The Merry Monarch's Wife

by Jean Plaidy

  “Oh…this is most cruel! How dare he say such things!”

  “The Lord Chancellor will say what he wills…even to the King. He says that, in making such a friend of the Lady, you have lost his esteem. Nor has it pleased the King, as you may think. And how can anyone know your real feelings when you are able to feign passion and fury and then turn about so completely.”

  I felt limp, discouraged and defenseless.

  It seemed that whatever I did was wrong.

  Lady Suffolk tried to soothe me.

  “The Chancellor has many troubles at this time.”

  “We all have troubles, and it is no excuse for such talk, especially when it was he who advised me to accept Lady Castlemaine.”

  “Your Majesty should not take it to heart.”

  “But I do, I do.”

  “The sale of Dunkirk has upset the Chancellor deeply,” said Lady Suffolk.

  “I believe it had to be sold to raise money,” I said.

  “But you see how worried he is. The exchequer should not have been so low that such a sale was necessary.”

  I had heard much of the sale of Dunkirk. It had been discussed frequently in all quarters. It was that important town which had been taken by Cromwell and now had been sold to the French for five million francs because the money was desperately needed. I could understand Clarendon’s anxieties, but that did not excuse him for venting his wrath on me.

  I was not popular. A Catholic queen never would be in this country. The King so clearly showed his preference for other women, and for that I was pitied by some, despised by others.

  The year was passing, and there was to be a grand ball to mark its end. I did not welcome these occasions. I must be present, of course. I should have to watch Lady Castlemaine flaunting herself, splendidly attired, her jewels more dazzling than any others—the Queen of the Ball, while the Queen of England sat there, looking dejected and ignored…smiling bravely, trying to pretend that she was completely unaware of that neglect, not only of the King but of the whole company.

  I watched the King dance. He was a graceful dancer, although he performed rarely, but when he did, it was with an effortless skill. Everyone applauded. He shrugged that off with a nonchalance which implied, stripped of my royalty, my performance would only be half as good.

  I knew there were some at court who deplored his open liaison with the Lady, but at the same time even they were charmed by him.

  I watched Lady Castlemaine dancing with James Crofts.

  The young man was looking at her with admiration and she was responding rather coquettishly, I thought. I wondered if the King noticed.

  James Crofts is only a boy, I thought. But is she trying to seduce him? Surely even she would not be guilty of such blatant immorality. Yet I had come to believe that the Lady would be guilty of anything.

  I danced very little. It was not because I did not enjoy dancing; I did very much. But I did not know the English dances. I sat watching them in the Brantle, which was a kind of cotillion; they pranced round the room, the gentlemen leading their partners. Lady Castlemaine was still with James Crofts.

  She was laughing hilariously at something he had said; his eyes were shining with admiration, and she sparkled with all her jewelry…given by the King, I imagined. Could he afford it with the exchequer so low that Dunkirk had had to be sold? Perhaps they were royal jewels…and gifts which had been presented to him.

  I sat there, my smiles hiding my sadness, and I wondered how many people I deceived.

  I was thinking of this time last year, when I was so excited because I was going to marry Charles. I remembered my arrival and the belief that my dreams had come true.

  So short-lived had been my triumph—how brief my joy! And now here I was…one year older in time…years older in experience. And wiser, I hoped.

  And this was my life. I could only go forward.

  I watched Charles. He was surrounded by some of his courtiers, talking to them. He must have been amusing them, for now and then there was a burst of laughter. Lady Castlemaine swept by with James Crofts, laughing, coquetting, bemusing the boy.

  This was my life. I had to go on living it…forgetting the heartbreak…the bitter disillusion.

  MY MIND WAS TAKEN FROM my plight by news from my mother and my brother Alfonso.

  There was anxiety in Portugal because the Spanish army was stirring itself. It was true that they had set aside their aggression at the time of my marriage, and the sight of the English ships coming to take me to England had prevented their invasion of our land. They had been acting cautiously because of our alliance with England. But England was far away and they must be realizing that it would not be easy for the Portuguese to stand out against them. And now…there were signs that they were massing on the borders.

  My mother had written that, if only Alfonso could be recognized as the King, there would be more respect for him throughout Europe.

  As it was, the Pope would not acknowledge him, and the fact that he was always referred to as the Duke of Braganza was tantamount to an announcement that he was not the rightful king and was an imposter.

  If only the Pope would lead in this acknowledgment and Alfonso’s sovereignty was not in question, the Spaniards would hesitate before attacking.

  I could see that she was right, and I could not bear to think of her anxiety.

  I was never sure when I should see Charles. There were times when he came to me, and I was ashamed of how much I looked forward to those occasions. So often he supped with Lady Castlemaine and I knew then that I should not see him. I guessed that he would prefer to be with her; but he did not forget the need to get an heir. If I became pregnant, his visits would cease. I longed for a child. That would compensate me for so much, I believed I could attain a certain contentment then. A new way of life…with the child the center of it.

  When Charles came in, he would be merry and full of tenderness, and he always behaved as though he wanted to be with me alone. I never learned my lesson well. Again and again I believed him while it lasted. It was a strange, unreal way to live.

  On this particular occasion, he noticed my anxiety.

  “What ails you?” he asked.

  “I have heard from my mother,” I replied. “From my brother, too. They are in great fear. The Spaniards are threatening.”

  “I know this,” he said.

  “The Spaniards are so strong. My mother, my brother…they are afraid they will not be able to withstand them.”

  “We are aware of what is happening,” he told me. “I have sent troops out to help with ammunition and what they will need.”

  “Oh…thank you, Charles. It is so good of you.”

  “My dear, we are friends. Did they not send us our dear Queen…though she is becoming more like an Englishwoman every day! There is an alliance between us. We shall show those Spaniards that we will have none of their insolence.”

  “I am so pleased to hear that. I wish I had known.”

  “Oh, I did not want to worry you with these state matters.”

  “I should have been relieved to hear of that one.”

  He took the pins from my hair and let it fall about my shoulders.

  “It is a shame to imprison it,” he said.

  “There is…something else…,” I said hesitantly.

  “Tell me.”

  We sat down and he put an arm about me, caressing my neck, and now and then putting his lips to my hair. He could almost deceive me into believing he was a faithful husband.

  “My mother is very sad. The Spaniards are so close…and so strong.”

  “We shall hold them off.”

  “There is one thing I want to do. My mother believes that this persecution will not cease until my brother is recognized throughout Europe as the King of Portugal. I want to write to the Pope.”

  “Write to the Pope! What good do you think that would do?”

  “I am the Queen of England.”

  He took my hand and kissed
it. “Which gives me great joy,” he said. “But I would guess that the Pope might be less enchanted.”

  “I have some position here. You do not hate the Catholics, Charles.”

  “On the contrary. Why, have I not an ardent little papist for wife?”

  “Seriously…”

  He put his hand on his heart. “I speak with the utmost seriousness. I love my papist wife, and shall do so till I die.”

  I tried to break through this light banter, which hurt me more than it pleased me, because there was falseness in it. He came to me as a duty and spent most of his time with Lady Castlemaine. But I was going to forget that and insist on making my point. My mother was calling for help and I was going to give it to her if I could.

  I said: “My country is a Catholic country. It deserves the support of the Pope.”

  “My dear Catherine, Spain is a Catholic country…a rich country. It can afford the support of the Pope.”

  “If my brother were acknowledged King, the Pope could not support even a rich country in its aggression.”

  He looked at me soberly. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

  “I want to write to the Pope. I want to tell him that I am a good Catholic. I will work for the Holy Church. I will do everything I can…if he will acknowledge my brother.”

  “You will never bring the Catholic faith to this country. The English would not have it. They had a taste of it with Mary Tudor, and they have said never again. Don’t be deluded by them. They are godless in the main, I fear, liking to be merry, thrusting aside what they do not like. I am one of them, Catherine, and you know my failings.”

  I put out my hand to stop him, and he took it. “They would never have it, my dear.” He went on: “But it may be that the Pope is not as sure of that as I am.”

  “If he would acknowledge my brother as King of Portugal…”

  “Perhaps you have a point there.”

  “Spain would hesitate. It is because they insist that he is only a duke that they dare.”

  He touched my cheek and stroked it.

  “It means much to you, little Catherine,” he said. “Does it not?”

  I nodded.

  “My ministers would not be pleased if they knew my wife was corresponding with the Pope.”

  “It is only one letter.”

  “That would be enough. They would say you are carrying the Catholic banner into this Protestant land. You are trying to influence your husband to acknowledge that faith. That is so, is it not?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not in so many words, but that is the implication.”

  I was silent.

  Then his arms were about me.

  “You ask for so little,” he said. “And when you do, it is for others. I like that well.”

  “It means so much,” I murmured.

  “It is hard for me to refuse you. Bellings would be a good man to send. He is the soul of discretion.”

  I drew away from him that I might study his face. He was laughing, well pleased. Then, with a joyous gesture, he picked me up and threw me onto the bed.

  “There,” he said, “you do with me as you will. Such is my desire to please you. You shall write your letter to His Holiness, and Bellings shall convey it to him. It must be done with the utmost secrecy…no, let us say discretion. That is a far more diplomatic way of expressing it, and you have become a diplomat, Catherine. In the meantime I think our soldiers will be more effective than your little missive. Now…to weightier matters.”

  If only I could always have believed in his love for me as I let myself do then…briefly, how happy I could have been!

  THERE MUST ALWAYS be something to disturb me. So often, when I was with Charles, I allowed myself to forget that affection played a small part in his emotional life. This attitude, I think, was partly due to his long exile; he had learned to shrug aside what could not be avoided. I was not by any means unattractive to him; he liked my innocence, I supposed; and connoisseur that he was, he would be completely aware of my feelings for him. Again and again I told myself I must not be deceived by his loving attitude, and the graceful compliments which tripped so lightly from his tongue. But still I was unprepared for this little disturbance.

  A new beauty had arrived at court, much to the chagrin of Lady Castlemaine. This was Frances Stuart.

  She could not have been much more than sixteen years old, and she really was outstandingly beautiful. Her features were perfectly formed in every way, and in a court where beauty was so admired, she was fêted wherever she went.

  She had come over in the Queen Mother’s retinue, and Henrietta Maria had talked to me about her.

  “Louis was very anxious to keep her at his court. He tried to persuade her mother to let her stay. But I put a stop to that. After all, her mother was my servant, not Louis’s. Louis’s manners are always perfect, and he would not go against the wishes of his aunt. So I brought the girl with me. I was not going to leave her at the court of France.”

  I was a little puzzled, since it occurred to me that, if she had wanted to preserve the girl from licentious surroundings, would it have been so different to leave her in France?

  “She is a witless creature…frivolous. The good God has compensated her with beauty for what she lacks in brains. Poor child. She would be easy prey. So…I brought her with me.”

  Frances was indeed a simple creature. She loved childish games, such as Hunt the Slipper and Blindman’s Bluff; and it astonished me that she could induce these sophisticated courtiers to indulge in these infantile activities just for the pleasure of being near her.

  One of her favorite games was building up cards to what she called houses, balancing them one on another, to see how high she could make them. She would sit delicately placing the cards on each other, shrieking with delight when her card house was bigger than that of the one with whom she was competing.

  I had seen Charles watching her with brooding eyes for he, who so admired beauty, could not be immune to her.

  Lady Castlemaine, who was aware of this, was by no means pleased. She was not a woman to hide her feelings. I can imagine the temper that was displayed in her apartments and I pitied her servants.

  She sought to discountenance the new beauty, but her efforts fell on stony ground. Frances did not understand the shafts; she greeted them with tinkling laughter.

  Sometimes I wondered whether anyone could be so devoid of sense, and being more accustomed to the ways of the court than I had been when I arrived in it, I asked myself whether Frances Stuart’s innocence was assumed.

  However, in spite of many attempts to seduce her, she remained aloof.

  Charles was seeking her out. She might have been flattered to be noticed by the King, but somehow she made it clear to all her admirers that she would become no man’s mistress.

  She smiled sweetly on those who could amuse her with childish acts. I remember seeing Anthony Hamilton, a connection of the Ormondes, win her approval by putting a lighted taper in his mouth and holding it there. She clapped her hands and told him he was wonderfully brave. Young Hamilton had gone on performing the act for the joy of her approval until someone—I think it was the Duke of Buckingham—told him not to be such an idiot unless he wanted to kill himself.

  Buckingham himself was another of Frances’s admirers. He was such a subtle seducer that many thought he would be the one to succeed. But he did not; and Frances remained the simpering, unseducible virgin.

  I knew that Charles was deeply interested in her and I marvelled that beauty could mean so much to him that her witless chatter did not deter him any more than it did her other admirers.

  When they had first seen her—so pretty and so silly—they had thought she would be an easy conquest. That was why I wondered whether La Belle Stuarte, as she was called, was really as stupid as she made out to be.

  The King was neglecting Lady Castlemaine. There was no doubt of that. He was spending more and more time with Frances. How could he appear
to be so absorbed in those ridiculous card houses!

  The Lady herself assumed an air of indifference and gave her attention to James Crofts.

  Were they lovers? I could not believe it. He was such a boy. Was she really attracted by him? There had been so many to share her bed that I supposed one more made little difference—and perhaps she would find his youth rather piquant.

  I guessed that the King was not pleased by this growing friendship between his mistress and his son.

  James Crofts and Charles were often together and Charles clearly showed his affection, as though he wanted everyone to know in what esteem he held the boy. He wanted him to have the respect of everyone and to be treated almost as royalty.

  Once when James Crofts was dancing with me, hat in hand, according to the custom of showing respect to royalty, Charles called out that he might put on his hat. James did so with a smile of pleasure. It was tantamount to a public declaration of his royal birth.

  James Crofts was in some ways similar to the King. He lacked Charles’s wit and wisdom, of course, but then he was very young. though I fancied Charles had been born with his. James Crofts was very handsome, although he had none of Charles’s charm, but in looks he resembled the Stuarts and that was enough, for it meant that no one could doubt he was the King’s son.

  Charles said to me one day, and there was an alert look in his eyes as he spoke and I, who was beginning to know him well, guessed that there was something more than the words implied: “It is time I did something about James Crofts.”

  I asked what he had in mind.

  “He is my son,” he said. “There is no doubt of that, and he should have some standing at court.”

  “He has already.”

  “That is so. As my son, he is received by all. But I thought of a more tangible sign.”

  “You are going to endow him with titles and estates.”

  “Exactly so. And I think it is time he married.”

  “Is he not somewhat young?”

  “He is old enough. He is a Stuart. It will keep him out of mischief.”