The Merry Monarch's Wife

by Jean Plaidy

  I tried to smile but I felt too tired.

  As though from a long way off, I heard him say my name. I wanted to answer him but no words came. Then Donna Maria was saying something, shrilly, disapprovingly.

  “She must not be disturbed, Your Majesty.”

  Charles seemed to drift away.

  I thought I was hand in hand with him. We were in Hampton Court. He was explaining the benefits to be derived from certain herbs, and the spaniels were barking. Then I was in the convent. The Mother Superior was saying: “You must work harder. You must remember your place. You must not disappoint your mother.”

  My mother was there. “When you get to England, you may have to see that woman. Ignore her…never let her come near you.”

  I was thinking of a chine of beef. It had to be cooked for the King, even if the house burned down in the process.

  Then I lost all sense of anywhere. I was floating in space and then came…oblivion.

  I was very ill for days. I did not know what was wrong with me. Vaguely, I remembered falling. I was aware of the blood on my face and then I must have fainted. I confused it with that other occasion. I kept hearing a whisper: “Do you know who that woman is? She is Lady Castlemaine.”

  It had all happened before…and I was too tired to think.

  Alas, it was more than an ordinary faint. I had fallen and lost my child.

  I did not know this then. I think if I had I should have lost my will to live.

  They thought I was dying. I was vaguely aware of Donna Maria, who would not leave my room, I heard later, and was with me night and day. The King was constantly there too. Often I would open my eyes and see him sitting there, but I was too tired to speak to him. When I looked at him, he would press my hand. Sometimes I heard him murmur my name. He looked at me as though imploring me to speak to him. I tried to, but no words came.

  There came the day when I learned what had happened…I knew that I had lost my child and that the agony I had seen in Donna Maria’s face meant that she had thought I was dying.

  But at last I knew. I was here in my bed at Whitehall. I was the Queen and I was going to die. I was sure of it, and so were all those about me.

  I heard voices.

  “She is conscious, Your Majesty.”

  “Then let me see her.”

  He was kneeling by the bed. “Catherine…my dearest Catherine. You know me…now?”

  “Yes, I know you, Charles.”

  “It has seemed so long.”

  I smiled.

  “You must not tire her, Your Majesty.” That was Donna Maria.

  “I will not, I promise you. I will sit with her…quietly.”

  He had taken my hand. I pressed his to let him know that I was glad he was there.

  “My love,” he said. “My little love.”

  I smiled again. “I want…” I began.

  “Tell me what you want. It shall be yours. Just tell me, dearest.”

  “I want you to be happy. I am going to leave this world…I am going to leave you.”

  “No,” he said. “No.”

  “It will be best. You will marry.” I was going to say Frances…but I could not. That would hurt him. It would remind him how he had neglected me while he watched her making her houses of cards. I loved him. I did not want him to reproach himself. I understood him now. He could not curb those violent sexual desires; he had to behave in the way he did. I guessed, of course, that he was reproaching himself for his treatment of me. I had rebelled at first, and then had accepted my fate…but I had not done so readily…only with bitter resignation. But that was an end of it. The time had come to say good-bye and I did not want the occasion to be marred by reproaches and regrets.

  “You will marry again,” I said. “Someone better than I.”

  “There could be none better.”

  I could almost have believed he meant it. He looked so earnest, so desolate at the prospect of losing me.

  “Someone who can give you the healthy son you must have.”

  “You will, Catherine,” he said. “You will get better. I command it.”

  “Even kings can have no control over life and death,” I said. “If my child had lived…”

  “In your delirium you thought it had,” he said. “You talked of him. You said he was an ugly boy, but that he had great charm.”

  “Did I say that?”

  He nodded and I saw that there were tears on his cheeks.

  I could not bear that he should weep for me. I suppose that was true love, for I would rather he did not mourn for me than it should make him unhappy to do so.

  “Charles…,” I murmured. “I am sorry…not to have been good enough…”

  “My dearest,” he said, “it is I who have not been good enough. It is I who should ask your pardon.”

  I smiled at him. I wondered how I could bear to leave him. But perhaps I could because at that moment he really did love me. He meant what he said…for that moment. But in my heart I knew that he must be himself. He wished me well. He was fond of me. He loved me in his way. I had my little niche in his life. Perhaps he loved me more than he had ever loved Lady Castlemaine or Frances Stuart. But he did not desire me as he did those women. That was something I must understand. And the desire in such a man was so overpowering while it lasted that it overrode a quieter, gentler love.

  I said to him: “You have taught me much. You will be happy now. Do not grieve for me. Do not reproach yourself. I did not understand at first. I think I do now.”

  “I loved you the moment I saw you,” he said. “I shall always love you. You must not leave me.”

  I replied: “I am not afraid to die. There is only one thing I regret and that is leaving you; and now that I understand so much, I would wish to stay. I would be better.”

  “Please,” he begged, “do not talk so. It is not you who must be better; it is I. You must live for my sake. You must give me a chance.”

  “I love to hear you say that.”

  “You must get better, Catherine,” he said. “You must…for me.”

  He pressed his face against my hands and I felt his tears on them.

  “You will forget me,” I said, “and marry some princess who will give you sons, and bring much good to the realm. That is what you must do.”

  He was too moved to speak and Donna Maria was at my bedside.

  “The Queen is becoming exhausted,” she said. “This must not be.”

  “I will not talk,” said the King, “but I cannot leave her. I shall sit here with you, my love, unless you wish me to go.”

  “I want you to stay,” I said.

  So he sat by my bed. My hand was in his, and every now and then I would open my eyes and smile at him.

  THE MASTER OF HORSE

  I HAD BEGUN TO GET BETTER BUT MY RECOVERY WAS VERY slow. I was desolate to have lost the child, and yet at the same time Charles’s grief at the thought of losing me had made me so happy that I was in a measure compensated. I think it was the sight of his sorrowful face, tortured by genuine love and remorse, which gave me the extra willpower I needed.

  I saw Charles every day during that time. He would sit by my bed amusing me with tales of what was happening at the court. He told them so wittily that we laughed continuously and I was very happy.

  I was also deeply touched, for his hair had gone gray.

  “You are to blame for these gray hairs,” he told me. “They are the sign of my anxiety over you.”

  There was a fashion among some of the courtiers, whose hair was not as they would have liked it to be, of wearing periwigs of magnificent curls. When Charles appeared in one I clapped my hands.

  “It is splendid,” I said.

  “I feared you might not like it.”

  “Oh,” I replied. “Since you told me the gray hairs grew out of your concern for me I loved them.” On the other hand, I had to admit that the wig was becoming. Whereas on someone of shorter stature it could have seemed overpowering, with his heigh
t he could carry it off beautifully.

  “Well,” he said, “the nation would not want an old grayhead for their King. At least now they will be less aware of it.”

  As I grew stronger I walked in the park with him. We would, as he said, “saunter.” Sauntering was a habit he liked well. We would be surrounded by courtiers, and with Charles at the center of the group the conversation was invariably merry.

  When the weather was warm the ladies carried fans. These had become fashionable since my marriage. Most of the fans came from Bombay and there were all kinds—some most beautifully painted. The ladies fluttered them coquettishly and they were becoming an essential part of a lady’s equipage.

  That could have been a happy time for me, but for the fact that Lady Castlemaine and Frances Stuart were at court and there was scarcely a day when I did not see them.

  The Lady’s animosity toward Frances Stuart caused great amusement; and although Charles remained kind and tender toward me, it was clear that he was deeply infatuated with Frances Stuart.

  Donna Maria gave thanks to God every day for my recovery. In spite of the fact that she exasperated me at times, I was deeply conscious of her devotion to me; and besides, being my only real connection with my native land, she was the best friend I had ever had.

  Alas, she was getting more and more feeble every day. It was sad to see her peering at me, for her eyesight was rapidly fading. She must have been lonely, for she had little contact with other people; yet when she had had an opportunity of going home with the other members of my household, she had refused to take it. In fact she had fought against it and clung to me.

  She knew, of course, how matters stood at court. She understood that, in spite of his protestations of love for me when he believed I was on the point of death, Charles was now spending his nights with Lady Castlemaine and sighing for Frances Stuart.

  It was now considered at court that Frances meant that she would not become any man’s mistress; some believed that this was her way of leading the King on and that he was approaching such desperation that he would promise her anything in exchange for her surrender.

  To console me, Maria often told me how the King had come to sit with me during my illness, how he had wept, and how his anguish had been too deep to have been assumed.

  “I was surprised that he cared for you so much,” she said. “But he did…indeed he did. I often saw his tears. One would not expect a king to weep. You were light-headed. You rambled on. You were thinking of the child…you thought you had it. You said, ‘He is a fine boy. He is ugly but he has a great charm…’ And the King cried, ‘What do you mean? He is a beautiful boy. He is the most beautiful boy in the world.’ And you talked of the children you believed you had, and the King talked with you and you smiled and listened, and said how wonderful it was to have those children….

  “He said afterward that if you talked of the child…or the children…we must listen to you…we must pretend because it made you happy. Above all, he said it was necessary that you should be happy…so happy that you would want to live. He said, ‘When the Queen is well, she will know the truth, but until then we must keep her happy.’ And he would sit there and tell you what the children had done, and you smiled and laughed. And, yes…you were happy. And it broke our hearts, it did indeed.”

  “How wonderful of him!” I cried. “He truly cared.”

  “One would have thought so.” Donna Maria’s lips hardened. She would never understand his enthralment to those women.

  But he had loved me. He had cared. He had suffered because he had thought he was losing me. I should always remember that. When I saw his gaiety with Lady Castlemaine, his burning gaze fixed on La Belle Stuarte…I would remember.

  THE DEPTH OF his commitment to Frances Stuart was obvious over the matter of the calash; and all those courtiers who gambled on what the outcome would be began to understand the depth of his feelings for her. It was over a hundred years ago when another King of England had become so enamored of a woman that his kingdom rocked over the matter and he could have lost his crown. England had broken with Rome when Henry VIII decided that he must marry Anne Boleyn, and demanded a divorce from his Queen which the Pope had refused him. There must have been deep speculation in the minds of many as to how far Charles’s infatuation with Frances Stuart would carry him.

  Then the calash arrived. It was the most magnificent vehicle we had ever seen. It came from France and was a present to Charles to mark the good relations between the two countries.

  Everyone was amazed by it and the question arose as to who should be the first to ride in it.

  Anne Hyde, Duchess of York, came to me and said: “You should be the one to ride first in it, and if you have a companion, which you should, I should be that one. After all, you are the King’s wife. I am the wife of his brother.”

  I looked at Anne intently. I knew her to be a very shrewd woman; and since my illness, when I had lost the child I was carrying, there was a subtle difference in her manner. I guessed what was in her mind. If I had no children, James would be next in line to the throne…and Anne Hyde would be Queen of England.

  It was a natural assumption. I had lost one child. There had been hints by the physicians that I might not find it easy to bear children and that, if I attempted to, I might put my life at risk. So, with regard to the calash, I saw her point. It would be fitting that we should ride in the coach to show it to the people—the present Queen and the one who could well one day be the next.

  Lady Castlemaine, of course, wanted to be the first to ride in the handsome vehicle. Moreover, she was firmly determined to. She was more aggressive than ever, realizing, I was sure, that she could only cling to the title of maîtresse-en-titre because of Frances Stuart’s refusal to take her place.

  She felt it necessary to show the people that she reigned supreme, and she would do this by riding in the calash, splendidly gowned and glittering with jewels. Perhaps she would take young Monmouth with her.

  I had mentioned to the King that I should be pleased to be the first to ride in the calash and I thought Anne Hyde should be beside me.

  Charles was evasive, which told me that Lady Castlemaine was already making her demands.

  He always took the easy way out, and the Lady’s claims would be made in her usual vociferous manner. She was pregnant again, by the King presumably—or that was what she would have everyone believe. What a fruitful woman she was! Why was it that I, who so desperately wanted a child, could not get even one?

  She declared that unless the King allowed her to ride in the calash, she would miscarry the child, for it was clear that its father cared nothing for it since he could be so indifferent to its mother.

  The court listened amused; and the matter of the calash became quite an issue, with everyone waiting and gambling on the result.

  The result came one evening when the court was assembled.

  Frances was present, the King hovering near her as usual. She was engaged in her favorite occupation…building up the cards. Buckingham was competing with her.

  Frances was adept at the silly business. Buckingham’s house tottered slightly and when Frances screamed with delight the King applauded.

  Those around were taking bets on whose house would stand longest, and Frances was the favorite.

  Suddenly Frances said to Charles: “What will you give me if I win?”

  There was a certain seriousness in her manner which I had not noticed before. It was almost as though there were some subtle meaning behind her words.

  He said: “I will give you anything you ask.”

  She smiled and turned to her cards.

  With a neat little flick of the thumb, which I thought could have been intentional, Buckingham let his house totter and collapse.

  Frances squealed with pleasure and everyone applauded.

  She turned to the King.

  “Well,” he said, “what is it you ask?”

  “That I be the first to ride in the calas
h,” said Frances guilelessly.

  The King hesitated.

  “Your Majesty promised,” lisped Frances.

  “So did I,” said Charles. “Then…” he lifted his shoulders, “the matter is settled. You must be the first to ride in the calash.”

  SO FRANCES STUART RODE in the calash; and the people came out to see her and they were amazed by her beauty. She really was a most enchanting-looking creature, and if it were not necessary to listen to her simpering inanities, I could understand why people marvelled at her.

  Lady Castlemaine was furious. She went to the Cockpit and stayed there for several days. As for myself, I felt extremely hurt. I tried to think of Charles as he had sat at my bedside, and I said to myself: it was nothing. It was the emotion of the moment, the few pangs of a guilty conscience. How can he care for me if he humiliates me? Then I remembered the past when I had been so unhappy and I reminded myself that I must accept this if I wanted to stay near him and keep his regard.

  There was an alert air in the court. Frances Stuart had made a request which had been granted, much to the chagrin of the Lady, and that must mean something. Frances was tired of playing the innocent game, some believed. She was going to take up her position of reigning mistress at the court. It was an opportunity she had at least realized she could not miss.

  The Duke of Buckingham was constantly at Frances’s side. I was sure he had some scheme afoot.

  I was tired of these amorous intrigues.

  Once I found myself alone with Edward Montague and the compassionate look in his eyes made me feel that I wanted to talk to him. He was one of the few people I could trust.

  “Your Majesty is grieving over this matter of the calash,” he said.

  I replied: “I believe Miss Stuart became it well.”

  Edward’s mouth turned down with disapproval.

  “Your Majesty and the Duchess of York should have been the first to ride in it.”