“Thank you, Dona Maria. Now I wish to be alone.”
When all had left, she held her pup close; Feliciana’s fur smelled sweet and clean. The dog licked her chin gently, as if to reassure her. Catherine kissed her in return, wishing that she could be the girl she’d been before, content with her prayer and embroidery and the company of other women, and the simple pleasures of the convent.
She tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and inhaled the scent of lavender, the national flower of her home. How she missed it!
• • •
Jenny scurried down the stairs, a pair of gowns cradled in her arms like children. The scene in the queen’s chambers thrilled and worried her, and she could not wait to spill the tale.
In the secondary wardrobe, she dropped the gowns on a wide, clean table near the irons. A long window allowed filtered sunlight into the space, lending illumination by which to mend a torn hem or sew a button. Her friend Mavis, a buxom and red-cheeked girl who’d made her way on her own from Cranbooktown to escape a brutal husband, sat in the best pool of light, a needle flashing quickly in and out through a seam. As Jenny entered, she tossed a lock of hair from her eyes. “Lady Horace tears a seam near every day.”
“A strong lady,” Jenny said, “and not graceful.”
“Aye,” Mavis laughed, moving her head like a horse, galloping.
Jenny, fair bursting with her news, moved to the open door and peered out in case of eavesdroppers. The hall was empty of all but a shaft of dust motes. She rushed back to sit close to Mavis.
“Oh, you should have seen it!” she confided in a low voice. “The queen refuses to have Lady Castlemaine as a Lady of the Bedchamber!”
Mavis opened her eyes and mouth. A lock of dark hair was stuck to her damp cheek. “She did not!”
“I swear it.” Jenny leaned closer. “A page brought the list for the queen to pin the names, and she took one look at it and struck her name right off!”
“Oooh! When Lady Castlemaine hears, there’ll be no calming her.”
Jenny nodded. She had not long been at Whitehall, but it did not take much time to understand the forces at play here—a king and his popular mistress and his less popular, foreign wife. She smoothed a fold from a rose silk gown, thinking of the frank words exchanged between the queen and Lady Suffolk. All knew the power the Lady Castlemaine wielded over the king, and in truth, Jenny found it near impossible not to gape when Barbara appeared. Jenny had glimpsed her on the lawn, and on her way to court, bustling and always swarmed by petitioners. Everything about Barbara glowed as if freshly polished—her hair and satin skin, her prodigious, soft bosom, her striking jeweled eyes, set at such a long angle that she seemed to seduce even when she only picked up a cup of ale.
And yet, how determined the queen had looked! The servants all knew that most of the ladies spent their time currying favor with Lady Castlemaine, because after all, who held the king’s ear? His new little wife or the powerful and seductive mistress who’d ruled the court for nearly three years? “Her Majesty was fierce. Queenly.”
Mavis tied a knot in her thread and stood, rubbing her lower back as she straightened. “Hope it don’t turn upside down on her.”
Jenny shook out the gowns. “Her Majesty is clever.”
“Which a man always wants more than titties, eh?” Mavis gave a ribald lift to her breasts. “And don’t think for the blink of any eye that Lady Castlemaine is stupid.”
“No.” Jenny had to admit that much was true. Her stomach growled. “Is there pasty for supper?”
“Barley soup.”
They both sighed sadly. “I miss me mum’s fish pie,” Mavis said. “Ever so golden.”
The words conjured up a picture of Jenny’s table at home, the olla podrida, a Spanish meat stew made with roasted pork and lentils and the spices of her mother’s youth. Her stomach growled again, and she punched her friend playfully. “No more talk of food!”
• • •
Charles sat at a long table with his brother James and Clarendon, cups of ale and books of accounting between them. In his maroon velvet coat, with light brown curls falling down his back, James was the perfect foil to his dark brother in his bright blue silk. The pair of them had always cut a wide swath through the wenches. Now both, he thought with a start, were married men, taking up their places as pillars of the country.
They’d fought well for it, and that was the matter under advisement now. The bloody Dutch were prowling and posturing, thumbing their noses at England. Charles did not want war. The cost was too high—in pounds, in supplies, in ships. And lives.
But the Dutch eyed English ports in the east and in Africa with a greedy eye. He growled at the map. “I’d keep us out of war, but if they suspect our navy is weak, they’ll attack. We haven’t the funds to build more ships, not yet.”
“If the Portuguese had sent what they promised, there’d be navy enough.”
“Better to manage what is than dream of what is not.”
James shook his head. “The cost of no action is too high. We must make some show here.”
Charles leaned on the table, glaring at the paperwork scattered across the scarred wooden surface, calculating. “Twenty ships, then.”
“Impossible,” cut in Clarendon. “The coffers of the treasury are nearly empty, sire, and your people are complaining that grass grows in the streets while your heedless mistress accrues enormous gambling debts and attends the theater in thousands of pounds of jewels.”
Charles ignored the dig, true as it might be. He’d only just again paid Barbara’s gaming losses to the tune of more than twenty-five thousand pounds. He’d chided her, ordered her to rein in her spending. He knew the people of England deserved better, but Barbara had been his comfort, his delight, his weakness for years.
Just as when he’d taken her to task over her gambling and she’d appeared in ropes of emeralds—and nothing else—and his will, or rather that leader of his nether life, had been unable to resist. He’d known many a woman, but she held him in sway as if he were bewitched. Each time he thought to cast off her claims and the trouble she stirred, he again fell to her clever twist of mind, her swaying hips, the sideways cut of a violet eye. And her appetites knew no bounds. She was as voracious as he was himself, an admirable quality in a woman.
Bringing his attention back to the matter at hand, he tapped the table with his index finger and thumb, back and forth, as if he could sound out a solution. “Can we fit four ships, brother?”
“Perhaps,” James said. “But perhaps all that is needed to forestall them for the nonce is to appear as if we are readying for war.”
Charles nodded. Waited as James traced the edge of the table, staring at the maps. “We can tar twenty ships, set the men to repairing sails and cleaning cannons. The bustle will convince spies that we mean to outfit a fleet.”
“Good.” Charles turned his lips downward in consideration, smoothed the hairs of his mustache. “That will perhaps buy us time to sell the commodities the Portuguese sent.”
James said, gathering the papers, “I shall give the orders.”
“Bring me news as it arrives,” Charles said, and turned to Clarendon. “Why the dour face, old friend? More than your old complaint about your wicked cousin Barbara, surely.”
“Indirectly, Your Majesty, the Lady Castlemaine has her fingers in this matter, too.” His hands tucked behind his back, he said, “The queen has struck Lady Castlemaine off the list of her Ladies of the Bedchamber.”
“Struck her off? What?” Charles straightened, kicking one leg in front of his body, one hand on his hip. He peered at Clarendon as if to make sense of a gibberish alphabet. “What does she say?”
“That she will not have her, sire.”
“I see.” Charles paused, riffling through the scattered papers, considering his delicate, birdlike queen. Ferocity of this measure seemed out of character. “Well, I shall see to this myself. She’s a biddable creature and will do as I ask.”
/> “As you wish.” Clarendon bowed but could not entirely hide the twist of distaste on his lips.
Charles shrugged it away. Clarendon could not see reason where Barbara was concerned. And it was one more thing he did not wish to discuss today. Whistling the dogs to attention, he said, “I’ll see to it now.”
• • •
A tumble of spaniels spilled down the passageway, nails clicking exuberantly on the floor as Charles strode toward Catherine’s rooms.
The dogs announced his arrival, yipping and barking to be allowed entry, and the door opened to him before he could scratch. Dona Maria admitted him, her curtsying doing little to hide her pinched mouth. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, eyes downcast.
Catherine stood near the mullioned window that overlooked the gardens. She wore a watery green frock that left her delicate shoulders bare, revealing the long graceful neck. He smiled, thinking of the sweet scent he would find there beneath her ear. Thinking to soften her with a kiss or two, he moved toward her. His valiant old Rogue dove under her skirts, looking for Feliciana, but the spaniel’s antics did not make her smile as they ordinarily did. She did not speak, but only gave the king a scathing look with her dark, deep eyes, and then turned her head away.
Charles scowled, noting the glance two of her women exchanged, the slight, smug smile on Lady Buckingham’s lips. “Leave us,” he said.
Her women slipped out, the only sound their skirts and sleeves rustling. Charles stood in silence for a long moment, waiting for her to turn to him, to face him, and she rigidly kept her back to him. Rogue snuffled a trail across the edge of the woven rug that lay on the floor, his ears dragging the ground.
Charles so hated a woman to be wounded. He had not thought how hard she would take this. Gently, he took her fingers and raised them to his lips. “Come now, little Cat,” he said, kissing each knuckle in turn. “Surely this is a matter of no importance.”
She made a choked noise. “Only if women are not a matter of importance to you, Your Majesty, could you utter those words.”
“To the contrary,” he cried, “your well-being and happiness are more important to me than even the highest matters of state, dear love.”
She made a low noise of dismissal, but did not take her hand away. He pressed her hand to his chest. “Come now, look at me.”
For a long moment, she did not. Light glossed her dark hair, washed over her clear pale skin, and swooped over the delicate line of her collarbone. How she liked to be kissed there! He wanted to touch it, draw his finger down that line, but restrained himself.
For so pious a young woman, she had proved to be a willing student to his gentle teachings, and he’d found that more pleasing than he’d ever imagined—something so singularly private, a thing only he saw—his reserved wife made soft with lovemaking. “Come now, my little Cat,” he coaxed, stepping closer. “Let us find some answer to this problem, hmm?”
She did not move, but let him put his palms on the skin of her shoulders. He continued, “It is only political, this business. One must do what one must do.”
“I cannot bear it,” she whispered. He took advantage of the angle of her head to press a kiss to her nape, where the skin smelled of sunlight and fresh breezes. “It is a position of great intimacy. She will know more than—”
“It will not matter.” Her body softened ever so slightly and he urged her to lean against his chest. For a single moment, she rested there. “She is nothing.”
With a cry, she pushed away from him, flinging his hands off, moving so quickly that Rogue and Feliciana scurried out from under her skirts with a little yelp. “With all due honor, sire, that is not true. Do you take me for a fool?”
“Be mindful!” Charles said, rescuing the dogs. He rubbed Rogue’s head, murmuring soft reassurances, and pushed the puppy into Catherine’s arms. She took Feliciana and curled her small body against her neck, murmuring to her in Portuguese.
Then she raised her head, and one dark brow. “One could say the same to you—be mindful, sire.” A red flush made her cheeks glow. “Can you not be mindful of my desires, of my wishes?”
He caught her face in his hands. “But she is nothing, sweet Cat. You are my wife.”
“She means to humiliate me.”
He frowned, not entirely certain there was no truth in the words. But even Barbara would not dare. “No, no,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her lids fell ever so slightly, and he bent in, capturing her mouth.
With a small noise she kissed him back, the pup between them wiggling. Charles smiled, lifting his head to stroke her hair. “There, there, love. All will be well. You’ll see.”
“Will I? Will you drop this suit, then? Give me the peace of mind I ask?”
He scowled, scuffed a heel against the floor in exasperation. “I cannot! It is I who have ruined her reputation, and what sort of man would I be if I cast her out without position?”
“Give her some other position, then. Surely there is something.”
“None of such high regard.”
“Do you think I have not heard of your great regard for her, sire?” Her bosom moved above the gown, showing her agitation. “That I have not been informed of her status?”
He stroked her arms, considering how to counter. “You are queen.”
“And she is your mistress.”
He flinched slightly at the word on her lips, and perhaps seeing that she had found her mark, she pushed his hands off her. “Does your mistress deserve more regard than your wife? Can you not see how you wrong me in this?”
In the film of tears over the pleasing depth of her eyes, he spied the pain beneath her fury. He reached for her, taking her hand. “Sweet lady—”
She stepped backward, as if steeling herself. Clasping her hands tightly before her, she said with an edge of roughness, “Do not think to woo me with words, sir.” She shook herself, and her voice grew stronger. “By your actions alone you may show your devotion.”
“My action is that I am your king. You will do as I bid.”
For a moment, she lowered her head, hands tight at her ribs. A pinch of regret pierced his chest. This was not an easy world for her, and thus far, she’d managed all with dignity. Perhaps he—
Then she raised her chin. Her answer was her level gaze, shimmery, but not a single tear fell. For a moment, he wavered. She had done no wrong here. “I will do as I must.”
No. She tested him in this, and he would reign, not she.
With a whistle for the dogs, he left her. The dogs scurried behind him. After ten paces, he realized Rogue had not joined the pack. He was forced to return, open the door, and call for the little traitor.
Across the room, Catherine did not turn. He slammed the door behind himself.
• • •
The day passed, and Catherine heard no more from the king. Neither did he come to her bed—she slept alone.
In the cold, dark morning, Catherine huddled in her shawl, her misery echoed by the damp dreariness of the English summer. At home, June burst in explosions of bright flowers, and cascades of strong yellow light that made this thin milky morning seem a thing apart, not sunlight at all.
Oh, she was so homesick! Sitting near the fire at her writing desk, she dipped her quill and began to write.
Dearest Mamãe,
Thank you for your last letter and all the news of yourself and my brothers. Your words of encouragement buoy me when I fear I shall never learn to be the queen you are, the queen you have trained me to be. And then a letter arrives with your solid, sensible words and I remember that I am, after all, your daughter. It will take all I have, but I mean to make you proud of me.
This morning, I come with a heavy heart to ask your advice on a matter concerning the king’s mistress. I have not acknowledged her at court, as you advised, and it has kept the peace between us till now, but she has made a new move, and I am ill-equipped to counter. She has asked to be named as a Lady of the Bedchamber, which is reserved
for ladies of high standing at the court. It is said she is desperate to gain footing here, for her husband has not taken well the news of her new bastard. I am just as determined that I shall not be forced to acknowledge her. It seems the wise choice, as she has long been called queen before me. To assert my position, hers must be denied.
And yet, His Majesty is quite angry with me, insisting that I accept the lady’s appointment for political reasons, to create harmony and peace in the court. I fear I am ill-used in this, that she will triumph if I acknowledge her.
Mamãe, tell me. Am I too stubborn? What words of wisdom have you? I have asked myself what you would do under similar circumstances, but it is impossible to imagine my father in any condition except entirely devoted to you. If I think of my brother it is the opposite—he takes no woman to heart, so all are playthings. Neither is a help to me in this circumstance.
I am not so naïve as to believe a king will not take mistresses, but am I so wrong in believing it should be left to me which to acknowledge?
But now I will don my summer cloak—a cloak, even in summer!—and cover my hair and walk about the gardens like a queen who has an easy conscience. I await your advice and send my love to all.
As ever, your devoted daughter,
Catarina
• • •
After a fine start to the day, rain had driven the party at Whitehall inside. Barbara did not mind the retreat—though she would be loath to show it, she had not yet fully recovered from the birth of her hearty son. It took far more stamina to chatter and walk than to be charming and hale while sitting in the flattering soft light of a fire. She ordered tables to be set up in the solar and called for cribbage and backgammon boards to be brought out, along with small refreshments. “Ale and cakes?”
“Fine, fine,” Barbara said, distracted by the figure of Rochester pausing in the entryway, as if to pose. Gray light fell on him from the narrow windows, limning his fine cheekbone and brow, his ripe mouth. When his gaze fell on her—lingering and exaggerated, the rake—she waggled a couple of fingers and he crossed the room in his languid way.
Whitehall--Season One Volume One Page 10