Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  “Well, then . . .” Charles rose to his feet and held out his hands to Catherine. She placed her delicate palms in his. Her weight was so slight he scarcely needed any effort to lift her to her feet. “My lady, would you do me the honor of wedding me twice?”

  A small dimple formed at the corner of Catherine’s mouth. “I would, my lord.”

  • • •

  Catherine’s head itched where the wire frame of her hair dug into her scalp. She kept her hands by her side and waited in the midst of the Great Chamber in the home of the Governor of Portsmouth. She had thought they would be married in London, but evidently cementing the marriage contract with the wedding ceremony was a priority. More specifically, and in all ways terrifying, the need to consummate the marriage meant they would be wed with utmost haste. Catherine wet her lips and tried to find another topic to occupy her mind. The soft fabric of her veil fell about her shoulders and smoothed the details of the room with a haze of white. The waiting would have been more tolerable if her duenna had allowed her to bring the puppy, but Dona Maria insisted it would not be appropriate for a wedding.

  In the eyes of God, she was already a married woman, thanks to the offices of Lord Aubigny. Another ceremony was about to take place, but the one which mattered to her had happened earlier. She was married to Charles in the eyes of God and Holy Mother Church.

  Still, she felt the stares of everyone in the room. All of them had come to gawk at the foreigner who would be their queen. Biting her lip, Catherine rolled the end of a blue ribbon between her fingers. Dona Maria cleared her throat. Though she had not needed a governess since she was a little girl, the habit of obeying her duenna was hard to break, and Catherine pulled her hands away from her dress. Hundreds of little lovers’ knots covered her rose gown, and she kept fidgeting with them.

  Then Charles entered.

  Of his dogs, only Rogue accompanied him, and stayed by his left leg. The little dog’s nose was held up in the air with as much pride as a human attendant. Charles paused, his gaze resting on her, and Catherine’s skin warmed.

  He smiled and the warmth spread to Catherine’s middle. Dear Heavenly Father, she was married to this man.

  His strides were long and graceful as he crossed the room. Stopping at her side, Charles bent his head and murmured in Spanish, “Good afternoon, my little wife.”

  Catherine tilted her face up. The cloth of her veil brushed against her lips, tickling as she spoke. “Good afternoon, husband.”

  His dark eyes twinkled as he offered her his hand. “Shall we sit?”

  She nodded, placing her hand in his. His hand had callouses along the side of his index finger and the edge of his thumb. Charles gave her fingers a squeeze and led her behind a rail, which spanned the room. On the other side, two specially made thrones gleamed in the afternoon light. The sun from the high windows caught on their gilding and brightened the red cushions. Both seemed made for a man, with arms bending down to meet the carved legs, but without the wooden frame of a farthingale, she did not have to fight her skirts to sit gracefully. In fact, Catherine spread the rose fabric wide as she settled into her chair. Charles pressed her hand again and sat next to her, extending one leg in a graceful attitude. Rogue stood on his hind legs, eyeing Charles’s lap.

  Leaning forward, Charles patted the dog’s head and said something in English. Rogue dropped to the floor again and turned in a circle. Without any further fuss, he settled on the carpet between them. His little body made a spot of warmth against Catherine’s foot.

  One of the courtiers approached the throne and bowed to Charles. Upon being acknowledged, he spoke to the king in English and Charles answered him in the same language. Catherine picked at one of the lovers’ knots on her dress, trying to pull some thread of understanding out of the language. With another bow, the courtier backed away from the throne and crossed behind the rail. He raised a hand, nodding to the footmen beside the doors.

  With matched steps, they opened the great doors. A press of spectators crowded in, bringing a cacophony of English with them. Catherine’s hands tightened on the knots. So many people.

  Charles leaned over the arm of his throne and murmured. “My dear, let us thank whoever provided the rail, or we should both be crushed in the excitement.”

  She nodded, still shrinking into her veil. In the convent, it would have been remarkable if she had seen half so many people in a month. They kept coming. How would they all fit into the room? Her stomach twisted into a cramp. What if there was a fire? They would be trampled in the rush.

  Charles cleared his throat. “Do you see the man with a mustache in the red doublet with slashed sleeves?”

  By the window, a trim man with rippling waves of light brown hair leaned over a woman, apparently having a conversation with her bosom. “I do.”

  “He plays the young spark, but Thomas Killigrew is fifty if he is a day. Runs the King’s Company in London. Do you like theater?”

  Catherine bent her head at yet another reminder of how little she had been out in the world. “I have never been.”

  “Well. Well . . . we shall have to remedy this.” He squeezed her hand again. “Now, across the room, you shall find a young man who I think shall please you. Blond curls. Charming smile. Dressed in blue brocade. There—do you see him?”

  The young man in question was gesturing with great animation to a small group of people who gazed at him with rapt attention. He could not have been above eighteen, and yet had such presence that he had created a clear space for himself to rant in. He had a very pretty manner and said something which made those near to him laugh.

  “Who is he?”

  “John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. He has been a supporter of mine since the cradle. Ah—there is the law clerk, just come in the door, so I suspect we are about to begin.”

  The man whom Charles had identified as the clerk had an overlong nose, and bags beneath his eyes. He walked to the rail and turned to face the crowd. With a raised voice, he called them to order and then lifted a roll of paper over his head. From the faces of the attendant crowd, it must have been something impressive, but Catherine did not know what it might be.

  He lowered the scroll and unrolled it. Catherine worried the inside of her lip and tried to make sense of the English. Any real comprehension was obliterated by the droning tone in which he read. How was it possible to be both drowsy and nervous at the same time? She was uncertain whether being able to understand him would relieve either state. She used the privacy of her veil to study the crowd. Most kept their eyes fixed on the clerk, but one lady stared boldly at Catherine. No—not at Catherine herself, but at her dress.

  Catherine pulled her fingers away from the ribbons on her dress. At the first moment alone, her duenna would chide her for such a display of nerves. Now that Catherine was queen, Dona Maria would have no real power over her, but Catherine did not wish to endure the confrontation, after which she would surely receive a letter from Mamãe expressing disappointment. What she would give for someone who answered to her and not to her mother.

  The clerk finished reading to a mild scatter of applause. He re-rolled the paper and gave them a grave nod. From the side of the room came a welcome sight. Her godfather, Dom de Mello, had been at court making arrangements for their marriage, though she had not been privy to those. Now he walked forward and took his place. Like the clerk, he addressed the crowd in English but apparently displayed some wit, for the crowd gave a polite chuckle. Then he too unfurled a roll of paper and began to read.

  He had spoken a half-dozen words before Catherine realized that she could understand him. A knot in her chest relaxed a little.

  Their marriage contract . . . then the clerk must have read the English version of the same. She rather wished that de Mello had read first, so she might have tried piecing the English together. Though from the language in this one, it was clear that being able to understand the marriage contract did nothing to relieve her drowsiness. The abbreviated Catholic cere
mony earlier had involved none of the pageantry being displayed here, but that had given it a quiet sanctity.

  Catherine worried one of the knots again. Mamãe had promised so much with her dowry, and it had been obvious, no matter how much Catherine’s ladies tried to protect her from distress, that her mother had not sent all of the goods and money she had promised. May God forgive Mamãe if she had borne false witness with the contract.

  At last, de Mello came to the end of the long legal language of the contract and rolled the paper again. Charles stood. Whatever had prompted him, Catherine had missed, but the king was standing so she stood as well. Rogue roused himself to stand with his head turned up, watching them both. Charles offered Catherine his hand. “Well, my dear, this is the last bit to suffer through.”

  She placed her hand in his. “You make marriage sound like torture.”

  His mouth opened with a smirk and then he stopped, gaze sobering again. “I hope you will not find it so.”

  With that, he led her to the rail. A stout, ruddy man had taken Dom de Mello’s place. His snowy surplice, draped over a deep purple cassock, marked him as a clergyman of some sort. She presumed he was the Bishop of London, who Lord Aubigny had said would conduct the ceremony. The bishop greeted them in English and, save for their names, Catherine comprehended nothing. Charles retained her hand, giving her some comfort.

  The bishop paused and Charles gave a brief answer. Then the man’s gaze turned to Catherine. He very clearly asked her a question—it could be nothing but asking if she, Catherine, would take Charles as her husband. Yet the little English she possessed had fled from her mind. She could only stare at him, scrambling for what she was supposed to say.

  Charles gave her hand another gentle squeeze. Beyond the rail, the spectators shifted, murmuring among themselves. She must give some answer. Catherine nodded, desperately hoping the words would come to her mind, but it remained resolutely blank. The bishop merely waited, staring at her.

  The room spun about her and a hint of darkness crowded the edges of her vision. No. No, this was not the time to faint. She clung to Charles’s hand and tried to find her way out of the morass.

  Charles spoke in a mild tone to the bishop.

  The man frowned a trifle, but gave a nod and began to speak again. She could only infer that Charles had told him that her nod was all the agreement required.

  And then the bishop was turning from them to the assembled crowds. He lifted his hands in benediction and she heard her name, linked to Charles. As he finished speaking, the crowd burst into cheers and applause.

  At last, in the eyes of England, they were married.

  Charles released her hand and lifted her veil. The world took on sharp edges and brighter colors and there, in the center of her vision, her husband smiled at her. Her husband. “Poor thing. You are terrified, are you not?”

  “Only overwhelmed with emotion.”

  “Well, Queen Catherine . . .” He leaned down a little closer. “Let us go somewhere private, hmm?”

  Catherine clutched his hand. “Wait—please.”

  Raising his brow, Charles regarded her. “Ah . . . I did not mean to frighten you more.”

  “I am not—oh.” He had suggested they go somewhere private. Private—which could only mean one very certain thing. Catherine flushed. “It is not that. I mean to say—there is a Portuguese tradition with . . .” She gestured at the blue knots on her dress and could not think of the Spanish words for them. Plucking at one of the knots, she frowned. “These. They are . . . We put them on bride’s dresses to symbolize . . .” She sighed. “It does not signify.”

  Dom de Mello approached and bowed. “Your Majesties. May I be of assistance?”

  Shoulders sagging with relief, Catherine turned to him and lapsed back into Portuguese. “Would you be so kind as to translate for me?”

  “With gladness.” He turned to Charles and spoke to him in English, gesturing to Catherine.

  At a nod from Charles, Catherine spoke in Portuguese. “I had my dress made to represent both England and Portugal. The design is English, but the knots belong to the Portuguese tradition. They are supposed to be cut from the dress and given to our guests to represent the sacred bonds of our marriage. May we . . . ?” She switched back to Spanish so she could appeal directly to Charles. “May we share this tradition with our guests?”

  He gathered both of her hands in his and raised them, kissing each. “You are a delight.” Then he turned to the audience and explained her wishes. In short order, her duenna was brought out with a pair of gilt scissors to do the honors of cutting the knots from the dress.

  Catherine stood in the middle of the room with her chin raised, and tried to welcome their guests as they pushed past the railing. Without her farthingale, guests crowded close to her person. An older woman spoke to her in English, clutching the blue ribbon in one hand. Catherine could only smile at her. She must learn English, and soon. She could not speak to their guests, but their eagerness to snatch the scraps of ribbon seemed promising. If only they would accept her as their queen with the same willingness that they took the ribbons.

  It seemed as if the line would never end, as people continued to press forward. Each made some effusion in English. She nodded, over and over, as if she understood what they were saying. As the knots were clipped from the gown, the dress brushed her legs with disturbing intimacy. She had traded the weight of the frame for a decrease in privacy.

  And, in some ways, for a husband.

  • • •

  By the time Catherine returned to her rooms after the wedding, she was fairly certain the cramping in her stomach was not simply due to nerves. Nor was the dampness between her legs simply from the heat. The door closed on the hall and she let out a sigh of relief.

  “Beautiful! You are beautiful today,” Dona Maria cooed at her. “It seems almost a shame to let your hair down, Infanta.”

  Lady Suffolk, one of her English ladies, swished through the room with her skirts swaying gracefully. In Spanish, she said, “She is queen now.”

  “Eh . . . but she will always be Portugal’s Infanta.” Dona Maria patted the chair as if Catherine were still a child, or one of Charles’s dogs. “Sit here, Your Majesty, and we shall prepare you for your wedding night.”

  Catherine pulled her rings off and handed them to Lady Suffolk. “Thank you . . . I believe I might be in need of—” She stopped. Her Spanish education had not included the terms surrounding a woman’s cycle, so she switched to Portuguese to request the linen rags. “Paninhos de linho.”

  The activity in the room stopped. With a hiss of fabric, Dona Maria rose from her chair at the dressing table. “I beg your pardon?”

  Flushing, Catherine cleared her throat. “I believe . . . estou chovendo.”

  Lady Suffolk stared at her for a moment, delicate brows drawn together in confusion at the idiom.

  Catherine translated the Portuguese idiom as best she could. “I’m raining.”

  For a moment longer, the confusion remained upon Lady Suffolk’s face, then her expression cleared. “Oh! Your red flower has blossomed.” She folded the delicate cotton gown. “I see. It is a shame the king will not be able to . . . attend you tonight.”

  Catherine’s flush burned brighter, and yet she was also deeply, deeply relieved.

  • • •

  Charles raised his glass and laughed with the others at whatever Rochester had said. Probably something witty and, judging by the glances cast toward James, it was at his brother’s expense. Good lord, but he was exhausted, and his head was splitting. The trip down from London had been anything but pleasant, and then to have to go through two wedding ceremonies in a single day . . .

  He bent to pat Rogue, who slept at his feet, and tried to cover his yawn, but the crack of his jaw would have given him away if his courtiers weren’t all so loud. Rogue, at least, had no shame about falling asleep wherever he wished. Catherine must be just as exhausted as he.

  He grimace
d. That was one more duty left to fulfill before he could sleep. At least it was likely to be quiet. Unless she wept. He would have to do his best by her to make it as pleasant as possible. He had surely given her ladies enough time to make her ready by now.

  Charles set the cup to the side and stood. Rogue lifted his head, tail wagging sleepily. Hastily, the men scrambled to rise, but Charles held up his hands to stop them. “Gentlemen. You must make merry in my absence.”

  “What, my lord, have you not made marry enough?” Rochester lifted his glass.

  “Indeed no, I have never made marry before. But I do have a merry maid awaiting.”

  “She might be a maid, but there’s nothing merry about her.”

  Charles tilted his head and stared at the young man. “I think I did not hear you.”

  Rochester swallowed. “My lord. That is, she seems quite pious.”

  “Yes. The queen is pleasing to me.” A fact that had startled him more than a little when they had met yesterday. He smiled, to take the edge off his displeasure. “And now . . . gentlemen. I take myself off to teach her to . . . make merry.”

  They all burst into more laughter than the jest deserved. James caught his eye and tipped his glass in a salute. They had spent years in Europe at the pleasure of other courts and survived only on their charm.

  Which he would need to charm his queen. He walked out of the room, flanked by two of his honor guards, as always. In the hall, he nearly collided with Lady Suffolk.

  He put out a hand to steady her and she used the movement to sink into a deep curtsy.

  He would have expected her to be with the queen, as one of the English ladies who spoke Spanish. Barbara had recommended her to the placement. Charles cocked his head, chest suddenly tight. Lady Suffolk was one of Barbara’s favorites. “Is there word?”