by Jean Plaidy
Charles interrupted: ‘I beg of you, Mam, say no more. My wife will expect too high a standard of me.’
‘And why should she not expect you to be like your father! I trust that you may bring her as much happiness as he brought me . . . though . . . through my love of him I suffered much. But is not that the way with love? To love is to suffer . . .’
Catherine said fervently: ‘It is true, Your Majesty. To love is to suffer.’
‘Well, let us not talk of suffering on such a happy occasion,’ said the King. ‘Tell me, Mam, how is my sister?’
Henrietta Maria frowned. ‘She has her trials. Her husband is not kind to her.’
‘I am sorry for her,’ said Catherine.
‘Ah . . . indeed, yes. When I think of the regard the King of France has for her . . . when I think of what might have been . . .’
‘It is useless to dwell on what might have been,’ said the King. ‘It grieves me that my sister is not happy.’
‘You must not be jealous of his love for his sister,’ said Henrietta Maria to Catherine. ‘I declare that my daughter’s husband is jealous of hers for him. They have been devoted all their lives.’
The Duke of York joined in the conversation and Henrietta Maria chattered on in her garrulous way; her manner faintly cool to the Duchess of York whom Charles had forced her to accept, but James had always been a favourite of hers. She made little attempt to veil her likes and dislikes. She asked how fared that man Hyde – she refused to give him his title of Earl of Clarendon – and she asked if her son was still as strongly under his influence as he always had been.
The King turned aside her awkward remarks with his easy manner, and Catherine felt more deeply in love with him than ever before.
She could not be unhappy while they were together thus, for although it might only have been for the sake of etiquette, the King would turn to her again and again, and it was delightful to enjoy the warmth of his smiles and his tender words once more.
She felt desolate when it was time to return to Hampton Court, but she found that the King’s manner towards her did not change as they rode away from London. He remained friendly and charming; though of course she knew that he would not be her lover.
Even then she did not see how much happier her life might have been had she given way on this one matter; and although she had been able to set aside her misery during the visit to Greenwich, still she determined to nurse it, and the matter of Lady Castlemaine’s admittance to the household was still between them.
Henrietta Maria visited the King and Queen at Hampton Court, and during the month of August Catherine made her first public entry into the capital of her new country.
She rode down the river in the royal barge; and by her side was Charles, delighted to be on water, and returning to his capital. Full of charm and gaiety he was tender and affectionate. The Duke and the Duchess of York were with them in the brilliantly decorated barge, as well as those Princes, cousins of the King, Rupert and Edward, with the Countess of Suffolk; other members of the royal household followed. All along the river banks cheering people watched them; and when they were within a short distance of London they left the barge for a large boat with glass windows. The awnings were covered in gold-embroidered crimson velvet.
Now they were ready for the triumphal entry.
‘And this,’ Charles told his wife, ‘is all in honour of you.’
The river was crowded with craft of all description, for the Lord Mayor and companies had turned out in force to play their Queen, to the tune of sweet music, into her capital. On the deck of their boat, beneath the canopy which had been made in the form of a cupola with Corinthian pillars decorated with flowers, sat Catherine and Charles.
To Catherine it was inspiring and thrilling. The music enchanted her as did the shouts of the people acclaiming their loyalty to the royal pair; but what delighted Catherine more than anything else was the fact that Charles was beside her, her hand was in his, and his affable smiling face turned again and again from his cheering people to herself.
It was possible to believe that their differences were forgotten, that all was well between them, and that they were lovers again.
And so to Whitehall, of which the King had often talked to her, where the public crowded into the banqueting hall to watch the royal party dine.
Catherine realized now how much a part of this merry boisterous existence Charles himself was, how his ready smiles to the humblest, how his quick retorts, his dispensing with royal dignity, appealed to the people. They were delighted – those who crowded about Whitehall and came into the private apartment to see their royal family – with the easy manner of their King and his friendliness to all; they were enchanted with the extravagance of his Palace and glittering splendour of the gentlemen of his Court and the beauty of the ladies.
They loved their King not only because of his good nature – and when he had returned to England he had brought with him a colourful way of life – but also for his weaknesses, for providing them with many a titbit of scandal; they loved him for his love affairs, which could always be relied upon to raise a laugh in any quarter, and were such a contrast to the dull, drab and respectable existence of men such as Cromwell and Fairfax.
Now he joked with the Queen and his mother at the royal table, and the crowd looked on and enjoyed his wit.
Catherine was shocked when, before them all, he discussed the possibility of her bringing an heir to England.
‘I believe he will soon put in an appearance,’ said Charles.
‘This is wonderful news!’ cried Henrietta Maria.
Catherine looked from one to the other, trying to follow the conversation which was taking place in English.
The King turned to her and explained what had been said.
Catherine blushed hotly, and the people laughed.
She stammered in English: ‘You lie.’
At which the whole assembly burst into loud laughter on hearing the King so addressed; and none laughed more heartily than the King.
He said: ‘And what will my people think of the way in which I am treated by my wife? These are the first words in English she has uttered in public.’ His face wore a look of mock seriousness. ‘And she says I lie!’
He then turned to her and said that she must talk more in English, for that was what his people would like to hear; and he made her say after him such phrases as set the people rocking with hilarious laughter in which all the noble company joined.
*
But Catherine’s joy was short-lived, for it was not long before Barbara appeared at Whitehall. No more was said as to her becoming a lady of the bedchamber; she was just there, always present, brilliantly beautiful; so that whenever Catherine compared herself with Charles’s notorious mistress she felt plain – even ugly – quite dull and completely lacking in charm.
She grew sullen; she sat alone; she would not join any group if Barbara was there, and, as the King always seemed to be where Barbara was, all the brilliant and amusing courtiers were there also.
Almost everyone deserted the Queen; the Earl of Sandwich, who had been so charming when he had come to Portugal, no longer seemed to have any time to spare for her; young Mr James Crofts, a very handsome boy of about fifteen, scarcely noticed her at all, and moreover she felt that the fact that he was received at Court was an affront to herself, for she knew who he was – the son of a woman as infamous as Lady Castlemaine. And the boy’s features, together with a somewhat arrogant manner would have proclaimed him to be Charles’s son – even if the King did not make it openly obvious that this was so.
James Crofts was often with the King; they could be seen sauntering in the Park, arm in arm.
Catherine heard what was said of the King and this boy. ‘Greatly His Majesty regrets that he was not married to the mother of such a boy, for it is clear that handsome Mr James Crofts is beloved by his father.’
James gave himself airs. He was at every state occasion magnificently d
ressed, and already ogling the ladies. He was a fervent admirer of Lady Castlemaine and sought every opportunity of being in her company; and there was nothing this lady liked better than to be seen with the King and his son, when they laughed and chatted together.
There were some who said that young James’s feeling for his father’s mistress was becoming too pronounced, and that the lady was not displeased by this, but that when the King realized that this boy of his was fast becoming a man he would be less fond of Master James. The King however was human and, like all parents, took far longer than others to become aware that his son was growing up.
Although the King was outwardly affectionate to his wife, all knew of his neglect of her. It was said that he was pondering whether he might not proclaim Mr Crofts legitimate, give him a grand title, and make him his heir. If he did this it would mean that he had decided no longer to hope for an heir from the Queen; and all understood what that implied.
So Catherine grew more and more wretched during those summer months. It seemed to her that she had only two friends at Court. Most of her attendants were returning to Portugal and all her most intimate friends were to leave her, with the exception of Maria the Countess de Penalva for, it was said, the King thought Maria too old and infirm to influence Catherine and support her in her stubbornness.
That other friend was a younger brother of the Earl of Sandwich – Lord Edward Montague – who held the post of Master of Horse in her household.
Edward Montague had by his demeanour shown his sympathy with her and had told her that he considered she was shamefully treated.
She found some pleasure therefore in listening to his words of sympathy, for it was comforting to think that in the royal household there was at least one who understood her.
When she said goodbye to her servants she continued to believe that Charles had deprived her of their company in order to spite her. She would not accept the fact that custom and the wishes of English members of the household demanded their departure.
She withdrew herself more than ever; she began to see that in refusing to accept Lady Castlemaine she had brought nothing but sorrow to herself. She had lost the King’s affection, which had been given to a meek and gentle woman; and at the same time Lady Castlemaine had become a member of her household in spite of her dissent. Now James Crofts was made Duke of Monmouth, and was taking precedence over every other Duke in the kingdom with one exception – that of the King’s brother James.
She herself was of no account; she had brought no good to her husband; her dowry was unpaid; her country was begging for England’s military help; valuable English ships were kept in the Mediterranean to assist Portugal should Spain attack.
She was the most wretched of Queens for, in spite of all she had suffered, she continued to love her husband.
*
She paced up and down her apartment.
Her country was in danger, she knew. If Charles withdrew his fleet Portugal would be once more the vassal of Spain. All the political advantages which this marriage had been intended to secure would be lost.
And it was due to her obstinacy. Was it obstinacy? She did not know. Was it her pride? Was it her vanity? She had dreamed of his chivalry; she had set him up in her mind and heart as the perfect man; and when she had met him in the flesh she had discovered him to be – so she had thought – more lovable than her ideal. That ideal had been noble, a little stern; she had never thought of his making merry. The reality had seemed noble but never stern; he was fond of laughter; he was affectionate – the kindest man in the world.
And suddenly one night as she lay alone, the knowledge came to her. She loved him; she would always love him; she loved him not only for his virtues but for his faults. She no longer wanted that ideal; she wanted Charles the living man. Suddenly she realized that she was married to the most fascinating Prince in the world and that, although she was not sufficiently beautiful or charming, so kindly was his nature that she could still expect much affection from him.
He had asked one thing of her, and she failed to give it because it had seemed impossible to give. He had asked her to accept him as he was – frail, a lover of women other than herself – and she had failed him in the one important thing he had asked of her.
She remembered now the kindness with which he had first received her; she remembered how, when he had come into her bedchamber, he had made her feel that she was beautiful and desirable, not because he found her so, but because he knew that that was what she wished to be. He would deceive in order to please; she had failed to appreciate that. She had set him stern rules, conventional rules; she had tried to make a saint of the most charming sinner in the world, little realizing that saints are often uncomfortable people and that their saintliness is often attained at the cost of that kindly good nature which was an essential part of Charles’s character.
She saw clearly his side of their disagreement, as she had never thought to see it, and she cursed herself for a fool because she had failed him when he asked her help.
She loved him; any humiliation was not too much to suffer for the sake of his affection.
She determined to regain that affection. She would not tell him of her decision; she would startle him by her friendly manner towards Lady Castlemaine. Mayhap it was not too late.
*
In the early hours of the morning as he left his mistress’s apartment in the Cockpit and strolled back to his own in the main Palace, Charles was thinking of Catherine. He wondered how many people in the Court knew of these nightly wanderings of his to and from Barbara’s apartment. Did Catherine know? Poor Catherine! He had been wrong to show coldness to her. He had asked too much of her. Could he have expected an innocent and ignorant girl, brought up as she had been, to understand his blasé point of view?
No! Catherine had acted in accordance with what she had considered to be right. She had clung to her duty. He, who would have sought an easy way out of the difficulty, must admire her for her strength of purpose. She had endured his neglect without much complaint, and he had behaved very badly.
She was the Queen, and he must put an end to this state of affairs. Barbara was often unbearable. He would tell her she must leave the Court. That should be his first concession to Catherine. Gradually he would let her see that he wished them to return to a happier relationship.
Poor homely little Catherine! She was a good woman, though a stubborn one, but well within her rights he doubted not.
‘I will see what may be done about remedying this difference between us,’ he mused.
And so, salving his conscience, he returned to his apartment.
*
Catherine’s change of manner towards Lady Castlemaine caused great astonishment.
It was so sudden, for not only did she speak with her as hitherto she had not done, but she seemed actually to enjoy that lady’s company more than that of any other. She referred to Barbara as ‘my friend Lady Castlemaine’.
Poor Catherine! So eager was she for the King’s regard that, having once made up her mind to turn about, she could not do so quickly enough.
Those few who had sought to curry favour with the Queen for what it might be worth, were now alarmed and tried to remember what derogatory remarks they had made about Barbara. Those who had ignored Catherine were equally astonished.
Clarendon thought her inconsequent and unreliable. ‘This,’ he said to Ormond, ‘is the total abandonment of her greatness. She has lost all dignity; for, although I continued to warn her against her stubborn conduct, yet I was forced to admire it. In future none will feel safe with her. The Castlemaine herself is more reliable.’
The King, too, was astonished. He had not asked for such affability. He would have preferred her to have been cool with Barbara. It seemed folly to have expressed such abhorrence and now to have assumed a completely opposite attitude.
I was a fool, he told himself. I worried unduly. She is not the woman I thought her. She gives way to sudden passions. Her
persistent refusal to receive Barbara did not grow out of her sense of rightness; it was pure perversity.
He shrugged his shoulders and decided to let matters take their course.
*
It was the end of the year – Catherine’s first in England – and the King gave a grand ball in his Palace of Whitehall to mark the passing of the old year and the coming of the new.
Into the great ballroom the public crowded to watch the dancing. There was the King, the most graceful dancer of all, more merry than any, clad in black with flashing diamonds adorning his person, surrounded by his fine courtiers and beautiful ladies. A little apart sat the Queen with Edward Montague and a few of her friends; and although she smiled often, chatted in her quaint English and seemed to be enjoying the ball, it was noticed how her eyes wistfully went back and back again to the tall figure of her husband.
She watched him leading the Duchess of York out for the brantle. And how ungainly was the Duchess beside such an elegant partner! The Duke led the Duchess of Buckingham, poor Mary Fairfax, for whom Catherine had a feeling of deep sympathy, for Mary was plain, ungainly and so eager to please the brilliant handsome man she had married; Catherine noticed how all eyes were on that other pair which joined the brantle with the King’s group. Tall, dark James Crofts, the Duke of Monmouth, looking amazingly like his father, had chosen for his partner the most strikingly handsome woman in the ballroom. There were gasps from the people who had come in from the streets to watch the royal party at their pleasure; there was a titter of grudging admiration for the auburn-haired beauty with the flashing blue eyes.
Her jewels were more brilliant than those of any woman in the room, and she held herself imperiously as though conscious of her power; and now she was amused because she knew that the King was aware of the warm looks of this very young boy who was her partner in the dance.