A Health Unto His Majesty

by Виктория Холт

  Her face under her great hat with its yellow plume was sullen; and, when she was ready to alight, she was very angry because no gentleman hurried forward to her aid but left her own servants to look after her.

  Barbara’s day is done, thought Catherine. Had this something to do with her own condition? Or was it because of the meek little beauty who rode with them and was even more lovely than haughty Castlemaine, determined that the people should not see her riding side by side with the King when his wife was present, and looking so charming, in her little cocked hat with the red feather, that everyone gasped at such beauty.

  Good news came from Portugal of the defeat of the Spaniards at Amexial. The battle had been fierce, for the Spaniards were led by Don John of Austria, but the English and the Portuguese Allies had won this decisive battle on which hung the fate of Portugal. The English had fought with such bravery and resource that the Portuguese had cried out that their allies were better to them than all the saints for whose aid they had prayed.

  Catherine, hearing the news, wept with joy. She owed the security of her country to the English; it was true that she had been born to be of great significance to Portugal. She looked upon Charles as the savior of her country; and when she thought of that, and all he had been to her since their marriage, she wondered afresh how she could have been so blind in the first days as to have refused him the one thing he asked of her. He had given her the greatest happiness she had ever known; he had saved her country from an ignoble fate, and when he had asked her to help him out of a delicate situation, she had not considered his feelings; she had thought only of her own pride, her own wounded love. She could weep for her folly now; but it was too late for tears; all she could do was wait for opportunities to prove her love, to pray that one day she might be able to win back his affection which her stupidity had made her throw away.

  Her simpleminded brother had given the English soldiers a pinch of snuff apiece as a token of his gratitude, and she blushed for her brother. Pinches of snuff for a kingdom! The English soldiers had been outraged and had thrown the snuff on the ground; but Charles had saved the situation by ordering that 40,000 crowns should be distributed among them as a reward for their services to his Queen.

  She knew how hard pressed he was for money, how often he paid the country’s expenses out of his own personal income; she knew the constant demands made on him by women like Barbara Castlemaine, and how his generosity made it impossible for him to refuse what they asked.

  She prayed earnestly that her child might be big and strong, a boy of whom he would be proud.

  She looked into the future and saw a period of happiness ahead, for she was mellowed; she was no longer a hysterical girl who could not adjust herself to the exigencies of a cynical world.

  Barbara was thinking seriously.

  It might, she supposed, be necessary to have a husband again. If she was to lose the King’s favor, she would need the protection of Roger.

  As the Queen grew larger, so did she; and was the King going to admit paternity of her child? It was true he came to her nurseries now and then, but that was to see the children who would clamber over him and search his pockets for gifts.

  “I see,” he had said on one occasion, “that you have your mother’s fingers.”

  He would always look after the children—she need have no fear of that—but he was certainly growing cooler to their mother.

  She could, of course, threaten him; she could print his letters. But what of that? All knew of their relationship; there was little fresh to expose.

  Moreover, there was a possibility that he might banish her from Court. She knew him well. Like most easygoing people, there came to him now and then a desire to be firm, and then nothing could shake him. Barbara knew that although his great good humor could be relied upon, when he decided to stand firm none could be firmer.

  She began to plan ahead and called a priest to her that she might make good study, she said, of the Catholic Faith, for there was something within her which told her that she ought to do this in preparation for a reconciliation with Roger.

  The whole Court laughed at the thought of Barbara closeted with her priest; she declared he was teaching her the tenets of the Catholic Faith, but they ribaldly asked each other what she was teaching him.

  Buckingham approached the King concerning his cousin. “Your Majesty, could you not forbid the Lady Castlemaine from this new religion?”

  Charles laughed lightly. “You forget, my lord,” he said, “I have never interfered with the souls of ladies.”

  Barbara heard this and was more alarmed than ever. She was becoming more and more aware that she was losing some of her power over the King.

  Buckingham had been sent from the presence of Frances Stuart. He was no longer her very good friend. He had dared make improper suggestions to her. She, who had professed to be so innocent, had been by no means at a loss as to how to deal with the profligate Duke.

  He returned to the Cockpit and consulted with Barbara. “It would seem the lady is determined to be virtuous,” he said.

  Bennet tried his luck but, when he stood before Frances and made that declaration in the pompous tones which Buckingham had imitated so well, Frances was unable to contain her mirth, for, as she said afterwards, it was well nigh impossible to know whether she was listening to Bennet in person or Buckingham impersonating Bennet.

  The King also made his proposals to the beautiful young girl. She was sad and remote. She did not think His Majesty was in a position to say such things to her, she declared; and even though she might incur his displeasure, she could only beg him not to do so.

  The King, in exasperation, went to sup at Barbara’s house.

  She was delighted to see him and received him with warmth; she was determined to remind him of all that they had enjoyed together.

  She succeeded in doing this so certainly that he was back the next night and the next.

  Barbara’s hopes began to rise; she forgot her priest and the need to accept the Catholic religion. She ordered a great chine of beef to be roasted for the King; but the tide rose unusually high and her kitchens were flooded, so that Mrs. Sarah declared she could not roast the beef. Barbara cried aloud: “Zounds! Set the house afire but roast that beef.”

  And Mrs. Sarah, far bolder with Lady Castlemaine than any other servant dared be, told her mistress to talk good sense, and she would carry the beef to be roasted at her husband’s house; and as her husband was cook to my Lord Sandwich she doubted not that she could get the beef roasted to a turn.

  This was done; and the King and Lady Castlemaine supped merrily, but all London knew of the chine of beef which had to be roasted in the kitchens of Lord Sandwich. It was known too that the King stayed with my Lady Castlemaine until the early hours of the morning.

  Catherine, resting in the Palace of Whitehall and shut away from rumor, was waiting for her baby to be born. She had allowed herself to believe that when the child came she and Charles would be content with one another. It was true that he was enamored of the beautiful Mrs. Stuart, but Frances was a good girl, who conducted herself with decorum and had made it quite clear that the King must give up all hope of seducing her.

  When the child came he would forget his schemes concerning Frances Stuart, Catherine persuaded herself; he would give himself up to the joys of family life. He was meant to be a father; he was tolerant, full of gaiety and a lover of children. There would be many children; and they would be as happy a family as that in which she had been brought up—nay, happier, for they would not have to suffer the terrible anxiety which had beset the Duke of Braganza’s.

  All this must come to pass as she knew it could, once he was free of that evil woman. The name Castlemaine would always make her shiver, she feared. When she saw it she would always remember that terrible occasion when she had seen it written at the top of the list; and that other when she had given her hand to the woman to kiss, without realizing her identity; and the shame of the scene
that followed.

  But in the years to come the name of Castlemaine would be nothing but a memory, a memory to provoke a shiver it was true, yet nothing more.

  So now she thought exclusively of the child, hoping it would be a boy; but if that should not be, well then, they were young, she and Charles, and they had proved themselves capable of getting children.

  I knew I should be happy, she told herself. It was only necessary for him to escape from that evil woman.

  The women below her window were giggling together. She wondered what this was about. She gathered it concerned a certain chine of beef. The stupid things women giggled about!

  She turned away from the window, wondering when she would see Charles again.

  Perhaps she would tell him of her hopes for their future—such confidences were often on her lips, but she never uttered them. Although he was tender and solicitous for her health, he was always so merry; and she fancied that he was a little cynical regarding sentimental dreams.

  No! She would not tell him. She would make her dreams become realities.

  Donna Maria came to her, and Donna Maria had been weeping. Old and infirm, hating the English climate, not understanding the English manners, Donna Maria constantly longed for her own country, although nothing would have induced her to leave her Infanta.

  Poor Donna Maria! thought Catherine. She always had a habit of looking on the dark side of life as though she preferred it to the brighter.

  “So you have heard this story of the chine of beef?” she asked.

  “Well, I heard some women laughing over it below my window.”

  “It was for the King’s supper, and the kitchens were flooded, so it must needs be carried to my Lord Sandwich’s kitchens to be cooked.”

  “Is that the story of the chine of beef?”

  “A noisy story because Madam Castlemaine cried out to burn the place down—but roast the beef.”

  “Madam … Castlemaine!”

  “Why, yes, have you not heard? The King is back with her. He is supping with her every night and is as devoted to her as he ever was.”

  Catherine stood up. Her emotions were beyond control as they had been on that occasion when the King had presented Lady Castlemaine to her without her knowledge and consent.

  All her dreams were false. He had not left the woman. In that moment she believed that as long as she lived Lady Castlemaine would be her evil genius as she was the King’s.

  “Why … what ails you?” cried Donna Maria.

  She saw the blood gushing from Catherine’s nose as it had on that other occasion; she was just in time to catch the Queen as she fell forward.

  The King stood by his wife’s bed. She looked small, frail and quite helpless.

  She was delirious; and she did not know yet that she had lost her child.

  Donna Maria had explained to him; she had repeated the last words she had exchanged with Catherine.

  I have brought her to this, thought the King. I have caused her so much pain that the extreme stress of her emotional state has brought on this miscarriage and lost us our child.

  He knelt down by the bed and covered his face with his hands.

  “Charles,” said Catherine. “Is that you, Charles?”

  “I am here,” he told her. “I am here beside you.”

  “You are weeping, Charles! Those are tears. I never thought to see you weep.”

  “I want you to be well, Catherine. I want you to be well.”

  He could see by the expression on her face that she had no knowledge of the nature of her illness; she must have forgotten there was to have been a child. He was glad of this. At least she was spared that agony.

  “Charles,” she said. “Hold my hand, Charles.”

  Eagerly he took her hand; he put his lips to it.

  “I am happy that you are near me,” she told him.

  “I shall not leave you. I shall be here with you … while you want me.”

  “I dreamed I heard you say those words.” A frown touched her brow lightly. “You say them because I am ill,” she went on. “I am very ill. Charles, I am dying, am I not?”

  “Nay,” he cried passionately. “Nay, ’tis not so.”

  “I shall not grieve to leave the world,” she said. “Willingly would I leave all … save one. There is no one I regret leaving, Charles, but you.” “You shall not leave me,” he declared.

  “I pray you do not grieve for me when I am dead. Rejoice rather that you may marry a Princess more worthy of you than I have been.” “I beg of you, do not say such things.”

  “But I am unworthy … a plain little Princess … and not a Princess of a great country either…. A Princess whose country made great demands on you … a Princess whose country you succored and to whom you brought the greatest happiness she ever knew.”

  “You shame me.” And suddenly he could no longer control his tears. He thought of all the humiliations he had forced her to suffer, and he swore that he would never forgive himself.

  “Charles … Charles,” she murmured. “I know not whether to weep or rejoice. That you should care so much for me … what more could I ask than this? But to see you weep … to see you so stricken with sorrow … that grieves me … it grieves me sorely.”

  Charles was so overcome with remorse and emotion that he could not speak. He knelt by her bed, his face hidden, bent over the hand that he held. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she felt his tears on her hand.

  Donna Maria came to stand beside the King.

  “Your Majesty can do no good to the Queen … now,” she said.

  He turned wearily away.

  He was at her bedside night and day. Those about the Queen marveled at his devotion. Was this the man who had supped nightly with my Lady Castlemaine, the man who was deeply in love with the beautiful Mrs. Stuart? He wished that his should be the hand to smooth her pillows, his the face she would first see should she awake, his the voice she should hear.

  She was far gone in fever, and so light-headed that she thought she was the mother of a son.

  Perhaps she was thinking of the tales she had heard of Charles’ babyhood, for she murmured: “He is fine and strong, but I fear he is an ugly boy.”

  “Nay,” said the King, his voice shaken with emotion, “he is a very pretty boy.”

  “Charles,” she said, “are you there, Charles?””

  Yes, I am here, my love.”

  “Your love,” she repeated. “Is it true? But I like to hear you say it as you did at Hampton Court before … Charles, he shall be called Charles, shall he not?”

  “Yes,” said the King, “he shall be called Charles.”

  “It matters not if he is a little ugly,” she said. “If he be like you he will be the finest boy in the world, and I shall be well pleased with him.”

  “Let us hope,” said the King, “that he will be better than I.”

  “How could that be?” she asked.

  And the King was too moved to continue the conversation. He bade her close her eyes and rest.

  But she could not rest; she was haunted by the longing for maternity.

  “How many children is it we have, Charles? Three, is it? Three children … our children. The little girl is so pretty, is she not?”

  “She is very pretty,” said Charles.

  “I am glad of that, for I should not like you to have a daughter who was not lovely in face and figure. You care so much for beauty. If I had been blessed with great beauty …”

  “Catherine,” said the King, “do not torment yourself. Rest. I am here beside you. And remember this: I love you as you are. I would not want to change you. There is only one thing I wish; it is that you may get well.”

  Newly slaughtered pigeons were laid at her feet; she was bled continuously; a nightcap, made of a precious relic, was put upon her head; but the King’s presence at her bedside seemed to give her more comfort than any of these things.

  In the streets the people talked of the Queen’s seri
ous illness which might end in death; and it was generally believed that, if she were to die, the King would marry the beautiful Frances Stuart whose virtue had refused to allow her to become the King’s mistress.

  This thought excited many. Buckingham, in spite of his being banished from Mrs. Stuart’s company on account of his suggestion that she should become his mistress, had been restored to her favor. No one could build card houses as he could; no one could sing so enchantingly, nor do such amusing impersonations; so Frances had been ready to forgive him on the understanding that he realized there were to be no more attempts at love-making. Buckingham, who thrived on bold plans, was already arranging in his mind for the King, on the death of the Queen, to marry Frances; and Frances’s greatest friend and adviser would be himself.

  Barbara, knowing these plans were afoot, was watching her relative cautiously. Buckingham had been her friend, but he could easily become her enemy. So Barbara was one of those who offered up prayers for the recovery of the Queen.

  As for the King, he was so assiduous in his care for Catherine, so full of remorse for the unhappiness which he had caused her, that his mind was occupied solely with his hopes for her recovery.

  The Duke and Duchess of York also prayed for Catherine’s recovery, for it was said that she would be unable to bear children; and if this were true and she lived, it would mean that the King would be unable to remarry, thus leaving the way clear for their children to inherit the throne.

  Speculation ran high through the Court and the country, but this ended when Catherine recovered.

  One morning she came out of her delirium, and her anguish on discovering she was not a mother was considerably lessened by the sight of her husband at her bedside, and the belief that she might be a beloved wife.

  He continued full of care for her, and the days of her convalescence were happy indeed. The King’s hair had turned so white during her illness that he laughingly declared he looked such an old man that he must follow the fashion of the day and adopt a periwig.

  “Could those gray hairs have grown out of your anxiety as to what would become of me?” she asked.