by Jean Plaidy
‘You talk with great indiscretion,’ said Donna Maria. ‘You, an unmarried Princess, to speak thus of a man you have never seen. You will have to be more discreet than that when you go to England.’
‘It is surprising to me,’ said Donna Elvira, ‘that you can so little love your mother . . . your brothers and your country as to rejoice in leaving them.’
‘Oh, but I am desolate at the thought of the parting. I am afraid . . . so very afraid. Please understand me. I sometimes awake with terror because I have dreamed I am in a strange land where the people are rough and dance in the streets and shout at me. Then I long to shut myself into a convent where I could be at peace. So I think of Charles, and I say to myself: No matter what this strange new land is like, he will be there. Charles, my husband, Charles, who stopped the people torturing those men who had killed his father; Charles, who said: “Have done with hanging, let it sleep”; Charles, who offered his life and fortune for that of his father. Then I am less afraid, for whatever awaits me, he will be there; and he loves me already.’
‘How know you this?’ asked Donna Maria.
‘His goodness, you mean? I have heard it from the English at our Court. And that he loves me? I have his letter here. He writes in Spanish, for he knows no Portuguese. I shall have to teach him, as he must teach me English; for the nonce we shall speak in Spanish together. I will read it, then you will stop frowning over that altar cloth and you will understand why the thought of him makes me happy.
‘“My Lady and wife,”’ she read. ‘“Already at my request the good Count da Ponte has set off for Lisbon; for me the signing of the marriage has been great happiness; and there is about to be despatched at this time after him one of my servants charged with what would appear necessary; whereby may be declared on my part the inexpressible joy of this felicitous conclusion, which, when received, will hasten the coming of Your Majesty.
‘“I am going to make a short progress into some of my provinces; in the meantime, whilst I go from my most sovereign good, yet I do not complain as to whither I go; seeking in vain tranquillity in my restlessness; hoping to see the beloved person of Your Majesty in these kingdoms, already your own; and that, with the same anxiety with which, after my long banishment, I desired to see myself within them . . . The presence of your serenity is only wanting to unite us, under the protection of God, in the health and content I desire . . .”’
Catherine looked from one woman to the other and said, ‘He signs this: “The very faithful husband of Your Majesty whose hand he kisses. Carlos Rex.”
‘Now, Donna Elvira, Donna Maria, what say you?’
‘That he hath a happy way with a pen,’ said Donna Elvira.
‘And if,’ added Donna Maria, rising and curtseying before Catherine with the utmost solemnity, ‘I may have the Infanta’s permission, I will retire, as there is something I wish to say to your royal mother.’
Catherine gave the required permission.
She returned to her needlework.
Poor Donna Maria! And poor Donna Elvira! It was true that they would go to England with her, but not to them would come the joy of sharing a throne with the most fascinating prince in the world.
*
As a result of her interview with Donna Maria, the Queen Regent sent for her daughter and, when she arrived, dismissed all attendants that they might talk in the utmost privacy.
Catherine was delighted to dispense with the strict etiquette which prevailed at the Court of Portugal; it was great happiness to sit on a stool at her mother’s feet and lean against her.
At such times a foretaste of great loneliness would come to Catherine, for she would suddenly imagine what life would be like in a strange country without her mother.
Queen Luiza was an unusual woman; strong and fiercely ambitious for her family as she was, she was the tenderest of mothers and loved her daughter more than her sons. Catherine reminded Luiza poignantly of her husband – tender, gentle, the best husband and father in the world, yet a man who must be prodded to fight for his rights, a man who could be persuaded more by his conscience than his ambition. But for Luiza, Portugal would have remained under the yoke of Spain, for the Duke of Braganza had, in the early days of his marriage, seemed content to retire with his wife and two sons to the palace of Villa Viçosa in the province of Alemtejo surrounded by some of the loveliest country in Portugal, and there live with his family the life of a nobleman. For a time Luiza herself had been content; she had savoured with delight the charms of a life far removed from intrigue; there in that paradise her daughter had been conceived and, on the evening of November 25th, St Catherine’s Day, in the year 1638, little Catherine had been born.
In spite of her practical outlook, Queen Luiza was something of a mystic. From the time the child was two she had believed that Catherine was destined to lead her country to security and be as important a factor in its history as she knew herself to have been. For it was on the child’s second birthday that greatness was thrust upon the Duke of Braganza and, had it not been for his two-year-old daughter, it might have happened that the great opportunity to rescue Portugal from Spanish tyranny would have been lost.
Never would Luiza forget that November day when the peace of the Villa Viçosa had suddenly given place to ambition. Portugal had been a vassal state to Spain since the mighty Philip II had made it so, and during the course of sixty years of bondage there had crept into the minds of the new generation a lassitude, a dull acceptance of their fate. It needed such as Luiza to rouse them.
Into the Villa Viçosa had come Don Gaspar Cortigno; he talked long and eloquently of the need to break away from the Spanish tyrants; he brought assurances that if the Duke of Braganza, the last of the old royal line, would agree to lead the revolt, many of the Portuguese nobility would follow him.
The Duke had shaken his head; but Luiza had been filled with ambition for her husband, her sons and her daughter. They were happy, she agreed, but how could they be content, knowing themselves royal, to ignore their royalty? How could they ever be content again if they did not keep faith with their ancestors?
‘We are happy here,’ said the Duke. ‘Why should we not go on being happy all the days of our lives?’ His eyes pleaded with her, and she loved him; she loved her family; yet she knew that never would her husband be completely happy again; always there would be regrets, reproaches and doubts in his mind. She knew that it might well be their children who, on reaching maturity, would accuse their parents of robbing them of their birthright. Then beside her was her little daughter catching at her hand, begging to be noticed; and inspired with the certainty that this appeal must not be turned aside, Luiza caught the child to her and cried: ‘But, my lord, here is an omen. It is two years since this child was born. Our friends are with us to celebrate her birthday. This is a sign that it is the will of Heaven that your sons should regain the crown of which we have long been deprived. I regard it as a happy presage that Don Gaspar comes this day. Oh, my lord and husband, can you find it in your heart to refuse to confer on this child the rank of King’s daughter?’
The Duke was struck by the glowing countenance of his wife, by the strange coincidence of the messenger’s coming on the birthday of his daughter; and he thereupon agreed to relinquish his peaceful life for one of bloodshed and ambition.
Often he regretted that decision; yet he knew that he would have regretted still more had he had to reproach himself for refusing to take it. As for Luiza, she was certain that Catherine’s destiny was entwined with that of Portugal.
It was for this reason that she had kept Catherine so long unmarried; it was for this reason that she had determined to wait for the conclusion of the match with England.
And, during the years which had followed the Duke’s decision, success had come to his endeavours and he had regained the throne; but the struggle had so impaired his health that he had died worn out with his efforts; and since Don Alphonso, his elder son, was somewhat simple-minded, his mother Luiza was
Queen Regent and ruler of Portugal, for so ably had she advised her husband that on his death, when the government of the country was left entirely in her hands, she continued to preserve Portugal from her enemies and became known as one of the ablest rulers in Europe.
But now, as she confronted her daughter and thought of the life which lay before her in what she knew to be fast gaining a reputation as the most profligate Court in Europe, and a rival to the French, she was wondering whether she had been as wise in conducting her family affairs as she had been in managing those of her country. Catherine was twenty-three, a normal and intelligent young woman, yet so sheltered had her life been that she was completely ignorant of the ways of the world.
She had seen the felicitous relationship of her father and mother and did not realize that men such as the Duke of Braganza – faithful husband and loving father, gentle yet strong, full of courage, yet tender and kind – were rare indeed. Catherine in her innocence would think that all royal marriages resembled that of her father and mother.
‘My dearest daughter,’ said the Queen, embracing Catherine, ‘I pray you sit here beside me. I would talk to you in private and most earnestly.’
Catherine sat at her mother’s feet and rested her head against her farthingale. It was in moments of intimacy such as this that she was allowed to give vent to her tender feelings.
Luiza let her hand rest on her daughter’s shoulder.
‘Little daughter,’ she said tenderly, ‘you are happy, are you not? You are happy because there is now every likelihood that this marriage will come to pass?’
Catherine shivered. ‘Happy, dearest mother? I think so. But I am not sure. Sometimes I am a little frightened. I know that Charles is the most charming King in the world, and the kindest, but all my life I have been near you, able to come to you when I was in any difficulty. I am happy, yes. I am excited. But sometimes I am so terrified that I almost hope the arrangements will not be completed after all.’
‘It is natural that you should feel so, Catalina, my dearest child. Everything you feel is natural. And however kind your husband is to you and however happy you are, you will sometimes long for your home in Lisbon.’
Catherine buried her face in the serge farthingale. ‘Dearest Mother, how can I ever be completely happy away from you?’
‘You will learn in time to give all your devotion to your husband and the children you will have. We shall regularly exchange letters, you and I. Perhaps there may be visits between us. But they would be infrequent; that is the fate of royal mothers and daughters.’
‘I know. But, Mother, do you think in the whole world there was ever such a happy family as ours has been?’
‘It is given to few to know such happiness, it is true. Your father was deeply conscious of that. He would have lived peacefully in the Villa Viçosa and shut his eyes to his duty for the sake of the happiness he could have had with us. But he was a king, and kings, queens and princesses have their duties. They must not be forgotten for the sake of quiet family happiness.’
‘No, Mother.’
‘Your father agreed on that before he died. He lived nobly, and that is the way in which we must live. My dearest Catherine, it is not only that you will be marrying a very attractive King who will be a good husband to you, you will be making the best possible marriage for the sake of your country. England is one of the most important countries in Europe. You know our position. You know that our enemies, the Spaniards, are ever ready to snatch from us that which we have won. They will be less inclined to attack us if they know that our family is united in marriage with the royal family of England, that we are no longer alone, that we have a powerful ally at our side.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘So it is for the sake of Portugal that you will go to England; it is for your country’s sake that you will do there all that is expected of a queen.’
‘I will do my best, dear Mother.’
‘That brings me to one little matter with which I must acquaint you. The King is a young man who will soon be thirty-two years of age. Most men marry before they reach that age. The King is strong, healthy and fond of gay company. It is unnatural for such a man to live alone until he reaches that age.’
‘To live alone, Mother?’ said Catherine, puzzled.
‘To live unmarried. He, like you, could only marry one who was royal, and therefore suitable to his state. It would have been unwise for him to marry while in exile. So . . . he consoled himself with one who cannot be his wife. He had a mistress.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ said Catherine. ‘I think I understand.’
‘It is the way of most men,’ said Luiza. ‘There is nothing unusual in this.’
‘You mean there is a woman whom he loves as a wife?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And that when he has a wife in truth he will no longer need her? She will not be very pleased to see me in England, will she?’
‘No. But her feelings are of no account. It is the King’s which are all-important. He might dismiss his mistress when he takes a wife, but it has come to my ears that there is one lady to whom he is deeply attached.’
‘Oh . . .’ breathed Catherine.
‘You will not see her, for naturally he will not let her enter your presence, and you must avoid all mention of her. And eventually the King will cease to require her, and she will quietly disappear. Her name is Lady Castlemaine, and all you have to do is avoid mentioning her name to anyone – anyone whatsoever – and foremost of all to the King. It would be a grave breach of etiquette. If you hear rumours of her, ignore them. It is a very simple matter really. Many queens have found themselves similarly placed.’
‘Lady Castlemaine,’ repeated Catherine; then she suddenly stood up and threw herself into her mother’s arms. She was shivering violently, and Luiza could not soothe her for some time.
‘There is nothing to fear, dearest,’ she murmured again and again. ‘Little daughter, it happens to so many. All will be well. In time he will love you . . . only you, for you will be his wife.’
*
Every day the arrival of the Earl of Sandwich was expected. He was to come to Lisbon with ships so that he might conduct Catherine and her entourage to England.
Still he did not come.
Catherine, bewildered by the sudden change the last months had brought, wondered whether he ever would. She had not left the Palace more than ten times in the whole of her life, so determined had her mother been to keep her away from the world. Exercise had been taken in the Palace gardens and never had she been allowed to leave her duenna; now that she was Queen of England – for she had been proclaimed as such since the marriage treaty had been ratified in Lisbon – she had left the Palace on several occasions. It had been strange to ride out into the steep streets, to hear the loyal shouts of the people and to bow and smile as she had been taught. ‘Long life to the Queen of England!’ they shouted. She was now allowed to visit churches, where she prayed to the saints that her marriage might be fruitful, and that long prosperity might come to the sister countries of Portugal and England.
When she was alone she took out the miniature which had been brought to her by Sir Richard Fanshawe who was in Portugal to help further the match, and she would feel that she already knew the man pictured there. He was as dark and swarthy as her own brothers, so that she felt he was no foreign prince; his features were heavy, but his eyes were so kindly. She thought of him as the man who had offered his life for the sake of his father and, although she was frightened of leaving her home and her mother, although she was fearfully perplexed at the thought of a woman named Lady Castlemaine, she longed to meet her husband face to face.
But still the Earl of Sandwich did not come.
*
Luiza, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Earl, began to be afraid. This marriage with England meant so much to her. If it should fall through she could see that the honour and comparative security, which she and her husband had won for Portugal during the
long years of endurance, might be lost.
The Spaniards were doing all in their power to prevent the marriage; that in itself showed how important it was. Already they were massing on the frontiers, ready for an attack, and she, being obliged to raise forces without delay, had been hard put to it to find the money to do this, so that it had been necessary to use some of that which she had set aside for her daughter’s dowry – that very dowry which had made Catherine so attractive to the English King. The thought of what she would do when the time came for Catherine’s embarkation and the handing over of the dowry gave her many a sleepless night; but she was a woman of strong character who had faced so many seemingly insurmountable difficulties in her life that she had learned to deal only with those which needed immediate attention, and trust in good fortune to help her overcome the others when it was absolutely necessary to do so.
There was another matter which gave her grave concern. She was sending her daughter into a strange country to a man she had never seen, without even the security of marriage by proxy.
‘I send you my daughter the Infanta, unmarried,’ she had written, ‘that you may see what confidence I have in your honour.’
But she doubted whether that would deceive the King of England and his ministers. They would know that the Papal See, which was still the vassal of Spain, had never acknowledged Catherine as the daughter of a king; the Pope, when he gave the dispensation for the Infanta to marry a prince of the Reformed Faith – and the marriage could not be performed in Portugal without such a dispensation – would give her title not as Infanta of the Royal House of Portugal, but merely as the daughter of the Duke of Braganza. And that, Luiza felt, was a greater shame than any which could befall her.