by Jean Plaidy
He said: ‘I owe much to Catholics. The French helped me during my exile, and they are Catholics. My little sister is a Catholic, and how could I hate her! Moreover, a Mr Giffard, who did much to make possible my escape after Worcester, was also a Catholic. Indeed no, I do not hate Catholics. In truth, I hold it great folly to hate men because their opinions differ from my own. Women of course I should never hate in any circumstances.’
‘Charles, be serious to please me.’
‘I am all seriousness.’
‘If the Pope would promise his protection to my country, it would have less to fear from Spain.’
‘The Pope will support Spain, my dear. Spain is strong, and Portugal is weak, and it is so much more convenient to support that which is in little danger of falling down.’
‘I have thought of a way in which I might appeal to the Pope, and with your permission I would do it.’
‘What is this way?’
‘I am a Catholic, here in a Protestant country. I am a Queen, and it may be that all the world knows now how good you are to me.’
Charles looked away. ‘Nay,’ he said quickly. ‘Nay . . . I am not so good as I ought to be. Mayhap the whole world but you knows that.’
She took his hand and kissed it.
‘You are the best of husbands, and I am therefore the happiest of wives. Charles, would you grant me this permission? If you did, it would make my happiness complete. You see, the Pope and others will know how you love me, and they will think I am not without influence with you . . . and thus this country. If I might write to the Pope and tell him that now that I am in England I will do everything within my power to serve the Catholic Faith, and that my reason for coming here was not for the sake of the crown which would be mine but for the sole purpose of serving my faith, I think the Pope will be very pleased with me.’
‘He would indeed,’ said Charles.
‘Oh, Charles, I would not attempt to persuade you to act against your conscience.’
‘Pray you, have less respect for my conscience. He is a weak, idle, and somnolent fellow who, I fear, often fails in his duty.’
‘You joke. You joke continually. But that is how I would have it. It is that which makes the hours spent in your company the happiest I have ever known. Charles, if I could make the Pope believe that I would work for the Catholic Faith in England, I could at the same time ask for his protection of Portugal.’
‘Yes, that is so; and I doubt not that you would get it for such a consideration.’
‘And Charles, you . . . you . . . would agree?’
He took her face in his hands. ‘I am the King of a Protestant country,’ he said. ‘What think you my ministers would say if they knew I had allowed you to send such a letter?’
‘I know not.’
‘The English are determined never to have a Catholic Monarch on their throne. They decided that, more than a hundred years ago on the death of Bloody Mary, whom they will never forget.’
‘Yes, Charles. I see you are right. It was wrong of me to ask this of you. Please forget it.’
As he continued to hold her face in his hands, he asked: ‘How would you convey such a letter to Rome?’
‘I had thought to send Richard Bellings, a gentleman of my household, whom I can trust.’
‘You suffer because of your country’s plight,’ he said gently.
‘So much! If I could feel that all was well there, I should be happy indeed.’
He was thinking how sweet she was, how gentle, how loving. He wanted to give her something; he wanted to give all that she most desired. A letter to the Pope? What harm in that? It would be a secret matter. What difference could such a letter make to him? And how it would please her! It might be the means of securing Papal protection for the poor harassed Queen Regent of Portugal, who had trials enough with her half-imbecile son as King and the Spaniards continually threatening to depose the pair of them. What harm to him? What harm in promises? And he felt a guilty need to make Catherine happy.
‘My dearest wife,’ he said gently, ‘I ought not to allow this. I know it well. But, when you ask me so sweetly, I find it mighty hard to refuse.’
‘Then Charles, let us forget I asked you. It was wrong of me. I never should have asked.’
‘Nay, Catherine. You do not ask for jewels or money, as so many would. You are content to give of your love, and that has given me great pleasure. Let me give something in return.’
‘You . . . give me something! You have given me such happiness as I never knew existed. It is not for you to give me more.’
‘Nevertheless I shall insist on granting this. To please me, you shall write this letter and despatch it. But do this yourself – let none know that I have any part in it, or the thing would be useless. Tell the Pope what you intend, ask his protection. Yes, Catherine, do it. I wish it. I wish to please you . . . greatly.’
‘Charles, you make me weep . . . weep with shame for asking more of you who have given so much . . . weep for the joy of all the happiness which has come to me, so that I wonder why Heaven should have chosen me to be so singularly blessed.’
He put his arms about her and kissed her gently.
While she clung to him he remembered a paper he carried in his pocket, which he had meant to present to her at a convenient moment.
He patted her arm gently and disengaged himself.
‘Now, my dearest, here is a little matter for you to attend to.’
He took the scroll from his pocket.
‘But what is this?’ she asked, and as she was about to look over his shoulder, he handed it to her.
‘Study it at your leisure. It is merely a list of ladies whom I recommend for appointments in your household.’
‘I will look at it later.’
‘When you can no longer feast your eyes upon your husband!’ he said lightly. ‘You will find all these ladies worthy and most suitable for the posts indicated. I know my Court far better than you can in such a short time, so I am sure you will be happy to accept these suggestions of mine.’
‘Of a certainty I shall.’
She put the scroll away in a drawer and they went out into the gardens to saunter with a few ladies and gentlemen of the Court.
It was some time later when Catherine took out the scroll and studied the list of names.
As she did so her heart seemed to stop and plunge on; she felt the blood rush to her head and drain away.
This could not be real. This was a bad dream.
At the head of the list which the King had given her was the name Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine.
It was some time before, trembling with fear and horror, she took a pen and boldly crossed out that name.
*
The King came to the Queen and dismissed all attendants so that they were entirely alone.
He began almost suavely: ‘I see that you have crossed out the name of one of the ladies whom I suggested you should take into your household.’
‘It was Lady Castlemaine,’ said Catherine.
‘Ah, yes. A lady to whom I have promised a post in your bedchamber.’
Catherine said quietly: ‘I will not have her.’
‘But I have told you that I myself promised this post.’
‘I will not have her,’ repeated Catherine.
‘Why so?’ asked the King. His voice sounded cold, and Catherine had never known coldness from him before.
‘Because,’ she said, ‘I know what relationship this woman once had to you, and it is not meet that she should be given this post.’
‘I consider it meet, and I have promised her this post.’
‘Should a lady have a post in the Queen’s bedchamber against the wishes of the Queen?’
‘Catherine, you will grant this appointment because I ask it of you.’
‘No.’
He looked at her appraisingly. Her face was blotched with weeping. He thought of all he had done for her. He had played the loving husband for two months to a w
oman who aroused no great desire within him, and all because her naïvety stirred his pity. Being considerate of her feelings he had never once reminded her of the fact that her mother had cheated him over the dowry. He had only yesterday given her permission to write a letter to the Pope, which he should not have done, and yet because he had wished to give her pleasure he had agreed that she should write it. And now when he asked this thing of her because he, in a weak moment, had promised the appointment to a woman of whose rages he was afraid, Catherine would not help him to ease the situation.
So she knew of his liaison with Barbara, yet she had never uttered a word about it. Then she was not so simple as he had thought. She was not the gentle, loving creature he had believed her to be. She was far more subtle.
If he allowed her to have her way now, Barbara’s rage would be terrible and Barbara would take her revenge. Barbara would doubtless lay bare to this foolish Queen of his the intimacies which had taken place between them; she would show the Queen the letters which he had carelessly written; and Catherine would suffer far more through excluding Barbara from her bedchamber than by accepting her.
How could he explain to the foolish creature? How could he say, ‘If you were wise you would meekly accept this woman. You have your dignity and through it could subdue her. If you would behave now with calm, dignified decorum in this matter, if you would help me out of a difficult position in which I, with admittedly the utmost folly, have placed myself, then I would truly love you; you would have my devotion for ever more. But if you insist on behaving like a silly jealous girl, if you will not make this concession when I ask you – and I know it to be no small thing, but I have given you in these last two months far more than you will ever know – then I shall love you truly, not with a fleeting passion but with the respect I should give to a woman who knows how to make a sacrifice when she truly loves.’
‘Why are you so stubborn?’ he asked wearily.
‘I know what she was to you . . . this woman.’
He turned away impatiently. ‘I have promised the appointment.’
‘I will not have her.’
‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘you must.’
‘I will not. I will not.’
‘You have said you would do anything to please me. I ask this of you.’
‘But not this. I will not have her – your mistress – in my service . . . in my own bedchamber.’
‘I tell you I have promised her this appointment. I must insist on your giving it to her.’
‘I never will!’ cried Catherine.
He could see that she was suffering, and his heart was immediately touched. She was, after all, young and inexperienced. She had had a shock. He should have prepared her for this. But how could he when she, in her deceit, had given him no indication that she had ever heard of Lady Castlemaine?
Still he realized the shock she had sustained; he understood her jealousy. He must insist on her obeying him, but he wished to make the surrender as easy as possible for her.
‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘do this thing for me and I shall be for ever grateful. Take Lady Castlemaine into your service, and I swear that if she should ever be insolent to you in the smallest degree I will never see her again.’
He waited, expecting the floods of tears, the compliance. It would be so easy for her, he was sure. Queens had been asked to overcome these awkward situations before. He thought of Catherine de’ Medici, wife of Henri Deux, who had long and graciously stood aside for Diane de Poitiers; he thought of the many mistresses of his respected ancestor Henri Quatre. He was not asking his wife anything to compare with what those monarchs had asked of theirs.
But he had been mistaken in Catherine. She was not the soft and tender girl. She was a determined and jealous woman.
‘I will not receive her into my household,’ she said firmly.
Astonished and now really angry, the King turned abruptly and left her.
*
Charles was in a quandary. It grieved him to hurt Catherine, yet less than it would have done a week before, for it seemed to him that her stubborn refusal to understand his great difficulty clearly showed that her vanity and self-love was greater than her love for him; he was able to tell himself that he had been deceived in her; and this helped him to act as he knew he would have to act. Charles wanted to be kind to all; to hurt anyone, even those whom he disliked, grieved him; revenge had always seemed to him a waste of time, as was shown by his behaviour when those men who had been instrumental in bringing about his father’s death and his own exile had been brought to trial; he wished to live a pleasant life; if some painful act had to be performed it was his main desire to get it over as quickly as possible or look the other way while someone else carried it out.
Now he knew that he was going to hurt Catherine, for he was sure that to allow Barbara to disclose to the Queen the intimate details of their relationship – which Barbara had hinted she might do, and he knew her well enough to realize that she was capable of carrying out her threat – would result in hurting Catherine more than would quietly receiving Barbara into her household.
Catherine had right on her side to a certain extent, but if she would only be reasonable, if she would only contemplate his difficulties instead of brooding on her own, she would save them all much trouble.
But she was obstinate, narrow-minded and surrounded by a group of hideous prudes; for it was a fact that those ladies-in-waiting and duennas of hers would not sleep in any beds unless all the linen and covers had been changed – lest a man might have slept there before them and so would, they believed, defile their virginity.
Catherine had to grow up. She had to learn the manners of a Court less backward than that ruled over by her stern old mother.
He would not plead with her any more; that only resulted in floods of tears; but he was convinced that to allow her to flout him would be folly. It was bad enough to have Barbara flouting him. He had to be firm with one of them; and Barbara had the whip-hand – not only because of the revelations she could make, but because of her own irresistible appeal.
So he made up his mind that if Barbara could be presented to Catherine – and Barbara had promised that she would behave with the utmost decorum, and so she would, provided she had her way – the Queen would not make a scene in front of a number of people; and then, having once received his mistress, she would find there was nothing very extraordinary in doing so.
Catherine was holding a reception in her presence room, and many of the ladies and gentlemen of the Court were with her there.
Charles was not present and Catherine, heart-broken as she was, could not prevent her gaze straying every now and then to the door. She longed for a sight of him; she longed to return to that lost tender relationship. She let herself dream that he came to her full of sorrow for the way in which he had treated her; that he implored her to forgive him and declared that neither of them should ever see or speak of Lady Castlemaine again.
Then she saw him. He was making his way to her, and he was smiling, and he looked so like the Charles he had been in the early days of their marriage. He laughed aloud and the sound of that deep attractive voice made her whole body thrill with pleasure. He had caught her eye now; he was coming towards her and his smiles were for her.
She noticed his companion then. He was holding her hand, as he always held the hands of those ladies whom he would present to her. But Catherine scarcely looked at the woman; she could see none but him, and absorb the wonderful fact that he was smiling at her.
He presented the lady, who curtsied as she took Catherine’s hand and kissed it.
The King was looking at the Queen with delight, and it seemed in that moment of incomparable joy that their differences had been wiped out. He had stepped back, and the lady he had presented remained at his side; but he continued to look at Catherine, and she felt that only he and she existed in that large assembly.
Then quite suddenly she became aware of tension in the atmosphere; she rea
lized that the ladies and gentlemen had stopped murmuring; it was almost as though they held their breath and were waiting for something dramatic to happen.
Elvira, who was standing behind her chair, leaned forward.
‘Your Majesty,’ whispered Elvira, ‘do you know who that woman is?’
‘I? No,’ said the Queen.
‘You did not catch the name. The King deliberately mispronounced it. It is Lady Castlemaine.’
Catherine felt waves of dizziness sweeping over her. She looked round at that watching assembly. She noted the smiles on their faces; they were regarding her as though she were a character in some obscene play.
So he had done this to her! He had brought Lady Castlemaine to her reception that she might unwittingly acknowledge his mistress before all these people.
It was too much to be borne. She turned her eyes to him, but he was not looking her way now; his head was bent; he seemed absorbed in what that woman was saying.
And there stood the creature – the most lovely woman Catherine had ever seen – yet her loveliness seemed to hold an evil kind of beauty, bold, brazen, yet magnificent; her auburn curls fell over bare shoulders, her green and gold gown was cut lower than all others, her emeralds and sparkling diamonds about her person. She was arrogant and insolent – the King’s triumphant mistress.
No! She could not endure it. Her heart felt as though it were really breaking; she suffered a violent physical pain as it leaped and pranced like a mad and frightened horse.
The blood was rushing to her head. It had started to gush from her nose. She saw it, splashing on to her gown; she heard the quick intake of breath as the company, watching her, gasped audibly.
Then she fell swooning to the floor.
*
The King was horrified to see Catherine in such a condition; he ordered that she be carried to her apartments, but when he realized that only the feelings of the moment – which he preferred to ascribe to anger – had reduced her to such a state, he allowed himself to be shocked by such lack of control.
He, so ready to seek an easy way out of a difficulty, so ready to accept what could not be avoided, felt his anger increasing against his wife. It seemed to him that it would have been so simple a matter to have received Barbara and feigned ignorance of her relationship with himself. That was what he himself would have done; that was what other Queens had done before her.