREATY had been ratified and it was my mother’s wish that in our court I should be known as the Queen of England. I emerged from my sequestered life as an unmarried Infanta and had a place beside my mother, my brother King Alfonso, and the Infante Pedro.

“It would be well to leave before the winter comes,” said my mother.

But the winter came and still the Earl of Sandwich had not arrived with his fleet which was to take me back to England.

It would be too late now to leave before the weather made the journey too hazardous. Christmas had come and gone and I was still waiting.

“It cannot be till spring now,” said my mother. She was anxious. The Spaniards were augmenting their forces on the frontiers. There had been so many delays. People were beginning to say the match would never take place.

It was a time fraught with apprehension. I was glad I did not know to what ends my mother had to go to make sure we had had adequate defence against the enemy — but I was to learn of this later.

I remember well that joyous day.

It had been preceded by the deepest anxiety. Spring had come and Spanish ships were sighted off the coast. The attack was imminent.

I could see the despair in my mother’s eyes. She had been so certain of her wisdom in keeping me as a wife for Charles as the means of saving my country; she had been so sure of success; and now it could be that, because of these delays, all her hopes were foundering. If the Spaniards attacked now we could not resist them. Would the King of England want to marry the daughter of a defeated country, a vassal to Spain? In any case, the King of Spain would not allow the match.

I knew she prayed for a miracle — and her prayers were answered.

Spanish ships were preparing to land when those of the English fleet, in the charge of the Earl of Sandwich, came to take me back to England.

It was a triumph for us and defeat for the Spaniards.

Those Spanish sailors remembered the stories of the little English ships which routed the mighty armada of Spain. Their grandfathers had told them of that misadventure. They had told of El Draque, who was no ordinary man — a giant, a dragon, possessed of unearthly powers. Only such could have destroyed the great armada.

The Spanish ships made off with all speed and the troops massed at the frontiers could not act without the supplies of ammunition they were bringing. They could only disperse — and we were safe.

Lisbon went wild with joy. Bells were ringing and crowds gathered on the shore to greet the English ships.

“Viva il rey di Gran Britannia!” cried the people.

My mother’s relief was immense. The Earl of Sandwich must be given a royal welcome. Alfonso must send the Comptroller of the Household out to his ships; there must a twenty-seven-gun salute; the Earl must receive the warmest welcome possible from a grateful country.

There must be rejoicing. The finest apartments were prepared for him; there should be the grandest of banquets and the best bulls must be brought out for his entertainment. The anguish of uncertainty was over. The marriage could not fail to be celebrated now.

I did notice that after the first great relief my mother still seemed anxious. I wondered why this could be and, buoyed up by my newly acquired status — after all, I was styled Queen of England — I had the temerity to ask her what was wrong.

I waited until I could be alone with her, and I said: “I fear that you are not entirely happy, as I thought the arrival of the Earl of Sandwich would allow you to be.”

She bit her lips and hesitated for a moment or so, then she said: “I will confess to there being a certain difficulty. You know full well how, over the last few months, we have lived in fear of an attack from our old enemy. I had to keep the borders guarded. That has been extremely costly. The fact is that the money which was set aside for your dowry has had to be used to maintain the army. I had promised that five hundred thousand pounds should be delivered and the Earl of Sandwich should take it back to England with him. During our dire need of the last few months, I have had to use some of that money…indeed a great deal of it.”

I was horrified. “Which means you do not have the money which you promised?”

“That is so.”

“But…”

“It is a delicate situation.” She was looking at me anxiously. I knew her to be a woman who was never at a loss, even in the most desperate situation. She went on: “I have decided what I must do. I must throw myself on the mercy of this man. Tangiers is now in the hands of the English and he is here to take you back. Surely he will see that it is too late to abandon the mission for the sake of the money. I shall tell him that he shall have half of it and the other half shall be paid within a year.”

“Will that be possible?”

“My dear daughter, I must make it possible.”

“When will you explain this to the Earl of Sandwich?”

“You may trust me to find the appropriate moment.”

I was uneasy. I hated this bartering. It spoiled my romantic dreams. It was as though the King were being paid to take me for his wife.

Of course, I should have faced the truth. He was. But that was how marriages were arranged in royal circles. The advantages to both sides were weighed in the balance, and if the result was good enough, the marriage took place.

I did not want to look at it in that way. For me, Charles had become a hero in my life…the perfect man, the only husband I could ever want, and I was as anxious as my mother was that all should go well. I had unpleasant thoughts of the Earl sailing off with his fleet…and of the Spaniards laughingly watching him do so and then coming to strike.

SO IT WAS WITH SOME QUALMS that I prepared for my meeting with the Earl of Sandwich. He was a good-looking man, in his late thirties, I imagined. He had a pleasant countenance and my spirits rose at the sight of him. There was something comforting about him.

I learned afterward that he was not a man of deep convictions, for he had served Oliver Cromwell with loyalty and had continued his duties under Richard Cromwell. Now the King had returned and the Earl’s devotion was proved to be to whatever government was in power. He was a sailor; he worked for his country and whoever was head of the state; he remained in his post of Admiral.

He was delighted with the welcome he had received from the people of Lisbon. He had come just in time, and by his presence had saved our country; so naturally they were eager to show their gratitude.

If only the money had been there, I could have been happy. When he kissed my hand and declared how honored he was to do so, I could have been enchanted if I had not been haunted by thoughts of the missing dowry.

There came at length the time for confession. I knew what was happening, for my mother was closeted with the Earl and I had seen the apprehension in her face when she prepared for the meeting. There was resolution too. I had told myself that she would not fail; she had never done so yet. She was the most resourceful person I had ever known and this marriage had obsessed her for years. She would not let it fail now.

They were a long time together, and when the Earl left I hurried to her.

She was looking uneasy, and I forgot all formality. I think she did too. She was trembling slightly, which I had never seen her do before.

“I beg you…,” I cried. “Tell me…”

She was silent.

I said: “It is over then. He is going back without me?”

She shook her head. “He is naturally perplexed. The money is so important. The King is greatly impoverished. Richard Cromwell has been a disaster…”

“And so…”

“He needs time to think.”

“You believe he may refuse…that everything will come to nothing?”

“No,” she said fiercely. “He could not do that. He has already taken Tangiers. He could not relinquish that now. In the long term that is more important than the money.”

“But it is only half of it he has to wait for. He can have half now and the rest in a year.”

“Well, daughter, it is not quite like that. I have had to tell him the whole truth. You know the Jew Diego Silvas?”

“I have heard him spoken of.”

“A man of great integrity…a business man…a loyal subject.”

I had been surprised by my mother’s admiration for him. As a fervent Catholic, she would be distrustful of the Jews. Under the Inquisition, they had been persecuted more than any other people. Diego Silvas was a wealthy man, an honest man, a businessman, and as such had been of great use to her. She respected him and made of him a friend. His religious beliefs were set aside for the benefits he could bring. But where was he concerned in this matter?”

“I have called on him to help,” she said. “I told the Earl that we could pay half of your dowry now and the rest at the end of the year. But the fact is I do not have the money even for part of the first half. So what I propose to do is to put on board the value of the money — the half we are speaking of — in goods, spices, sugar, such things, merchandise as we would export from our country. Diego Silvas will travel to England with the goods and when he arrives in England he will store them and see that they are sold to the merchants he knows in London, and when this is done the money will be delivered to the English treasury.” She took a deep breath and spread her hands with a smile. “It was the only thing I could do.”

I looked at her incredulously and thought how wonderful she was…how imaginative…how resourceful. She was the most remarkable person I had ever known.

I felt the tears in my eyes. For the first time I fully realized what my departure would mean to me, because after I had gone, I might never see her again.

She watched me, reading my thoughts.

She said: “I could think of no other way.”

“And do you think it will be accepted?”

“I do not know. I can only pray. The Earl was astounded. He was not sure what he should do. He has gone away to ponder. I believe he must accept. How can he return without the bride? And what of Tangiers? After all, is the money so important beside Tangiers…and Bombay…and all the free trade which will come their way? And he is favorably impressed with you. I could see that. All will be well, daughter, I am sure of it.”

It was agonizing to wait for the Earl’s decision. There had been so many obstacles to the marriage that I began to fear that this one would be insurmountable.

How would the King feel? He was expecting money and would receive sugar and spices.

Only my mother could have thought of such a plan.

She came to me.

“He has agreed to accept,” she said. “I knew he would. What else could he do? It has gone too far. He could not leave now.”

“Has the King agreed?”

“My dear daughter, how could there be time for that? It has to be the Earl’s decision. He is a worried man, but he sees the inevitability of this. There is only one course of action for him.”

“It is a difficult decision for him to make.”

“We all have difficult decisions to make, and he is a sensible man. How could he go back to England without the bride everyone is expecting? I have given him our bond that the rest of the money will be paid before the year is out.”

“Can that be done?”

“It must be done. He knows that Diego Silvas, who has a reputation for honest dealing and shrewd bargaining, will see that the King gets his first installment as promised. So…we can forget our fears. In a short time you will be sailing for England.”

THERE WAS A GREAT DEAL of interest in the English court among those surrounding me; and there must have been gossip about its nature. I often marvel at the successful manner in which this was kept from me. It must have been on my mother’s orders, for both Donna Maria and Donna Elvira were fond of gossip.

She had chosen these two to be close to me and to accompany me to England. There would be other waiting women, of course, but these two were in command. They had grown in importance and had increased their care of me — somewhat ostentatiously, I must admit.

I soon realized they had something on their minds. If I asked them, they immediately became cautious, and it was almost as though they buttoned up their lips, because they were fearful that words would slip out.

One day I heard Donna Elvira say: “I think we should speak to Donna Luiza. It is only right that the Infanta should be prepared.”

To that Donna Maria replied: “It is a thought which has been with me for some time. The poor child will be unready for what she must surely find.”

I confronted them and asked to know what they thought I should find.

They blustered and said I must have misheard their words.

Shortly after that, when I was with my mother, I decided to tell what I had overheard, and I felt there was something which was being kept from me.

“They seemed quite anxious about it,” I said.

She hesitated for a moment, as though she were making up her mind. “Tell me,” she said at length, “what have you heard of the King?”

“The King? Charles? Oh, that he has been welcomed back…that the people are glad to have him…that he has made England merry again…that he fought valiantly and offered his life for his father’s…and that it is wonderful that he is back where he belongs.”

“All that is true, but there is more to know.”

“It is my desire to know all I can about him and his country.”

“It may be that there are certain aspects which you might not like.”

“I do not understand.”

“My dear Catherine, you have lived what is called a sheltered life. You have hardly ever left the walls of the palace or those of the convent. Life can be rather different in certain places. You were very fond of your father. He was a wonderful man…devoted to his family…a good man in every aspect. He loved you children dearly and was a faithful husband to me.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Because you have seen so little of life, you might judge all men by him.”

I was puzzled and wondered why she, who was usually so direct, should now be so hesitant.

“The King is thirty-two years of age. He is unmarried. He has led an adventurous life, wandering about the continent. Such is the nature of men that there will be women in their lives. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Mistresses?” I began.

She nodded. “You see, the King has never had a wife…well, you see…it is only natural.”

“Yes…but when he is married, that will be over…”

“Of course. But…er…”

“Please tell me, my lady.”

“There is talk that at this time he is enamored of a certain woman….”

“Oh, but now I shall be his wife. You saw the letter he wrote to me.”

“Yes, I saw it.” She smiled brightly. “It is just that we think you should know that there has been this woman. By all accounts, she is handsome and…very demanding. If you should hear of her, you must ignore her. Do not let her come to court. You should treat her as though she does not exist.”

“But of course I shall, and when I am married, she will certainly not be there. Who is this woman?”

“Her name is Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine.”

It was the first time I heard the name of that evil woman.

ON THE TWENTY-THIRD OF APRIL, St. George’s Day, the time had come for my departure — and by a happy coincidence, St. George is the patron saint not only of England but also of Portugal. All I could think of was the parting with my mother and that this might be the last time I set eyes on her.

My two brothers were with me and they escorted me down to the hall where my mother was waiting for me. She looked at me with such affection that I almost burst into tears. I knew I must not do that. She must not be ashamed of me. She was restraining her emotions and so must I mine.

She held me tightly in her arms; and then it was over and my brothers were leading me to the coach. Surrounded by an array of the nobility, we went in procession to the cathedral. The bells were ringing and the guns were firing the salutes; there was music in the streets and the people cried: “Long live the Queen of England!”

When the cathedral service was over, we made our way to the sea.

I was surrounded by a great company led by my brothers. Don Francisco was present. He had recently been ennobled for the excellent work he had done in negotiating the marriage contract and had become the Marquis da Sande. That he was delighted in the manner in which everything had been resolved was evident.

Waiting for us was a splendid barge which was to take us to the Admiral’s ship, the Royal Charles.

When I stepped aboard this magnificent vessel, the Earl of Sandwich was waiting to greet me, and my brother Alfonso formally handed me over to him. Donna Maria and Donna Elvira stood beside me, my protectors. The Admiral conducted me to the splendid cabin which had been prepared for me, and my brother said a sad farewell and departed.

I was on my way to England.