Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  Which, whatever the disapproving Clarendon might think, included making a glorious and expensive show of merriment.

  Feeling his Lord Chancellor’s eyes on him, he sighed inwardly and turned. Better let the dear old nuisance have his say. “My Lord Clarendon, I am surprised to see you here.”

  Clarendon bowed heavily. “Your Majesty, I am sorry to intrude upon your entertainment, but having found you not at Whitehall, I felt compelled by duty to follow where you are.”

  “But you don’t sound at all sorry—in truth you sound downright cross. I heard Barbara flying out at you. You mustn’t take it to heart, you know.”

  “I take nothing to heart but your interests and the interests of the nation, which are one and the same. No, I came not for her sake but on quite another business. For I must ask you, Majesty, why you have not set off for Portsmouth as I had thought you intended.”

  “Portsmouth?” Charles said with dangerous lightness. “Why, what’s in Portsmouth?”

  Clarendon scowled, at a loss for words, and Charles went on, “Oh, yes, yes, quite. The queen. But I daresay tomorrow will do. Or the next day.”

  Charles watched the vein on Clarendon’s forehead that always stood out when he was vexed throb visibly. “Sir, I must urge you to greater diligence in this matter. The Infanta is waiting, an insult to the Portuguese nation would be—”

  “What?” Charles broke in impatiently. “Injurious to our pockets? You do not suggest they would cheat us of her dowry? The greatest ever to come with any princess to her needful bridegroom? That would be a disappointment, to be sure.”

  Clarendon hesitated, hearing the sarcasm. “Your Majesty—”

  But Charles went on, allowing his irritation to show in his voice. “Not her fault, of course, poor thing’s but an instrument in the hands of that mother of hers. But they’re in no position to reproach anyone. Scarcely half of it paid, I’m told, and half of that in sugar and spices! What good are sugar and spices to me? I do not wish to appear venal, but one cannot build a navy out of sugar and spices. Nor make the kind of showing the people expect. Nor,” he said, unable to resist the opportunity to tease, “keep one’s mistresses in outrageous luxury.”

  Clarendon puffed out his cheeks. “Sir, I beg you to consider all the long efforts that have brought the Infanta to our shore. The gold is not yet all paid, it is true, but the ports and trade routes will yield great riches in time. And, more, there is the urgent question of children.”

  Charles looked to make sure Barbara wasn’t within earshot. “I have children.”

  His tone was brusque, but Clarendon was not cowed. “Indeed. Which is our assurance that you will soon have legitimate heirs. With only one brother living, the succession cannot be counted secure. There is not a moment to waste. Come, Your Majesty, why this reluctance? You had a hand in choosing her; there is no reason to believe you will not like her.”

  “I like her already. Tangier and Bombay may have decided the matter, but I’ve seen her portrait. There’s no doubt she’s pretty, and if I have any discernment in the reading of character in a face, she is as good a lady as ever breathed.”

  “And therefore you are upon the road to Portsmouth as we speak? My eyes deceive me by seeing you disporting in the playhouse instead?”

  This clumsy attempt at wit made Charles laugh. “Has any monarch in history been harassed and harried as you harry me? Business, Clarendon, I attend to business, as you ought to know. I was all morning closeted with Parliament, and I must to them again on the morrow. Months ago I ordered them to prorogue sessions for the spring to allow me to get married in all decency, and what in their grateful humble duty do they answer me? ‘Yes, of course, good sir, except no, good sir, if it please you or if it please you not!’ I am fighting them tooth and jagged claw just now, and must stay the course.” His tone grew suddenly bitter. “That so-called Code with your name on it—it is a rebuke to all I promised at Breda.”

  Clarendon suddenly looked ten years older.

  “My name is on it, sir, but not all my heart in it. They think to enlist me to their cause, and indeed I believe you go too far in your ideas of tolerance. England is, and must be, an Anglican country, unquestioned and undivided. The Dissenters have lost, and they must be made to know it.”

  “And what of the Catholics? Are they not to have freedom of conscience?”

  “Aye, sir, aye. But your people have been through much, and memories of past wrongs run deep. We have much to do yet in reestablishing proper order; this is no time for new ideas of tolerance and embracing of what-you-will.”

  “It is exactly the time for it,” Charles snapped, his temper rising. “But enough, good my lord, enough of that for now. The queen must be patient, and there’s an end on it.”

  Yet as he spoke, he wondered at himself. Why was he lingering in town, when his bride awaited him? Parliament was still sitting, that was true. And yet he could take up the battle again on his return. All that about the muddy roads was true enough, too, but he’d waded through worse in a worse cause. And then there was Barbara—he was sure Barbara took great credit for his staying, and she did make it very easy to stay. Still . . .

  “I am aware . . .” He spoke more softly, quite without realizing, and Clarendon stepped in closer to hear him. “I am conscious of an uneasiness . . . now that my marriage is upon me in truth. My mother . . .”

  Clarendon put a reassuring hand on his monarch’s sleeve. “I understand you, sir. But I promise you, I have made careful inquiries. The Infanta is cut of quite another cloth than the queen mother. She is foreign, yes, and a Catholic. But she has nothing of the managing in her nature; she will be content to keep her own conscience and let others keep theirs. You need not fear a repeat of the meddling that caused you and your father—and, indeed, the realm—so much distress. She is no Henrietta Maria.”

  Charles nodded uneasily. It wasn’t Catherine in particular, of course; he hadn’t even met her yet and surely, surely he had reason to think he would like her. And still . . . He shrugged. “Well, let that be as it may.”

  Clarendon didn’t take the hint. “So you will go, sir? I will give the order for your coach; you may be there on the morrow, though you must break your journey in—”

  Charles held up his hand. “My lord, I beg you, let the matter rest. I will go, I will bring the bishop, we shall have all proper ceremony and I will do my husbandly duty and supply England with a reassuring army of princes.” He paused and dropped his bantering tone for the warning of a king, not to be mistaken or gainsaid. “And I will do it when I choose.”

  Clarendon met his look, understood, and bowed.

  • • •

  Barbara saw Clarendon withdraw from Charles’s presence. The Lord Chancellor didn’t look happy, which was all to the good. But then, neither did Charles. Damn the meddling old stampcrab for upsetting him! She frowned absently into the pit, wondering how to restore the king’s spirits, when her eye was caught by the sight of a slender young man, his long blond hair tumbling down his back, sitting in the farthest, dimmest corner of the pit. He had one arm around the waist of an orange girl, and the other on her knee; he did not look to be bargaining for oranges. The girl laughed at something he said, and he laughed too, lifting up his head so Barbara could see his face quite clearly.

  The young Earl of Rochester. Perfect.

  Barbara touched Charles’s sleeve lightly, and he turned instantly to her. “Darling,” she breathed. “Look who’s here.”

  Charles followed her gesture, narrowing his eyes, then widening them in recognition and pleasure. He spoke a word to his page, who went running down the stairs and through the pit to bow to Rochester. The young earl sprang to his feet, releasing the orange girl (who went off about her business again), and—looking up to the royal box—caught the gaze of the king and made his reverence. Charles smiled, beckoned, and a moment later, Rochester was in the royal box, as all the rest made way and watched with interest.

  “Dear boy!” t
he king greeted him. “Back from your tour of the continent already?”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I arrived only today and would have come to you tomorrow—”

  “No matter, no matter, come and do it properly at Whitehall tomorrow if you like, but shall I stand on ceremony with your father’s son? I regret his loss immensely.”

  Rochester looked blank, and then assumed a somber look. Barbara was quite sure the pleasure of coming into the title and what little money the battered estate offered more than offset the loss of his father, a man he’d scarce set eyes on since he was a small boy, and who had been, by all reports, an unpleasant drunk. Charles, of course, would never hear anything against him: the man had personally helped him escape from England and intrigued tirelessly for his return. Pity he had died just two years before he could be rewarded by the sight of his king returned to his rightful throne. But here was the son, ready-made to be loved in his stead, and a good deal more apt for it.

  “Well, well—and here you are,” the king was saying. “You made the most of your travels, I’m sure?”

  “I’m sure I tried, sir. A mob of Frenchmen tried to murder me in an opera house but I wasn’t having that. I told them I had an engagement with the greatest man alive or dead in England save one and begged them to pardon me at the point of my sword.”

  Barbara caught her breath. Rochester was recovering quickly from the awe of Charles’s presence—all too quickly. He had ever been a perverse boy. Would he ruin his chances in this first meeting?

  “Save one?” Charles asked, unsure whether to be amused or offended.

  Rochester gave him a sidelong look that would have been, in a woman, rank flirtation. “Forgive me, I defy the world to find one who loves Your Majesty more than I, but I must speak the truth or I am damned. Could there be a greater man in all the history of our benighted world than one Oliver who died and thus removed all obstacles from Your Majesty’s triumphant return?”

  Charles stared. Barbara and all the courtiers and ladies held their breaths. And then Charles laughed. “Quite right—if there can be a sort of negative greatness. I’ll own it was greatly accommodating of the fellow.”

  Well done, Rochester, Barbara thought with relief as everyone laughed along with the king. Should have known you’d bring it off.

  Charles raised his glass to the young earl in an approving gesture. “Yes, come to court tomorrow, my boy; we’ll find you something to do,” he said, then turned away to speak to one of the Merry Gang.

  Rochester snatched a glass from the page and drank it all down in one fluid pull, lowering it to find himself face to face with Barbara. She smiled and offered her hand, murmuring, “Well. You do know how to make an entrance.”

  The beautiful youth pressed her hand to his lips. “Queen Barb’ry, well met. I would say you are in wondrous good looks, but that would be to tell you what you already know.”

  She withdrew the hand. “Hist, mad thing, do not call me that.”

  “What, Barb’ry? I think it suits you.”

  “You know that is not what I mean.” She shook her head, half laughing and half cross.

  “Oh, you mean queen?” he stressed the word slightly. “An honorary title merely, though perhaps without the honor.”

  Barbara gave him a steady look. Being Rochester’s friend was like walking a tiger: One never knew when the claws would turn one’s way. But Barbara, Lady Castlemaine was no man’s prey. “You will not change allegiance, will you, Rochester?”

  “When the girl from Portugal turns up, do you mean?”

  He meant to bait her, but she would not be baited. “Remember, dear boy, how much good I can still do you. You may need a friend at court. And I don’t think a proper little religious like her will take to you, do you?”

  “I thought the king was my friend at court. No, I do take your point; but be assured, my friendship is not and never has been for sale.”

  The music sounded a fanfare and Barbara turned to Charles again, only to find him once more bending his attention to Lady Stuart. She felt a tiny prickle of fear, even while she acknowledged its true source. Frances might or might not be dangerous—though if she proved to be, Barbara could manage her. But the approaching queen was another order of threat entirely. Was Barbara not standing on the thinnest ice that ever veiled the winter Thames? Could she not be swallowed in the murky water of history, her name forgotten and her bed cold?

  The fanfare grew louder. Charles straightened, and reached out for her hand without looking. She put it into his and together they turned to face the stage as the chandeliers were lowered to brighten the actors’ faces. Their movement caught the eye of someone in the pit below, who of a sudden shouted, “God save the King!” At that, all the audience stood to cheer, a spontaneous salute. Charles shouted back, “England and Saint George!” and a roar of approval went up from all the house. And then another voice from somewhere in the pit topped all, crying out, “And God save our Lady Castlemaine!”

  Charles smiled down at her. Standing by his side in all her glory, her hand held up in his as his consort, her swollen belly proclaiming his love before them all, Barbara felt her apprehension pop like a soap bubble. She was encompassed in the love of the people for this new golden age and its king; she shone in its light and dressed in its borrowed radiance, and there was no need for that to ever change.

  They sat to let the play begin, Charles holding her hand warmly on his be-ribboned knee, and she thought, Such happiness must be enough, it is enough, and it always will be so.

  • • •

  The day after she set foot on English soil, Catherine of Braganza fell seriously ill.

  Her indisposition set the duke’s household aflutter. Her attendants ghosted about the corridors in their black clothes, conferring in hushed tones. Her trunks of holy relics were unpacked, and the reliquary with a sliver of the True Cross set upon her traveling altar. Her cooks labored over pots of sharp-smelling soups, hoping to tempt her appetite. The Duke of York was so concerned, he sent his own physician, who was turned back at the door by the dour Condessa de Penalva.

  From the fuss, anyone would have thought the queen was at death’s door. But the English servants observed the omens available to those who clean and carry and serve and drew their own conclusions.

  “You can hear her sneezing through the door,” said Nan, who did not like Catholics and found excuses to stay out of the queen’s apartments.

  “She’s caught a chill,” was Cook’s opinion. “And no wonder, bucking about on the sea for so long with the winter hardly over.”

  “Just as well our Charlie is dragging his feet, then,” sniggered the scullion, and had his ears boxed for insolence by Cook, whose temper was short since the queen’s arrival had set everything on its ear. The queen and her attendants had not made themselves popular. They had made a great deal of work for the duke’s household, and promised to make more. Her Portuguese cooks had invaded the kitchen and her ladies had infiltrated the laundry, upsetting the washerwomen and knocking into the tubs with their wide, swinging farthingales. And now she’d brought sickness into the house. The general opinion, among the servants, was that the omens were against her.

  As the days passed, the weather sweetened and the queen’s chill lifted, and still the king did not come. The gossip below stairs grew sly. In the stables, the men exchanged lewd jests concerning His Majesty’s fondness for hobbyhorses and how Mistress Babs kept the royal scepter polished. In the kitchen, the household servants gathered to exchange complaints.

  “Such a little dab of a thing!” one of the maids exclaimed, not for the first time.

  “And her teeth!” Nan plumed herself on her wit, but Jenny thought her merely ill-natured. “Bite into an apple at arm’s length she could, if it were not for her nose getting in the way.”

  “She’s an altar set up in her apartment,” said a severe young woman, misnamed Charity. “Statues and relics and all manner of Popish folderols. I saw it when I was handing in
the breakfast.”

  “I’m not surprised she’s not eating,” Nan went on. “Between the stink of the food and the stink of the incense, it’s enough to turn an honest woman’s stomach.”

  The scullion snickered. “It’s because—it’s because we have no human flesh to give her!”

  Jenny seethed. “Catholics do not eat human flesh any more than you do. And if the king doesn’t object to his queen’s religion, I do not see why you should. As for her looks, she’s perfectly lovely to look upon, now she’s recovering, and has a very pretty color!”

  “She paints,” said Charity, shortly.

  It was true. The queen did not seem to consider herself dressed without a coat of pearl powder and smear of cochineal on either cheek, nor did any of her ladies. Strange it was, when they dressed so old-fashioned, to see them all painted up like tarts at a fair. Jenny sighed. “Well, she’s a kind, sweet-natured lady in any case, and I, for one, pity her. Think to yourself how it would be, to travel so far from home and find your husband not there to greet you.”