The group by the fire exchanged glances, few of them sympathetic. “Of course you like her,” Nan said. “You’re half-foreign yourself, aren’t you? And making the most of it, too, taking trays up when it’s not your place and hobnobbing with that Jew perfumer and—”
Too angry to speak, Jenny rose up and slapped her, then swept out before anybody could stop her.
• • •
On the seventh morning after the queen’s landing, a messenger thundered into the forecourt, leapt from his sweating, muddy horse, and demanded to be brought before the Duke of York. As the duke was with his barber, he was received by the Earl of Sandwich, who listened to what he had to say, then called for his man to rouse the household. It seemed that the king had lain at Guildford the night before and was even now taking horse to ride to Portsmouth. He would be there, the messenger said, within these two hours.
• • •
Catherine looked very small in the massive bed, with its carved mahogany posts and looped-back hangings of heavy crimson silk. The immense bedchamber was at this moment thronged and humming with absolutely everyone in the house who had the slightest excuse to be there. She sat very straight, her back scarcely touching the bolster, clad in layers of intricately embroidered white-on-white nightclothes with a delicate white embroidered cap covering her hair, which was carefully arranged to look easy and dégagé, and tried not to stare expectantly at the door like a dog who thinks his master is just on the other side.
The long-awaited meeting was upon her. Over the past week, she had been anxious for it, then more anxious, then very anxious indeed. Now she was conscious of resentment. Though she’d been put off and explained to and mollified, she was perfectly able to do the simple-enough sum: one day for a messenger to reach London, two days by carriage from London, perhaps a day between for preparations or affairs of state (but was their wedding not an affair of state?) equaled four days. Allow one more day perhaps for bad roads, on account of the rain. That left two days, two days at the very least, of inexplicable delay.
Which equaled . . . exactly what, she could not know. Nothing good. Why had she been left sitting here for a full week, like a forgotten doll? Now that he was here, was she meant to forgive the insult and throw herself into his arms?
She looked down at her hands, folded idly on her lap. The aftermath of her terrible sea journey had taken its toll, and though she had insisted her chill was nothing—the merest scratch in her throat, the slightest fatigue, she took no notice of it!—it was strongly represented to her by Dõna Maria and her ladies that it would be best, at this interesting matrimonial moment, to err on the side of coddling a slight indisposition. Catherine had seen her mother receive in her bedchamber thus, doing great business of state and entertaining with perfect equanimity, though it felt an odd way to meet a husband for the first time. At least it solved the question of what to wear.
A footstep in the hall, and every head in the room jerked up. It was only a servant, bringing more wine. Everyone subsided, went back to their conversations, like doves shaking out their feathers and resuming their roosts. Catherine stirred abruptly, pushed back the bedclothes, half tucked her legs under her as though about to rise. All heads turned to look, and Dona Maria, who had been sitting by the bed, said, “Catarina, compose yourself, what would you?”
“What would I?” Catherine said. “I hardly know! Waiting is terrible; I want to be doing something.”
Dona Maria descended on her in a rustling of skirts, tsking and patting her back into place, resettling the heavy comforter over her legs, tidying her already tidy cap. Catherine let her. What else could she do? She had waited for years to learn her fate, then waited again through months of negotiations and weeks upon the Royal Charles as the winds opposed her. Now she waited and waited to meet the man—probably a dreadful monster of a wicked bridegroom, despite everyone’s reassurances!—with whom she must be yoked for all her life, and who—to judge by his lamentable lack of haste to come to her—was reluctant even to lay eyes on her.
But before she could sort out whether she was more afraid of meeting a monster or of the monster not caring to meet her, she heard a great noise in the hall, a tramping of boots, dogs barking, and men’s voices calling out, a confusion of voices. Dona Maria stepped aside and back; all the company seemed to ebb away like a tide, as through the door he came, a throng of courtiers following at his heels, along with some half a dozen excited spaniels. Beside his royal brother, tall, handsome, princely James seemed less than he had been: less tall, less impressive—an affable hound next to a lion.
The lion himself was amazingly tall, with a straight figure and a great fall of dark curling hair. But exactly what he looked like seemed less material than the force of his personality. Catherine felt it instantly, doubled as his gaze fell upon her.
The king’s expression of amusement at whatever James had been saying as they entered shifted to a look so private Catherine forgot the attendants crowding the chamber. He crossed to her bedside and made a leg, as she bowed as best she could from her pillows. Straightening, he looked down into her eyes. “Well, my dearest wife, here you are at last.”
Catherine gaped up at him. How had she ever thought him unhandsome? He smiled, amused. For the love of all the saints, Catarina, she thought. Collect your wits!
She cleared her throat. “And here you are, husband, at very long last.”
“Ah, yes.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Do forgive my quite unforgivable delay. My time is never my own, you know, affairs of state—and so on.”
His spoken Spanish was much better than his written. “Oh, yes, of course. I understand,” she assured him.
“They tell me you are unwell? It could not be too serious, to leave you in such beauty.”
“I . . . Oh, I . . . I thank you, it is nothing, nothing in the least . . .” His look of tender concern had sent an absurd thrill right through her. She took a slow breath to steady herself.
“In any case, I have a small offering of atonement for my lamentable delay, if you will be gracious enough to accept it.” He turned away to take something from one of his gentlemen. When he turned back, he was holding out to her, in his big gloved hand, a small brown-and-white spotted puppy.
Catherine couldn’t help herself—she inhaled sharply and exhaled an enchanted “Ah!” She reached out both her hands, and gathered the little creature up.
“Oh, how sweet,” she said, cradling the soft, wiggling bundle to her cheek. “What is its name?”
“I have left it for you to name her. It was a bit of luck, my favorite bitch whelping just at the right time.”
Catherine looked from the dog’s melting dark eyes up into Charles’s. The room was still full of people, watching them as though they were upon a stage, but none of them mattered save one. “Shall I call her Esperanza?”
Charles smiled and sat close by her on the edge of the bed. He put both his hands around hers, and they sat with the little dog between them.
“Hope?” he said. “A lovely name. But why not Feliciana? I am sure we are to be very happy, you and I.”
And at that moment, Catherine believed it too.
Episode 2: Skilled Artifice
by Mary Robinette Kowal
May 1662
Portsmouth
Charles leaned into the stiff breeze from the port, fondling the silky ear of the red spaniel in his arms as they walked across the parade grounds of King’s House. Ironically, the palace was his brother’s, not his, for all that Charles was king. Ah well, he had plenty of palaces now, not like their days in exile. When his fingers stopped, Rogue the Fourth pushed his cold little nose into the king’s palm. Rogue was showing his age, and had gotten worn out halfway through their walk around Portsmouth. By contrast, Babette and Bacchus were dashing around in a flurry of black and white fur and gave no signs of tiring. At his side, James kept his silence, which Charles appreciated. Trust James to read a situation correctly.
Of course, his
keen understanding was why Charles had chosen him to be his best man for his marriage to Catherine. Od’s blood, but she was more like a doll than a bride. Still, with the state of Britain’s finances, she could have been a doll in truth, and her dowry would have made wedding her worthwhile. It was not as if he would lack other opportunities for sport. He sighed. In truth, his preferred sport would be in short supply until after Barbara’s confinement.
The clear spring morning seemed to have been ordered especial for the day. It was the sort of day on which one went on a picnic with a beloved companion—or it was the sort of day on which a king married his queen. The contract alone would not suffice to make the marriage binding and, Lord knew, he had put off the ceremony longer than he ought.
James cleared his throat. “Lord Aubigny seems none too happy.”
Charles lifted his head. They were turning the corner into the yard of King’s House, and on the broad stone stairs, Lord Aubigny waited with a crease between his brows. Crouching to set Rogue on the ground, Charles bent his head to the elderly dog so he need not acknowledge the peer on the stairs. “See to him, would you, James?”
“Of course.”
Likely he had not needed to ask, but it was nice to offer James permission to act sometimes. Giving Charles time to collect himself, James walked briskly to the stairs, nearly tripping as Babette and Bacchus dashed past him. Rogue waited, panting on the grass by Charles.
Charles gave him a final pat. “Shall we, little man?”
The dog wagged his tail vigorously and hopped to all fours as Charles stood, then trotted along at his feet as if he had not been tired from the walk.
James turned from Aubigny and gestured for Charles to join them. Lord, but he had hoped it was some minor detail that did not require his attention. Keeping a placid expression, Charles followed his dogs up the steps to where the two men waited.
Aubigny swept into a low bow. “Your Majesty, a word, if I might?”
“Only a single word?” Charles smiled to mask his unease. The man was one of Catherine’s almoners; he should not already require funds. She had arrived no more than a week ago and, having presented him only half her dowry, could not possibly have the effrontery to ask him for money. “I do not want to keep my queen waiting, so will grant you one. Mind you, one word only.”
Aubigny pursed his lips. Tucking in his chin, he glanced over Charles’s shoulder as if considering his choices. At last he faced the king and said, “Catholic.”
Charles’s heart leapt sideways in his chest. He swallowed. The disaster his mother had made of things with her insistence on Catholicism had led by steady steps to the end of his father’s reign. “You have my attention. Pray, feel free to use more words to elaborate.”
Leaning closer, Aubigny murmured, “Your bride . . . She has requested a Catholic ceremony.”
Under the pretense of petting Rogue, Charles bent to give himself time to consider. The dog stood on his hind legs to meet his master’s hands, closing his eyes with pleasure as Charles scratched his ears. He had a certain amount of sympathy for Catherine in this matter. If she were truly devout, then it stood to reason that her faith would extend to this sacrament also. But England would not regard the matter as anything but Charles breaking with the Anglican Church. With the monarchy so recently restored, he could ill afford to jeopardize his people’s faith in him. He straightened. “The country will not stand for it.”
“I know, sire, and to her credit, Catherine does as well. She will go through with an Anglican ceremony, but will not regard herself as married unless it is also done by a Catholic ceremony.”
“Ah.” Charles narrowed his eyes at the man. “And presumably you have discussed this with her at some length.”
Aubigny swallowed. “Indeed.”
He glanced to James. “Some warning might have been appropriate.”
“What, would you have hurried the faster from your mistress’s side? You left her to wait a full week.”
“A week in which you might have discovered many things about my bride.”
James spread his hands, shaking his head. “As far as I knew she was aware that she was marrying an Anglican king.”
“And somehow that understanding has failed.” Charles turned his gaze upon Aubigny. “I asked you to be one of Catherine’s almoners so that she was not surrounded by only her Portuguese contingent. I had rather hoped that would lessen their influence on her.”
With his head ducked and hands pressed together, Aubigny might have been a repentant monk, were it not for his embroidered gloves. “I wish I could have contrived to help her understand the situation without troubling you. She is a good and tractable creature—”
“Except on the subject of her vows.”
“One could consider holding to her previous vows as a sign of an obedient nature.”
“Or as a sign that she holds old loyalties higher than England’s own best interests.” Charles lifted his chin and studied Aubigny.
Aubigny flushed. “I assure you, sire, my first loyalty is to England and to you.”
Charles held up his hand. “I do not doubt you . . .” Though, of course, his assurance would only serve to make Aubigny more concerned that Charles had doubts and this, in turn, would hopefully encourage him to be more comprehensive in his reports in the future. He glanced at James, who pressed his lips together and gave the merest shake of his head. So much for an easy solution. Charles waved Aubigny ahead of him. “Let us go and see her.”
Seeing them start up the stairs, Bacchus raced ahead, barking to clear the path with more exuberance than the most diligent courtier. Babette and Rogue seemed to have caught Charles’s mood and stayed close by him. What was he going to do about Catherine? She had been so lovely and shy yesterday, but then, his mother could also appear compliant when it suited her. With the treasury issues, he did not need to add a Catholic problem to his reign.
Outside Catherine’s chambers, the tall vaulted ceilings made the hall seem narrower than it was. It was saved from being suffocating by the light from the windows set in the thick walls. A fire lit outside Catherine’s door lent a resinous warmth to the hall. The honor guards standing at attention straightened as Charles approached. With a bow, they opened the door and Bacchus rushed inside. Through the door, framed as if in a portrait, Charles watched Catherine sink to her knees to greet the little dog. Heedless of her ladies’ cries of dismay, she let Bacchus wiggle his delight and burrow his nose into her rose-colored skirts. The hem of her gown lifted and a tiny black nose peeked out, followed by the rest of the brown-and-white puppy he had given Catherine. The creature squirmed, rolling over to present her belly to Bacchus, and Catherine laughed.
Charles had never seen a more beautiful picture.
He stepped into the room as Babette and Rogue rushed forward to meet Catherine in a flurry of wagging tails. The room itself was crowded with women in farthingales. Save for his queen, he might have stepped back in time to when he was exiled on the Continent. The lace at his throat seemed to tighten with old memories. Always beholden to others. Always aware of what had been taken from him. Always aware of his father’s death. Charles took a breath and knelt in front of Catherine.
She glanced up, face coloring with a very pretty pink. In Spanish, she said, “Oh— Your Majesty. Forgive me for not seeing you.” Gathering her skirts, Catherine made as if to rise.
“My dear, you could not have made me happier than by greeting my little lady and gentlemen with such a welcome.” He picked up the puppy. “And how is Feliciana?”
“She was sad last night, so I let her stay on my bed.” She leaned forward and the wire frame under her hair creaked with the movement. “My ladies did not think it was appropriate, but I could not let her cry so.”
Charles fondled the puppy’s ear while the little thing squirmed in its efforts to return to the other dogs. “I am also weakened by tears, but sometimes the duties of the king require them.” He sighed and peered up at her. “My dear . . . I d
o not wish to make you cry.”
“I do not doubt that.” She turned her attention back to Feliciana. “And yet, I must wonder why you are concerned that you will.”
“It is only that . . . ” Setting Feliciana down carefully, he placed both hands on his thighs. “I understand that you wish to have a Catholic ceremony. That you will not, in fact, consider yourself wed without it.”
“Yes. I do. But not at the expense of the Anglican ceremony, I assure you. I merely wished to add the Catholic service.”
“It will still cause the English people some consternation to hear that I was wed as a Catholic. They recall my mother too well.” He hesitated. “My mother was Roman Catholic and . . . my father was very devoted to her. Some of the reforms—some of the policies he produced—were not well received. It is . . . The short of it is that the English people blame Catholicism for my father’s failures.”
She knit her hands together and bent her head. He could see the years she had spent praying in her convent echoed in the line of her neck. “If it were secret?”
The trouble was that Charles could not see any way in which the Catholic Church would not use this as a tool to promote its own agenda. Even if the ceremony were private, any priest who conducted it would be all too likely to share that he had married the King of England in secret rites. Charles sighed again and rubbed his brow. “I do not think we could keep it secret, and to be frank, marriages in England may not be performed by a Catholic priest.”
Behind him, Lord Aubigny cleared his throat. “If I might offer a possible solution, sire?”
“Since the alternatives are less than agreeable, yes, by all means.”
“There is a provision in the Catholic church for a lay wedding. I am qualified to perform it, and I am not a priest . . .”
For all Charles’s teasing of him earlier, he knew Aubigny was loyal. He could trust him to keep the secret. Charles turned it over in his mind. The law explicitly forbade marriages conducted by a Catholic priest, but if it were not a priest conducting it . . . It would still need to be a secret, but if it would soothe Catherine’s heart, then there was no true reason to decline beyond worn fears that lingered from his time in exile.
Whitehall--Season One Volume One Page 5
