A Health Unto His Majesty

by Виктория Холт

  But he must not think of Barbara now. He must think of a means of raising money.

  When he returned to the Palace Lord Winchelsea was waiting to see him. Winchelsea had recently returned from Portugal, and he had news for the King which he wished to impart to him before he did so to any other.

  “Welcome, my lord,” said the King. “What saw you in Portugal that brings such brightness to your eyes?”

  “I think mayhap,” said Winchelsea, “that I see the solution to Your Majesty’s pecuniary difficulties.”

  “A Portuguese wife?” said Charles, wrinkling his brows.

  “Yes, Sire. I had an interview with the Queen Regent of Portugal, and she offers you her daughter.”

  “What manner of woman is she?”

  “The Queen is old and earnest, most earnest, Your Majesty.””

  Not the Queen—I have not to marry her. What of the daughter?”

  “I saw her not.”

  “They dared not show her to you! Is she possessed of a harelip, a limp, a squint? I’ll not have her, Winchelsea.”

  “I know not how she looks, but I have heard that she is mightily fair, Your Majesty.”

  “All princesses are mightily fair when they are in the field for a husband. The fairness is offered as part of their dowry.”

  “Ah, Sire, the dowry. Never has there been such a dowry as this Princess would bring to England—should Your Majesty agree to take her. Half a million in gold!”

  “Half a million?” cried the King, savoring the words. “I’ll swear she has a squint, to bring me half a million.”

  “Nay, she is fair enough. There is also Tangier, a seaport of Morocco, the island of Bombay—and that is not all. Here is an offer which Your Majesty cannot afford to miss. The Queen of Portugal offers free trade to England with the East Indies and Brazil. Sire, you have but to consider awhile what this will mean to our merchants. The treasure of the world will be open to our seamen….”

  The King laid his hand on Winchelsea’s shoulder. “Methinks,” he said, “that you have done good work in Portugal.”

  “Then you will lay this proposition before your ministers, Sire?”

  “That will I do. Half a million in gold, eh! And our sailors to bring the treasure of the world to England. Why, Winchelsea, in generations to come Englishmen will call me blessed. ’Twould be worthwhile even if …”

  “But I have heard naught against the lady, Sire. I have but heard that she is both good and beautiful.”

  The King smiled his melancholy smile. “There have been two miracles in my life already, my friend. One was when I escaped after Worcester; the other was when I was restored to my throne without the shedding of one drop of blood. Dare I hope for a third, think you? Such a dowry, and a wife who is good … and beautiful!”

  “Your Majesty is beloved of the gods. I see no reason why there should not only be three but many miracles in your life.”

  “You speak like a courtier. Still, pray for me, Winchelsea. Pray that I get me a wife who can bring much good to England and pleasure to me.”

  Within a few days the King’s ministers were discussing the great desirability of the match with Portugal.

  On the scaffolding the people had congregated to watch a procession such as they had never seen before. They chattered and laughed and congratulated one another on their good sense in calling the King back to his country.

  Tapestry and cloth of gold and silver hung from the windows; the triumphal arches shone like gold in the sunshine; the bells pealed forth.

  The King left his Palace of Whitehall in the light of dawn and came by barge to the Tower of London.

  On St. George’s Day the great event took place. The procession was dazzling, all the noblemen of England and dignitaries of the Church taking part; and in their midst rode the King—the tallest of them all, dark and swarthy, bareheaded and serene with the sword and wand borne before him on his way to Westminster Abbey.

  That was a day for rejoicing, and all through it the city was thronged with sightseers. They were on the river and its banks; they crowded into Cheapside and Paul’s Walk; they waited to see the King, after his crowning, enter Westminster Hall, passing through that gate on which were the decomposing heads of the men who had slain his father.

  “Long live the King!” they shouted; and Charles went into the building which was the scene of his father’s tragedy. And when he sat at the great banqueting table, Dymoke rode into the hall and flung down the gauntlet as a challenge to any who would say that Charles Stuart, the second of that name, was not the rightful King of England.

  Music was played while the King supped merrily, surrounded by his favorites of both sexes; and when it was over he took to his gilded barge and so to Whitehall.

  But the merriment continued in the streets where the fountains flowed with wine; the bonfires which sprung up about the city cast a fantastic glow on the revelers.

  Men and women drunk with wine and excitement lay together in the alleys and told each other that these were King Charles’ golden days, while others knelt and drank a health unto His Majesty.

  The glow of bonfires was like a halo over the rejoicing city, and from a thousand throats went up the cry: “Come, drink the health of His Majesty.”

  A few weeks after his people had crowned him King, Charles called together his new Parliament at the House of Commons and welcomed them in a speech which charmed even those who were not outstandingly Royalist in their sympathies.

  “I know most of your faces and names,” said Charles, “and I can never hope to find better men in your places.”

  Charles had come to a decision. He had to find money somehow. The revenue granted him was not enough by some £400,000 to balance the country’s accounts. Charles was grieved because the pay of his seamen—a community in which he was particularly interested, for indeed he considered them of the utmost importance to the Nation’s security—was far in arrears. He had had to raise money in some way, and had borrowed from the bankers of the city since it was the only way of carrying on the country’s business; and these bankers were demanding high rates of interest.

  How wearisome was the subject of money when there was not enough of it!

  So he had come to his decision.

  “I have often been put in mind by my friends,” he told his Parliament at that first sitting, “that it is high time to marry, and I have thought so myself ever since I came into England. If I should never marry until I could make such a choice against which there could be no foresight of inconvenience, you would live to see me an old bachelor, which I think you do not desire to do. I can now tell you that I am not only resolved to marry, but whom I resolve to marry if God please…. It is with the daughter of Portugal.”

  As the ministers had already been informed of what went with the daughter of Portugal the house rose to its feet and showed the King in boisterous manner that it applauded his choice.

  Barbara heard the news. She was perturbed. The King to marry! And how could she know what manner of wife this Portuguese woman would be? What if she were as fiercely demanding as Barbara herself; what if she resolved to drive the King’s mistress from her place?

  Barbara decided she was against the marriage.

  There were many people to support Barbara. Her power was such that she had but to drop a hint as to her feelings and there would be many eager to set in motion any rumor that would please her.

  “Portugal!” said Barbara’s friends. “What is known of Portugal? It is a poor country. There is no glass in the windows even at the palaces. The King of Portugal is a poor simple fellow—more like an apprentice than a king. And what of the Spaniards who are the enemies of the Portuguese? Where will this marriage lead—to war with Spain?”

  Barbara demanded of the King when they were alone together: “Have you considered these things?”

  “I have considered all points concerning this match.”

  “This dowry! Her mother must be anxious to marry the girl. M
ayhap she can only marry her to someone who has never seen her.”

  “I have reports that she is dark-haired and pretty.”

  “So you are already relishing your dark-haired pretty wife!”

  “’Tis well to be prepared,” said the King.

  Barbara turned on him fiercely. There was a flippancy about his manner which frightened her. Of all her lovers he was the most important by reason of his rank; the others might seek consolation elsewhere, and she would not care with whom; with the King it was another matter. There must be no woman who could in his estimation compare with Barbara.

  “Ah,” sighed Barbara. “I am an unfortunate woman. I give myself … my honor … and I must be prepared to be cast off when it pleases you to cast me aside. It is the fate of those who love too well.”

  “It depends on whom they love,” said the King. “Themselves or others.”

  “Do you suggest that I think overmuch of myself?”

  “Dearest Barbara, none could help loving you beyond all others—so how could you yourself help it?”

  “It amuses you to tease me. Now tell me that you will not let this Portuguese woman come between us.”

  She put her arms about his neck; she lifted her eyes to his; they were wet with tears. Barbara was a clever actress and, even though he knew this, her tears could always move him. Barbara tender was almost a stranger.

  He said: “There is only one, Barbara, who could prevent my loving you.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Yourself.”

  “Ah! So I have let my feelings run away with me, have I? How easy it is for some to be calm and serene…. They do not love. They do not care. But when emotions such as mine are involved …” She threw back her head and laughed suddenly. “But what matters it! You have come to see me. We are here together…. This night we may be together, so let the devil take the rest of my life…. I still have this night!”

  Thus she could change from tearful reproaches to urgent passion; always unaccountable, always Barbara.

  Nothing should alter his relationship with her. He assured her of that. “Not a hundred Portuguese women who brought me ten million pounds, twenty foreign towns and all the riches of the Indies.”

  That year passed pleasantly for Charles. There was business to be conducted, affairs of state to be attended to, there was sauntering in the Park, bowls and tennis; there was racing, sailing and all the pleasures that a King could enjoy who was full of health and vigor.

  He had made inquiries of Portugal. He had written letters to Catherine of Braganza, charming letters, which reflected his own personality, the letters of a lover into which he was able to infuse the illusion that the marriage which was to take place was not as one arranged by their two countries but based on pure love.

  By the end of the year Barbara was pregnant again. She was exultant.

  “I am glad!” she cried. “I would have the whole world know that I bear your royal child. This time there shall be no doubts. Charles, if you doubt this one to be yours, I’ll not have it, I swear. I’ll find some means of destroying it ere it is born…. If that fails, I’ll strangle it at birth.”

  The King soothed her. The child was his. He was as sure of that as she was.

  “Then what will you do to prove it? How long shall I remain plain Barbara Palmer?”

  It was more than a hint, and the King was not slow to act. It seemed only fair to him that Roger Palmer should be rewarded for his complaisancy.

  It was during that autumn that Charles wrote to his Secretary of State: “Prepare a warrant for Mr. Roger Palmer to be Baron of Limerick and Earl of Castlemaine, these titles to go to the heirs of his body gotten on Barbara Palmer, who is now his wife.”

  Barbara was delighted when she heard she was to be the Countess of Castlemaine.

  She could not rest until she had sought out Roger.

  She flung the news at him like a gauntlet.

  “Now you see what marriage with me has brought you!”

  “I know what marriage with you has brought me.”

  “Come, Roger, why do you not rejoice in your good fortune? How many women are there in the world who can bring an earldom to their husbands?”

  “I had rather you remained plain Barbara Palmer.”

  “Are you mad? I, plain Barbara Palmer! You fool! I see I work in vain to bring honor to you.”

  “It is so easy … so natural for you to bring dishonor on all those connected with you.”

  “You sicken me.”

  “As your conduct does me.”

  “Roger Palmer, I despise you. You stand there, so sanctimonious … such a hypocrite. Do you think I see not the lust in your eyes? Why, I have only to beckon you and you’d be panting for me … dishonor or not…. You fool! Why should you not share in the honors and riches I can bring to us? Do not think that this is all I shall have. Nay! This is but the beginning.”

  “Barbara,” he said, “be not too sure. There will be a Queen of England on the throne ere long. Then it may be that the King will be engaged elsewhere and may not come a-supping with you night after night.”

  Barbara flew at him, and the marks of her fingers lingered on his cheek long afterwards.

  “Don’t dare taunt me with that! Do you think I’ll allow that miserable little foreigner to come between me and my plans?” Barbara spat over her shoulder; she liked to indulge in the crude manners of the street; it was as though it brought home to herself as well as others that she had no need to act in any way other than the mood of the moment urged upon her. “She’s humpbacked, she squints! The only way her mother can find a husband for her is by giving away half her kingdom.”

  “Barbara … for the love of God, calm yourself.”

  “I’ll be calm when I wish to be. And wild when I wish to be. And I’ll tell you this, Master Roger Palmer—who cannot bend his stiff neck to say a gracious thank-you for the earldom his wife has conferred upon him—I’ll tell you this: the coming of this Queen will make no difference to my relationship with the King.” She put her hands on her stomach. “In here,” she cried, “is his child. Yes … his … his … his! And by the saints, I swear this child shall be born in the royal apartments of Whitehall. Yes! even if my confinement should take place during the honeymoon of this Portuguese idiot.”

  Her eyes flamed. She turned away and paced the floor.

  She was eager to tell the King of her plans for lying-in when her time came at his Palace of Whitehall.

  Christmas came. Charles had laughingly waved aside the question of Barbara’s lying-in. It was six months away, and he never let events so far ahead cast a shadow over the pleasure of the moment.

  Marriage plans were going forward. It seemed very likely that by the Spring the little Portuguese would be in England.

  The thought of her excited him, as the thought of any new woman would. That again was an excitement for the future. In the meantime there was Barbara to be placated, and enjoyed.

  Barbara was brooding, still determined to be confined in his Palace. He wondered if he had been right to confer a great title on her husband that she might enjoy it. To give a little was to be asked for much. His experience of a lifetime told him that.

  Still, there were occasions when he could remind even Barbara that he was the King, and he foresaw that when he had a wife such occasions might occur with greater frequency.

  That again was a matter for the future.

  So it was a merry Christmas—the merriest since he had come into England, for last Christmas had been overshadowed by the deaths of his brother and sister. It was good fun to revive those merry customs which had been stamped out by the Puritans—the old revelries of Christmas and Twelfth Night.

  There was sadness to come in the New Year. His aunt, Elizabeth of Bohemia, who was at his Court, died there, and it was to him that she turned in her last moments.

  He was saddened; he was indeed a family man; he could not bear that any member of his family, which had been so tragica
lly torn apart in his youth, should die.

  He had been fond of his aunt.

  “So few of us are left now,” he pondered. “There is James and Mam and Minette … and Mam is ailing, and Minette has never been strong … as James and I are.”

  He wrote to his sister then: “For God’s sake, my dearest sister, have a care of yourself and believe me that I am more concerned for your health than I am my own.”

  She understood him as, he often thought, no one else in the world had ever understood him.

  She wrote to him that she was thinking of sending him a little girl to be a maid-of-honor to his Queen when she arrived in England. “She is the prettiest girl in the world,” wrote Minette, “and her name is Frances Stuart.”

  The Earl of Sandwich was soon on his way to Portugal. Arrangements were being made to receive the King’s bride in England; and there was always Barbara to placate.

  He was spending as much time in her company as he ever had.

  He was now supping at her house every night, and the whole city was talking of the King’s infatuation for its most handsome woman, which did not diminish even though he was negotiating for a wife.

  He but takes his fill of Castlemaine until the Queen arrives, said the people. Then we shall see the lady’s handsome nose put out of joint.

  Charles was treated to the whole range of Barbara’s moods during that spring. She would plead with him not to let the Queen’s coming make the slightest difference to her position; she would scorn him for a coward; she would cover him with caresses as though to remind him of the physical satisfaction which she alone could give.

  She was determined to bind him more closely to her than ever.

  She talked continually of the child—his child—which was to be denied its rightful bedchamber when it came into the world. She pitied herself; she flew into rages and threatened to murder the child before it left her womb.

  She demanded again and again that she should have her lying-in at Whitehall Palace.

  “That is impossible,” said the King. “Even my cousin Louis would not so insult his wife.”