There are those who believed my retreat to Richmond was no more than a calculation to place myself and my children closer to the king, who continued on his newlywed stay with Queen Catherine at the palace at Hampton Court. Considering how often the king had left his new wife to come to me in King Street, I found these whispers ridiculous, with little basis in fact. I was far more secure in my friendship with Charles than that, and besides, I’d gone to Richmond largely to escape Roger. But I will grant that the proximity of my uncle Lord Grandison’s house did make Charles’s visits to me and my children less arduous and more frequent, and likely more vexing to the queen as well.
Besides, I could not fathom why the king had chosen Hampton Court for his bride’s idyll. True, it was a lovely place in the summer, with long walks through fine gardens full of flowers. But the palace itself would, I think, hold many grievous memories for him. When Charles I had been removed from his throne by Parliament, he’d been imprisoned at Hampton Court before his last attempt at escape, the one that had led to his execution. Then Cromwell himself had chosen the place for his personal palace, home to the Lord Protectorate. Though it had come back to royal hands with Charles’s restoration, I’d heard from other courtiers that many of the smaller chambers had fallen into sad disrepair, and that the glorious days of the reign of King Henry VIII were unlikely to be repeated amidst such broken-down remnants of lost splendor.
Though perhaps in truth Hampton Court was an appropriate place to begin this unfortunate marriage twixt English king and Portuguese queen. For wasn’t it full of the old ghosts of King Henry’s doomed queens, condemned to their deaths for never bearing him the son and heir every king needed?
Certainly that summer Charles was reminded often enough of how the womb of his new queen remained empty, despite his dutiful efforts to fill it. Clearly the trouble didn’t lie with the royal seed, either. For irrefutable proof, he’d only to look at my brave, lusty babies, tumbling across a coverlet on the grass in the sunshine whenever he visited me at Richmond. Though he was too gallant a bridegroom to confide overmuch to me, he did confess his near-constant quarrels with his new queen. He even sorrowfully complained of how often she tried to resist him, in ways that ranged from her insistence on maintaining her discordant Portuguese musicians to her continuing refusal to accept and include me in her household.
I never learned exactly what she’d done to goad the king into final, furious action on my behalf, but during one of his visits he abruptly told me to come with him, that it was past time for the madness to stop.
He was taking me to Hampton Court to meet the queen.
I dressed quickly, thankful that by now I had recovered enough of my shape to wear a certain dark blue open gown of silk velvet, dressed with furbelows of pale yellow silk, that I knew was vastly becoming. I added a splendid leghorn hat, for we were in the country, with a curling ostrich plume, and with my pearl earrings and necklace that had been earlier gifts from the king, I added the sapphire necklace that he’d sent in honor of little Charles’s birth. I dared anyone to guess I was only six weeks removed from the ordeal of childbed, or say that I’d not regained every drop of the beauty I’d possessed before my pregnancy, and perhaps even more with the joy of bearing the king’s natural son.
As soon as we entered the palace, I was made aware that Charles had brought me here on impulse, without any forethought or plan. Of course I was recognized by everyone, from the lowest maidservant sweeping ashes from a grate to the highest dukes waiting in attendance on the king. But though they all bowed and curtseyed to the king and nodded in acknowledgment to me, none of them could keep their true emotions from their faces: surprise, shock, outrage, or bemusement.
We found Her Majesty in a far parlor, stitching at some sort of grimy handwork in wools on linen. She was framed by two diamond-paned windows, the sunlight that streamed around her full of dancing dust and motes. Other members of the court stood about the room, amusing themselves and one another. From the corner of my eyes I glimpsed my old friend the Earl of Chesterfield, and Sir Edward, now made Earl of Clarendon, his fat face mottled with fury at what the king was doing.
As Charles and I came closer to the queen, I could see that she was every bit as plain as her portrait, a sallow small creature with hollowed eyes and teeth protruding so far that I marveled Charles could kiss her without having his lips nipped. Her ladies clustered around her on low stools, each one more sour and unpleasant-looking than the other, their peculiar farthingale skirts thrust out around them like barriers thrown up to protect their queen.
On a stool to one side sat my aunt, the lone English lady in this party of harridans, her pink gown like a flower growing cheerfully in a heap of cinders. She looked up first and saw me before the others, her cheeks flushing with dismay at the scene she knew would come next.
“Catherine,” the king said, pleasantly enough to draw his wife’s attention, “I’ve a lady I’d like to present to you.”
She gazed up at him with childish eagerness. It was clear enough that she loved him, loved him deeply. I could see it written large across her plain, round face. Though I was confident I was the one he preferred, this open joy from my rival at seeing her husband cut me as surely as a blade, and likewise cut away any guilt or remorse I might have felt for what happened next.
“I am honored, Your Majesty,” I murmured, kneeling gracefully before her, my velvet skirts crushing gently around my legs. I was so much taller than she that I felt as if I were worshipping a child, not a queen, and a small, dark, unappealing, foreign child at that. She held out her small, stubby hand with too many rings for me to kiss in loyalty. I did, noting how she’d bitten her nails to the quick like an anxious schoolboy.
Around us in the parlor, every conversation stopped and every head turned toward us. This was better than anything a playwright could have crafted, more entertaining than anything shown on the stage.
“You are a very beautiful English lady,” the queen said to me in a thick Iberian accent. “You are welcome. What is her name, Charles?”
Charles smiled. “My Lady Castlemaine.”
At once Catherine realized who I was. I was the adulteress, the unclean interloper, the great whore who’d corrupted her husband, the calculating demon-bitch who’d taken his seed and born the bastard children that should have been hers, and God only knew what other rubbish her mother and advisors had told her of me.
I smiled too. I’d nothing to fear.
She wailed, a loud, keening howl torn from deep within her tiny body. Her head jerked back as if pulled by an unseen cord, and tears of ostentatious shame seemed to explode from her eyes. Blood began to stream from her nose and across her chin, falling and staining her bodice. She swayed in her chair, her one hand clawing at the other that I’d kissed, and abruptly she toppled to the floor at my feet in a dead faint.
At once her attendants came to life, crying out strange exclamations in Portuguese as they rushed to her aid like a flock of chattering crows. Charles took my arm and pulled me back. He kept his hand there, too, linking us together, and making it abundantly clear to everyone which lady he’d champion. His face was taut with fury, the corners of his mouth pale from the force with which he compressed his lips.
The attendants gathered up their fallen queen and carried her from the room to another chamber, leaving behind fallen stools, forgotten prayer books, a broken strand of jet rosary beads, and Her Majesty’s handwork, the threaded needle jutting from the tight-stretched cloth.
The silence in the room was almost unbearable, with everyone waiting to measure their own response to the king’s.
His fingers tightened around my arm, his anger glowing not at me but at her.
“You must forgive the queen, my lady,” he said to me, raising his voice so that those who remained wouldn’t miss it. “She is obstinate, and ill-mannered.”
He turned to lead me back to the door and my carriage. Not one person we passed would meet that stony gaze, and our footsteps
echoed together in the too-silent hallways.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said on the steps, though of course I wasn’t. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s she who should apologize, Barbara, not you.” He kissed me a fierce kiss born of his anger toward his wife. “She has publicly defied me for the last time. I am her husband, and her governor, and I refuse to tolerate such from her again.”
I reached up and kissed his cheek, thankful he could not see my smile. Not a single person at court could now doubt that I’d be made Lady of the Bedchamber. The only question was how soon it could be done.
For many weeks, Charles and his queen had argued over my being Lady of the Bedchamber, a quarrel that had been unpleasant, even on occasion noisy, but at heart without any real violence or consequences. Because of the newness of their marriage, the king had been inclined to be gentle with his bride, and not so stern perhaps as her petulance deserved. At heart he was a kind man, even a gallant one. But even the most gentle of gentlemen can be pushed too far, and so at last Charles showed his true mettle, and taught the queen the consequences of her stubbornness.
One more time the king submitted the list with my name attached, and one more time the queen struck me from it, further demanding that he break with me and send me from the court entirely.
In turn Charles announced that he’d had enough of her enormous retinue of sour-faced, arrogant attendants, and he was packing nearly all of them back to Portugal. He’d precedent on his side; his father had done exactly the same thing with his mother’s French attendants soon after their marriage, and things had improved greatly after that. Catherine was permitted to keep a few priests, a handful of kitchen maids to prepare her appalling Iberian food, her musicians, and one ancient crone who’d been with her since birth, the Countess of Penalva, with the extra warning that the countess would be next on the ship back to Lisbon if the queen did not comply.
The queen shrieked and railed and likely tried that clever trick of a fainting nosebleed again. When that had no effect, she threatened to leave the king and return to her mother—a threat that truly infuriated Charles, for women never left him. It disturbed her mother far more, and, as the ambassador respectfully hastened to relay to Catherine, such a retreat was impossible for reasons of state. Part of her marriage settlement had included English troops to help Portugal face Spain, and the Portuguese Queen Mother was loath to give back that military support for the sake of her daughter’s tantrums.
The king held fast.
To my delight, Clarendon now stepped into the fray. He’d arranged this unfortunate marriage, and besides, he would always take anyone’s side against me. But the queen refused to heed him, either, turning shrill against her strongest ally, and the king vented his frustration on the chancellor. It was also at this time that Clarendon began to refer to me among his cronies only as the lady, refusing to speak my name outright. In a way this was an odd kind of compliment, and demonstrated how much he both hated me yet feared my power with the king.
The king failed to see it as anything but the basest insult, just as he was also angered by the chancellor’s attempts to have me removed from his company and banished from the court. The chancellor had been Charles’s constant supporter since he’d been a child, one who’d stayed by his side through the darkest days of exile, and Charles had always been faithful and respectful toward him in return. But in attempting to cross me in the guise of protecting the queen, the old man had gone too far. Charles turned on him most viciously, telling him that any enemy of mine was likewise an enemy of his—a killing rebuke that they say made Clarendon weep in bitter fury at my growing power. Though I thanked Charles profusely for being my champion, I was wise enough to keep my glee private.
Left with few supporters who spoke her language, the queen turned next to a young priest at court named Father Talbot, who could speak, and listen, to her in Spanish. This foolish young fellow urged her to stand firm against both her husband and me, branding me an “enchantress.” This made me laugh when I heard it, for in English such a title would hardly be an insult.
Yet in Spain and Portugal, an enchantress was close kin to a witch, using her seductive powers in consort with the Devil himself. This infuriated the king, as did the fact that both the queen and Father Talbot made the fatal mistake of repeating these conversations between them. Father Talbot, too, was sent away, and further, the few friends that the queen had made at court grew distant, fearful that she’d betray their conversations as she had Father Talbot’s.
Through her own foolishness, the queen now found herself deprived of her husband’s regard, her friends, her supporters, her priests, even servants who spoke her tongue. She was isolated and ignored in the public chambers at Hampton Court, and likely the private ones, too. Charles made no secret that he preferred my company to hers. Worst of all for a queen in her position, she’d still yet to demonstrate any signs of conception.
And at last she gave way.
The warrant was submitted for me to be named a Lady of the Bedchamber to the queen. My influence with the king was perceived as the strongest it had ever been, and I was flattered and courted wherever I went. His joy and delight in me was boundless.
For now, I’d won.
The twenty-third of August was set aside as the date that Charles would return to London with his new queen. Beyond the court, few knew of the troubles that had attended this still-new marriage, and most of Charles’s subjects were eager to welcome their queen and catch a glimpse of her. Instead of entering the city by carriage and horseback, Charles decided on a water-bound procession on the Thames, from Hampton Court through the countryside and city to the palace steps at Whitehall. He and Catherine would ride on an elegant open barge so all could see them, while the rest of the court would travel in decorated boats.
I decided to come back to London with my children early, to open and freshen my house in King Street. I’d learned through letters that when Roger had returned to the near-empty house after I’d fled to Richmond, he, like the queen, had finally conceded. He agreed with me that the house was mine and announced his plans to leave not only London but England entirely. He planned to remove himself to Paris or Venice, where he’d been offered a post in the doge’s navy. So far from London, no one would know his shame, and he could practice his faith freely.
I thought this was an unnecessarily overwrought gesture, especially when he coupled it with a bond of ten thousand pounds through the Earl of Suffolk, wed to my namesake, Aunt Barbara, and my uncle Lord Grandison, to indemnify himself against any debts, contracts, or pledges I might incur. That was unkind, and spiteful, too, considering how my fortunes were already soaring higher than his ever had. But if such an action helped soothe Roger’s pride, so be it. I’d so much else to consider in my life at that time that I’d not fuss with him over so paltry a question as that.
My neighbor Admiral Lord Sandwich had also come back to town early, leaving his lady to follow. As two bachelors by circumstance, we joined together at my house to sup and play cards. He was an agreeable older gentleman with a bluff sailor’s manner, and despite his wife’s attempts to tame him, he’d a sailor’s randiness, too. It was well known that he kept a mistress in Chelsea, and when in sport I proposed we play for more entertaining stakes, he was quick to agree. He gallantly lost fifty pounds to me at our little table, and when his pocket was empty, I claimed his kisses for a night or two, a settlement that pleased us both mightily.
The day of the procession on the river was warm and sunny, as fine a late summer day as can be had in England. I awakened early, as much from excitement as from the sounds of the hammering carpenters making final adjustments to the pavilions and scaffoldings along the river. As was always the case with any form of celebration in London, boys, and men who’d still the amusements of boys, were setting off firecrackers and unloaded guns for sport. By ten in the morning it was clear from the off-key singing and bellowing that a great many Londoners had decided to welcome their new queen wi
th a cheerful bout of heavy drink.
Though I’d no formal part to play in the day, I still would be seen on the walkway that ran between the river and Whitehall and overlooked the palace’s steps down to the water. This viewing spot was reserved for favored courtiers and the highest guests of the king and queen, and was shaded beneath a sailcloth awning rigged to shield us from the harshest sun. I wished to be dressed with splendor and gaiety not only fitting to my rank and the day, but also so as to be easily spied by Charles when he looked for me among the crowds—as I was most confident he would do. I chose a bright sateen gown of my usual blue, bound in cherry red, and a gold striped silk shawl that I hoped would catch Charles’s eye and act like a beckoning flag around my shoulders.
The royal barge was expected to arrive early in the afternoon. Because my house was only a short distance from the river, I walked to the steps to join the others. I took my two babes with me, to amuse them, with their nursemaid and Wilson to carry and hold them high to watch. And if the queen should happen to glance my way and see them, the proof of the king’s devotion to me—ah, well, I could not concern myself with that, either.
The river was already thick with boats and skiffs of every kind, most of them decorated in some fashion with ribbons or wreaths of flowers. From the windows of every house hung banners or pennants, and as the crowds had done for Charles’s coronation, his subjects had worn their most festive clothes in honor of the new queen. Children clustered on the bridges and along the wharves with bunches of flowers, waiting excitedly until the moment that the royal barge would pass and the flowers could be tossed toward the king and queen.
Slowly I made my way to the walkway, pausing here and there to greet friends and acquaintances. Master Lely’s portrait of me had proved to be one of his most engaging, and most popular. Engraved by Faithorne, the prints had been selling so briskly from Lely’s studio that he was already begging me to sit for him again and calling me his muse. Because of these engravings, and my new appointment, I was now more freely recognized and acknowledged than before. Even on this day that belonged to the queen, I was aware of people in the crowds below us pointing and gazing up at me, of apprentices climbing the scaffolding to ogle me and my two beautiful children—Anne was a toddling year and a half, while Charles was two months—so clearly sired by the king.
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