by Jean Plaidy
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 succoured 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 marvelled 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 lightheaded that she thought she was the mother of a son.
Perhaps she was thinking of the tales she had heard of Charles’s 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 night-cap, 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 serious 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 favour. 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 grey hairs have grown out of your anxiety as to what would become of me?’ she asked.
‘Assuredly they did.’
‘Then I think mayhap I shall enjoy seeing you without your periwig.’
He smiled, but the next time she saw him he was wearing it. He looked a young man with the luxuriant curls falling over his shoulders, although his face was lined and on his dark features there were signs of the merry life he lived. But he was tall and slender still and so agile. Then she remembered with horror that she had had all her beautiful hair cut off when the fever was on her, and that she must be plainer than she had ever been before.
Yet he seemed determined to assure her of his devotion; and when she was told that she must impute her recovery to the precious relics which had been brought to her in her time of sickness, she answered: ‘No. I owe my recovery to the prayers of my husband, and the knowledge that he was beside me during my trial.’
FIVE
ALAS, AS CATHERINE’S health improved the King’s devotion waned. It was not that he was less affectionate when they were together; it was merely that they were less frequently together. Irresistible attractions drew him away from Catherine’s side.
Barbara had been delivered of a fine son whom she called Henry. The King had refused to own him as his child, yet Catherine knew that he often visited Barbara’s nurseries to see those children whom he did accept, and it had been reported to her that he was mightily wistful when he regarded the new baby, and that Barbara was hopeful.
What a cruel fate this was! Barbara had child after child; in fact it seemed that no sooner was one born than another was on the way; and yet Catherine, who so longed for a child, who so needed a child, had lost hers and she was so weak after her long illness that it was doubtful whether she would be fit to have another for some time.
It was a source of grief and humiliation to her to know that Barbara championed her, so little did the woman regard her as a rival. She had heard that Barbara had prayed fervently for her recovery – not out of love for her, of course, but because as a Queen she was so ineffectual that there was not the slightest need to be jealous of her.
The woman whom all were watching now, some with envy, some with speculation, was Frances Stuart. The King was becoming more and more enamoured every day, and Frances’s determination not to become his mistress, while it might have seemed laudable to some, was ominous to others.
The affair of the calash seemed significant.
This beautiful glass coach, the first of its kind ever seen in England, was a French innovation which Louis’s ambassador, hoping to ingratiate himself and his country with the King, had presented to Charles. The entire Court was enchanted by the dazzling vehicle and, as Charles gave most of his presents to one of his mistresses – usually Barbara – it was Lady Castlemaine who immediately declared her intention of being the first to be seen in it.
Barbara visualized the scene – herself ostentatiously cutting a fine figure in Hyde Park with the crowd looking on. They would have heard of the presentation of the calash, and they would realize when they saw her within it that her favour was as high as ever with the King.
There had been a reconciliation between Charles and her, for, although the King was in love with Frances Stuart, he could not remain faithful to a woman who denied him her favours, and he was still supping now and then at Barbara’s house, although often it was necessary for her to have Frances as a guest in order to ensure the King’s attendance.
Barbara was pregnant again, and although the King had not yet accepted Henry, she was certain that he would do so ere long, and she assured him that the child she now carried was undoubtedly his.
It was evening of the day when Gramont had presented the glass coach, and the King and Barbara were at last alone. Barbara, remembering how soulful Charles had looked while he watched the simpering little Stuart building her card-houses after she had insisted on the company’s joining her in a madcap and very childish game of blind man’s buff, had determined to show the Court and the world that her hold on the King was still firm.
‘Tomorrow,’ she announced, ‘the calash should be shown to the people.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the King absently. He was wondering whether Frances had seemed a little more yielding this evening. When he had kissed her during the game of blind man’s buff she had not turned away; she had just laughed on a note of shrill reproof which might not have been reproof after all.
‘You know how they hate things to be hidden from them, and they will have heard of the calash. They will expect to see it in Hyde Park as soon as the weather permits.’
‘’Tis true,’ said the King.
‘I would wish to be the first to ride in it.’
‘I hardly think that would be meet,’ said the King.
‘Not meet! In what way?’
‘The Queen has said that she would wish to ride in it with my brother’s wife. She says that is what the people will expect.’
‘The people will expect no such thing.’
‘You are right,’ said the King ruefully. ‘And that points to our bad conduct in the past.’
‘Bad conduct!’ snorted Barbara. ‘The people want to see the calash, not the Queen.’
‘Then since it is the calash they wish to see, and the purpose of the ride is to please them, it matters not who rides in it. Therefore the Queen and the Duchess of York should do so.’
Barbara stood up, her eyes flashing. ‘Every
thing I ask is denied me. I wonder that you can treat me thus!’
‘I have always thought the truth much more interesting than falsehood,’ said the King. ‘You know you have been denied very little, and it is tiring to hear you assert the contrary.’
Barbara’s common sense warned her. Her position with the King was not what it had been. Her great sensuality could stand her in good stead only for the immediate future. She knew that Frances Stuart had first place in the King’s heart. But it maddened her now to think that it might have been Frances herself who had suggested that the Queen should be the first to ride in the calash. The sly creature was for ever declaring her devotion to the Queen; it was part of her campaign, like as not.
But Barbara was determined to ride in the calash.
She cried: ‘So you are tired of me! You have taken my youth . . . all the best years of my life . . . and now that I have borne so many children . . .’
‘Of whose parentage we must ever remain in doubt.’
‘They are your children. Yours . . . yours! It is no use denying your share in the making of them. I have devoted my life to you. You are the King, and I have sought to serve you . . .’
‘Barbara, I beg of you, make no scenes now. I have had enough of them.’
‘Do not think to silence me thus. I am to have our child . . . our child, sir. And if you do not let me ride first in the calash I shall miscarry this child. Aye, and all the world shall know it was through the ill-treatment I received from its father.’
‘They would not be very impressed,’ said Charles lightly.
‘Do not dare to laugh at me, or I shall kill myself . . . as well as the child.’
‘Nay, Barbara. You love yourself too well.’
‘Oh, will I not!’ She looked about her and called wildly: ‘A knife! A knife! Bring me a knife. Mrs Sarah! Do you hear me?’
The King went to her swiftly and placed his hand over her mouth. ‘You will make it impossible for me to visit you,’ he said.
‘If you did not, I should make you repent it!’