Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” She rose, head still lowered, with a slight flush upon her cheeks. “Her Majesty bids me to send her apologies that she cannot attend you tonight.”

  Charles barked a laugh. “Cannot attend? This bodes ill for our relations.”

  “Her Majesty would be happy to receive you, only she is having . . . a womanly complaint.”

  “Ah.” He rubbed his brow and glanced back at the honor guard. Beyond them, he could still hear the sound of revelry in his rooms and, of all things, he did not wish to have to return there. Charles straightened, smiling a little at a realization. His queen would be tired and abed. “Well. Well . . . I would not wish her to feel neglected. Have the cook send up some supper, and we shall dine together. Quietly.”

  And, if he was very lucky, he might be able to fall asleep.

  • • •

  Hampton Court Palace

  Outside the windows of Catherine’s rooms, the bagpipers played jaunty tunes as everyone continued to celebrate their arrival at Hampton Court. Catherine let Feliciana down on the floor. Immediately, the little bundle of silk and exuberance began her task of exploring the new chambers. In the week they had been in Portsmouth, she had grown more comfortable with the abundance of skirts surrounding her. “She seems keen enough, I think.”

  “Mm? Yes, my dear.” Charles moved to the window and studied a message one of the pages had delivered upon their arrival. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. “If you will pardon me, I have some matters I need to attend to.”

  But they had only just arrived, and it was their honeymoon. Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth. Mamãe had said Charles would not respond well to a challenge, not with his own mother’s willfulness as an example. She cast her eyes down and sought some answer to reassure him that she had some worth beyond her dowry. “Of course. I shall see to getting us settled in.”

  “And I shall return as quickly as I am able.” He folded the note with some force. “Alas, the time of a king is never his own.”

  He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and then was away out the door. She had not thought to have exclusive demands upon his time, but now that she had stopped raining, she had expected the consummation. Until it happened, he could still have the marriage annulled.

  Turning from the door, Catherine shook her head to clear it. Portugal needed England’s navy and she must make this marriage work to cement the bonds between their nations. Time alone with Charles would be rare, for as king, even his sleep had attendants.

  Their honeymoon suite was no different. Far from the quiet of the cloisters, her chambers had been crowded with ladies in farthingales since her betrothal. English ladies in their bright colors had joined her entourage. The ladies of both courts busied themselves directing maids in the unpacking, so despite her soothing words to Charles, there was little for Catherine to do.

  She drifted through the room, searching for Feliciana. The puppy had discovered one of Catherine’s gloves, which had fallen from its box. She knelt by the little dear and tugged at the glove.

  Feliciana wagged her tail and dug her paws in, thinking it a game.

  “Silly thing.” She pulled on the glove and the puppy followed, grunting with delight. At least Charles had given her some token to remember him by. Catherine shook her head. “Silly, silly thing.” She was at least as silly as the puppy if a single meeting concerned her.

  Around her, ladies talked amongst themselves in a flurry of languages. The English ladies spoke to each other in English, the Portuguese ladies in Portuguese. Across the room, a pair of one English and one Portuguese lady—the young Dona Emelia—had discovered a common language in Spanish, and were talking intently.

  “. . . Castlemaine is with child, I hear.”

  “I am certain that is where he has gone—a ‘meeting,’ if you will.”

  “What? Here? When her—” The voice cut off and Catherine glanced up, finding Dona Emelia with a betraying flush on her countenance.

  Catherine stood, lifting Feliciana along with her glove. She walked over to the ladies. “Where did you say the king had gone?”

  “Oh . . . I am certain I do not know. Did he not speak of a meeting?”

  “Yes.” She tilted her head and regarded her Portuguese lady. “With Lady Castlemaine, you said?”

  “I—” Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, madam. So Lady Suffolk told me.”

  “And what can you tell me of Lady Castlemaine?”

  “Other than that she is bearing her second child, I know very little, I am afraid.” She glanced across the room and made a small beckoning gesture with one hand, held low as if Catherine might not notice it.

  Furrowing her brow, Catherine bent her head to regard Feliciana and used the movement to glance behind her. Dona Maria was crossing the room with some speed. She would no doubt put an end to Catherine’s questions as being beneath her. Beneath her! To wonder at her own husband’s doings. But how was she to find out what she wished to know? Though Lady Suffolk was one of the attendants whom Charles had assigned to her, it was not a question that she could put directly to the lady. Catherine’s life might have been sheltered, but she was not so naive as to think any of her English attendants were more loyal to her than to Charles. She would get no useful information there.

  With a great rustle of silk, Dona Maria arrived and made a perfunctory curtsy. “How is Your Majesty finding your apartments?”

  “Adequate, thank you.” She had no great hope of receiving an answer, but she made the effort. “What can you tell me of Lady Castlemaine?”

  “Oh, the English and their ways . . . Your mother would not wish you to trouble yourself with such things.” Dona Maria gestured to the other side of the room. “Have you a thought as to where we should put Feliciana’s bed?”

  “I am not a child, Dona Maria. I am aware that my husband has a mistress.”

  “Your Majesty, it is beneath your notice.”

  Catherine stifled a sigh. Her duenna was undoubtedly loyal but, having served since Catherine was a child, could see her as nothing else. She needed someone who answered to her—someone local—to help her understand customs. None of the English ladies would do, as she was certain they were all instructed to report on her to the king. It was what her mother would have done. No . . . she needed someone who answered to her alone. She cocked her head and frowned with concentration. “There was a young woman in Portsmouth—Jenny. She made an herbal brew for me.”

  “I recall.” Dona Maria’s mouth twisted with a little distaste.

  “Pray, send for her.”

  Dona Maria’s brows rose sharply, cracking the fine lacquer on her forehead. “Is Your Majesty unwell?”

  “I am quite well, thank you.”

  “Then what need have you for a common waiting woman?”

  Catherine almost apologized for causing a fuss, but she was a queen now. She tried to think of how her mother would have handled this and raised her chin. “I was not aware I was required to justify my choices to you.”

  If the good lady were any more astonished, her entire face would have cracked off. But, to her credit, she bowed with more effort than before. “Of course. It shall be done.”

  Catherine bent her head to Feliciana again and buried her face in the puppy’s warm fur. Tiny puppy kisses covered her cheeks. She wondered who her husband was kissing now.

  • • •

  Barbara ran a hand up Charles’s leg, tracing a line from knee to inner thigh. She tried to keep a smile on her face as her stomach cramped with a bearing pain. She had been having them off and on since the carriage ride from London. But with Lady Suffolk placed in the Portuguese woman’s chambers, Barbara had been receiving regular and alarming reports that Charles was demonstratively fond of the woman. Barbara could take no chances with the king’s affections. She was too great with this child to give him her usual sport, but she only had another few weeks to suffer, and in the meantime there were other methods of pleasing a king.


  He caught her hand and lifted it, kissing the inside of her wrist. “Now, my dearest. I do not wish for you to exert yourself on my behalf.”

  “And yet, you know I would like nothing better.” She leaned closer and let her tongue touch the lobe of his ear. “I have a special fondness for . . . exertion.”

  At that, Charles chuckled, but still slid away on the bench. “This is not, perhaps, the best time.”

  Barbara straightened and widened her eyes at him. The answer was obvious, but it would be better to force him to say it. “Whyever not?”

  “Well . . . darling.” He tugged at the lace around his neck. “I was just married and—”

  “I see.” Barbara stood, placing her hands on her hips to emphasize her swelling belly. “I see. It is of no matter to you that I have been married during the entirety of our acquaintance. But you—you—a marriage of a few days, to a little foreign doll, and you can no longer touch me? After I traveled from London to be with you. After I endured mockery. After this!” She slapped her hands against her stomach.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You do understand our situations are quite different.”

  “Yes. Of course! I am a mere woman. You are my king. Jus primae noctis makes my duty to you abundantly clear.”

  “Oh please. That has never been—”

  “I know my histories.”

  He sighed and studied the ceiling for a moment. “Barbara, my dear, you know my feelings for you are strong.”

  “Do I? I hope you do not think me such a fool as that.”

  He faltered, as she had expected. “What do you mean?”

  “I am merely convenient because my husband will let you have me for the price of a title.” Though, in truth, Roger was making a bit of a fuss over this latest baby. “Were it not for his willingness to take credit for your bastards, you would never tryst so frequently with me.”

  “If you had not already been married, I—”

  “What? You would have married me and made me your queen?” Barbara laughed, and her stomach clenched at the injustice of it. “Please. My father could not have afforded the dowry to buy you as Queen Luisa did for the Portuguese woman.”

  “Her name is Catherine. She is my queen. I would thank you to show her a little respect.”

  Barbara straightened her spine and gathered her skirts. “Respect? Perhaps I shall, then.” She turned and strode toward the door, trying not to waddle.

  “Where are you— Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Charles hurried across the room and caught her by the arm. “Where are you going?”

  “To see the queen and honor her.”

  His eyes rested incredulously on her belly and Barbara knew she had won. “That would not be a good choice in your condition.”

  “Do you think she would disapprove if I laid my whelp on her doorstep?”

  “Be reasonable, I beg, though—” His jaws clamped shut suddenly. “Please, please be reasonable.”

  “Though it is not in my nature? Is that what you were going to say?” Barbara’s cheeks burned and she tossed her head, letting her curls tumble around her shoulders. “What would be reasonable, in your eyes, sir?”

  “Just . . . Just wait until after your confinement is over. Please.” Charles sighed. At his feet, one of his dogs whined, gazing at his master with adoring eyes.

  Barbara wrenched her arm away from him. “I suppose you would like me better if I were like one of your bitches. Is the queen like a spaniel? Does she gaze at you with unfaltering love? And I—I who have given you the best years of my life. Who have borne a child for you, who is bearing another—I cannot be allowed to express my disquietude. Not even here. Not even in private with you.”

  Her anger evaporated into tears. Bosom heaving, she fled to the sofa and sank upon it. A moment later, the cushion shifted as Charles sat beside her. Barbara kept her face covered, waiting to hear what he would say.

  “I am sorry . . . My dear, I am so sorry this is difficult. The timing is such . . . I wish you could meet her now. Truly, I do. I think the two of you would become friends.” He stroked her hair. “What can I do to make it easier for you?”

  Always, he was so predictable. She had only to work herself into tears and Charles would relent. She sniffled and sat up, dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of lace. “May I . . . May I be a Lady of the Bedchamber?”

  He gave her a smile, leaning forward to kiss her cheeks. “What, not a duchess?”

  “I want to be near you, and by necessity, I would travel with the court and have reason to be close always.” And, as a Lady of the Bedchamber, she would have control over who was able to meet with the queen. In such a position, it would take little effort to make certain that all information that reached the Portuguese woman would first have to pass through Barbara. If a courtier wished to meet with her, well, then a gift to the Lady of the Bedchamber who arranged that would not be unusual. “I could be of use to her, and smooth things for you as well. And . . . you know that Ladies of the Bedchamber share the queen’s bed. Would you not like us both in your bed?”

  A laugh burst from Charles, bouncing around the room. “Oh, you do know me well. And were it up to me, the answer would be very, very . . . certain. But it is the queen’s decision. Hush—” He put a finger to her lips. “You know it is.”

  Sighing, she leaned in to him, then turned to kiss him more fully. From his posture, it was clear he was going to stay with her for some time. As for the Lady of the Bedchamber . . . it was the queen’s decision, but even the queen was ruled by the king.

  • • •

  Catherine knelt on the velvet prie-dieu in her little chapel. Father Patrick’s Latin was rendered strange and charming by his Irish accent, which rose and fell in a melodious line. “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”

  “Amen,” the small congregation replied. Only two of her ladies had come with her for the morning Mass, the others preparing for the seemingly never-ending string of callers who wished to welcome her. Or, rather, they wished to be seen to welcome her, and to gawk at her. Very few, she suspected, had any interest in actually meeting her.

  Catherine anchored herself in the familiar words and rituals as a relief from the constant frivolity of the English court. She had already received an abundance of nobles that morning, all eager to congratulate their new queen. She prayed for strength to endure the afternoon, which promised to be more of the same.

  The priest joined his hands together and faced them to end the mass. “Ite, missa est.”

  “Deo gratias.” She gave thanks to God in earnest for this small respite in her day.

  As she rose, the door to the chapel opened as if someone had been waiting for their voices to cease, and a little dog burst through. Jenny followed, carrying a bowl of tulips that was the evident draw for her companion. Catherine sagged in her stays. She had so hoped it would be Charles. In the week since they had arrived at Hampton Court, she had spent wonderful days with him, laughing and strolling the lawn, but not yet a night.

  “Is something the matter, my child?” Father Patrick paused on his way to the door.

  She could not—not even under the seal of the confessional—bring herself to say that she felt an unfulfilled carnal desire for her husband. It was not a sin by any definition, and indeed should be encouraged between a husband and wife. Indeed, her duty to Portugal, and now to England, required her to . . . to know her husband. It was only . . . she blushed even thinking of it. “No. Thank you, Father.” She gestured to her ladies. “I should like a few moments longer for contemplation.”

  Dona Maria cleared her throat. “Your Majesty—”

  “You may wait for me in the hall.” Catherine faced the small altar without giving them leave to respond further. She’d had so few private moments since her marriage. The Lord’s chapel was not the correct place for such a conversation, but when else could she have it?

  Carrying the flowers with her head lowered, Jenny crossed the room to
the round marble table beneath a statue of the Virgin, where another offering sat. Her efficiency was such that she might almost not be in the room. Father Patrick had scarcely left the chapel before Jenny had finished swapping the two arrangements.

  “Jenny . . . Stay a moment, if you would.”

  The girl stopped, eyes wide, even as they remained turned down. The flowers trembled a little. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I have been very pleased with your work.” More honest would be that she had not had cause to notice Jenny’s work, which was the mark of a good servant. “There is another service you might do for me, if you would not mind.”

  “I am yours to command.” Her head remained bowed, fingers pressing against the bowl so hard the nails turned white.

  Catherine bit her lip. She could bow to propriety and hint or she could simply ask. The latter, painful though it would be, would at least be faster, and the awkwardness of the subject would be extreme in either case. “What can you tell me of my husband’s mistress?”

  The girl’s cheeks flushed. “Which facts are you interested in, Your Majesty?”

  Catherine sat on the edge of the wooden pew and inhaled deeply, resting a hand against her busk. “I believe Lady Castlemaine is here at Hampton Court.”

  “She is.” Jenny ran her thumb up and down the side of the bowl. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but would not one of your ladies be better suited to—to advise you?”

  “I am a stranger here. My ladies are, as well . . . It occurs to me that you must have occasion to hear things I do not.” She studied the pew cushion, examining the wing of the dove embroidered there.

  “I am new to the palace as well, Your Majesty. And grateful I am to be here, but my duties have not taken me into the ladies’ sphere.”

  “But you do hear things, do you not? Let us say that I should very much like to know what you have heard.”

  Frowning, Jenny nodded. “She is expecting a child very soon, and I have heard— Oh, please, Your Majesty. Are you certain you want me to—”

  “The child is my husband’s.” Catherine smoothed her skirts. “I know. But what sort of woman is she? How does she . . . He is with her often, it seems.”