Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  “Ah. I mean . . . I think I understand better your question, Your Majesty. She is said to be very beautiful. Her spirits run high. She—she quarrels with the king, apparently . . . The servants can hear them even through the walls.” Jenny shifted her weight, still studying the floor. It was not fair, perhaps, to ask the young woman to report thus, but Catherine had no one else who would be honest with her. Her own ladies insisted on protecting her, and the English ladies had different loyalties. The crease between Jenny’s brows deepened as she went on. “I have heard tell that if her rages will not work, then she collapses weeping. The king cannot stand to see her cry.”

  It was not how the nuns had taught her to behave, but if heightened sensibilities were what it took to hold Charles’s attention . . . Catherine nodded, digging her thumb into the side of her finger. “Thank you, Jenny. You are a good girl.” She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, embroidered in gold, and tucked it into the girl’s apron as a token of thanks. “You may go.”

  For some time after the girl had departed, Catherine stared at the new flowers, deeply conscious that she and her husband had yet to consummate their marriage. Since her mother had yet to deliver the rest of her dowry, England would stand to lose little if the marriage was annulled. She must attach Charles to herself, despite his interest in his mistress.

  All that was required was for Catherine to seduce her own husband. She prayed to God that she could.

  • • •

  Charles’s heels echoed against the stone floor as he strode toward Catherine’s room. Rogue and True ranged ahead of him, little silken tails waving like flags of exploration. Rogue guessed where he was going and stopped outside the door, putting his paws on the painted wood. True had gone on ahead and then stopped in the hallway to look back at Charles with a small whine.

  “Do not fear, True, we will not be long.” He only needed to speak with the queen for a few minutes and see her settled for the night, before going to Babs and his new son. Charles knocked twice on the door, out of courtesy.

  “Enter,” Catherine called.

  He frowned as he turned the knob. Odd, usually one of her ladies opened the door for him. He followed Rogue through the door and stopped. The room was dark save for tapers lit around the bed. There, clad only in a gown of Brussels lace, stood his bride.

  Her hands moved as if to cover herself, but she stilled them and kept them by her sides. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. She had stripped the layers of makeup she usually wore, to reveal clear skin. The hint of rosiness at her cheeks might be her natural blush or the most skilled artifice.

  He had been used to thinking of her as a little doll and, though naive, she was also clearly a woman. The slight tremble to her frame only added to the allure. She raised her chin bravely and smiled at him. “Husband . . . will you come to bed?”

  As his answer, Charles shut the door to the hall and smiled back at his wife.

  • • •

  Barbara stared out the window of her suite into the courtyard below, where Charles and the new queen were enjoying a stroll. Even through the mullioned windows, their laughter rang clear. The Portuguese doll had been at Hampton Court little more than a fortnight and ought not think she could supplant Barbara so readily in Charles’s affections. She might wear the crown, but Barbara ruled the court.

  She turned away from the window, hands clenched into fists. In the corner, the wet nurse sat with baby Charles, rocking in a chair. The child had Charles’s eyes already, and Barbara’s golden hair. Both might change, but for the moment, their son was the perfect blend of the two of them. Charles had to see this as a sign for how well they suited each other. Behind her, the door to her suite opened with a bang. Spinning, Barbara had to put a hand against the wall to catch herself. Dizziness had been plaguing her since her delivery. When the spots cleared from her eyes, she almost wished she had simply fainted.

  Her husband had arrived at Hampton Court.

  Putting on a smile, Barbara went to him. “Darling! What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I would say it is neither surprising nor pleasant.” Roger’s handsome face twisted into a sneer. “Though I should have been surprised to find my wife gone, I was not.”

  Barbara let her pretense of welcome drop and sighed. “Really, Roger. The terms of our marriage have been made clear enough.”

  “Yes. A title in exchange for raising your bastards as my own.” He took two more strides into the room. The sun from the windows lit the spatters of mud on his breeches. He stripped the riding gloves from his hands as though he had left his horse and come straight to her rooms. “The terms of my title make the truth clear enough.”

  “If your ambition had matched your pride, then perhaps I would not have needed to secure a title for you.”

  “Oh, do not pretend that you are whoring for my benefit.”

  “Then do not pretend as if you do not enjoy the estate the king bestowed upon you for my ‘whoring.’”

  “I am the laughingstock of the court.”

  She flung out her arms in frustration. “Only because you play the aggrieved husband! If you had even an ounce of practical sense, you would see the power my position could give to you. The man whose wife has the ear of the king? Everyone should be bowing to you, and instead you whine about the privilege and wealth we have been given.”

  He strode across the room, where the wet nurse sat with her face turned down to the babe’s, and snatched the child from her arms. Little Charles screamed with rage, his face screwing into a red knot. For all of Roger’s anger, he cradled the infant with care.

  “What are you doing?”

  “If I am to raise his whelps as my own, then they shall be mine in earnest.” He walked toward the door, bouncing the baby in his arms.

  Barbara pulled her dressing gown closer and hurried after him. “That is not our agreement with the king!”

  “And if I break it, what then? My title will not be passed on.” He pulled the door open. “Why the devil should I care if your bastards get a title?”

  “Roger—” Barbara followed him into the hall, with the wet nurse close behind. “Where are you going?”

  He strode through the halls ahead of her, pushing past the courtiers. From amid a knot of nobles, Rochester stepped free and raised his brows at Barbara’s dishabille. He gave her a mocking bow. “My Lady Castlemaine, will you entertain us all as you do the king?”

  “Watch your tongue, Rochester.”

  “I always watch my tongue; it is an organ with many uses.” He licked his lips. “Should you like to watch it as well?”

  She had not the time to stop and give him the slap he deserved. Roger had rounded a corner and she dared not lose sight of him. Lord knew what he would do with little Charles in such a mood. Barbara turned to the wet nurse. “Go and find the king.”

  The young woman’s eyes widened. “My lady—”

  “Do it.”

  She rounded the corner into the Queen’s Long Gallery. What the devil was Roger doing here? Her son howled in his arms as he hurried down the hall.

  Lady Suffolk leaned out of the queen’s chambers, seeking the source of the howling. Barbara hurried toward her, clutching her robe tight across her bosom. Of all the circumstances in which to meet the Portuguese woman, this was not one she would choose. Stepping into the hall, Lady Suffolk pulled the door closed behind her. “Are you not still in your confinement?”

  “I am only—” She paused as Roger stepped into a room not far down the hall. The chapel. Why was he going to the chapel? She abandoned Lady Suffolk and ran after him. Barbara reached the door, intent on flinging it open, but it was locked. She shook it.

  “Roger!” She pounded on the oak panels. “Roger, let me in!”

  On the other side of the door, her son wailed, drowning out any other sounds from within. She needed Charles. He would have this door open in a moment. She spun away and ran back to Lady Suffolk. Thank all the heavens that she had a friend placed with the queen.
“The king is outside—would you go and fetch him for me?”

  “I will do better. I have the key to the chapel.” Lady Suffolk opened the door to the queen’s apartments again and slipped inside.

  Barbara withdrew, to avoid the Portuguese woman. But no—there was no need to hide, as the woman was outside walking with Charles. Barbara shifted her weight, furious energy making her restless.

  When Lady Suffolk reappeared, Barbara fairly snatched the key from her. Her robes flapping around her, Barbara flew down the hall. Her hands shook as she fit the key to the lock. It turned easily, and she flung the door open, Lady Suffolk trailing in behind her.

  At the far end of the room, Roger held her son as one of the queen’s Catholic priests poured water on the infant’s head. “Charles Palmer, ego te baptizo in nomine . . .”

  Her stomach churned. “No!”

  The priest—Father Patrick, that was his name—glanced up, eyes widening, but his grip on the silver ewer did not falter. “Patris . . .” More water dribbled out to splash on Charles’s head. “. . . et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

  She ran down the aisle and ripped her son from his arms. Little Charles’s face was red and his hair was wet with papist holy water. Barbara pulled him close to her, retreating from the men toward Lady Suffolk.

  Roger was smirking at her and held up his hands in pacification. “It is done. My son is a Catholic now.”

  “How dare you.” She had known he was a papist when they married, but their Anne had been baptized in the Anglican Church. Rage shook her. “How dare you! You had no right!”

  “You wanted me to raise the children as my own. So, madam, I have every right.”

  “He is the king’s son!”

  “Believe me, madam, I am very much aware of that.” He advanced on her, jaw set. “And I am your husband. So, again, it is my right, and in our marriage my word is law. If you do not wish to be subject to it, then I suggest you leave my house.”

  Barbara laughed at the foolishness. “Really? Do you think I would choose you over Charles? And then what, stay at our estates and do nothing but rot?”

  “No, you are correct. Your choice was made clear when you left my home to have your confinement here. You could not even grant me the courtesy of pretending that the child was mine. Understand, madam, I have had enough. From this point forward, my duties as your husband are over. You will not return to my estate.” He spun, riding cloak flaring and scattering dust about the room.

  “Roger!” Barbara hurried after him. “Roger! You are not considering the matter clearly, you stupid—”

  The door to the chapel slammed behind him. He could not mean it. After everything she had done for him, he would leave her like this? And insult the king by making his child a Catholic? Charles would be furious when she told him. Shaking, Barbara spun to Lady Suffolk. “Get me an Anglican priest.”

  “Daughter, your son has been baptized.” Father Patrick’s Irish accent rendered his patronizing speech absurd. “Would you not care to—”

  “What I would care to do is to slap you, but as I am holding my son, I cannot.” She worked her jaw and spat in his face. “That will stand for now, papist dog. And if you ever come near my child again, so help me, I will have the king see you drawn and quartered.”

  She stalked away from him, soothing little Charles in her arms. How dare Roger endanger her son like this. And to leave her? It would not stand. He would relent, surely. She stood by the chapel’s window, rocking her baby and trying to calm his distress. Through the stained glass, she watched Charles and the Portuguese woman walk arm in arm, laughing within a flurry of spaniels.

  If she did not have her husband, or the king, what was she to do?

  • • •

  Since Portsmouth, Jenny had seen and spoken to the queen on several occasions, but she had never been summoned before. She followed the Moorish page who had come for her through the halls as her stomach tried to strangle her heart. Swallowing heavily, she was ushered into the queen’s receiving rooms.

  Heavy red curtains, embroidered with silver thread, draped the walls and made a vivid backdrop for the Portuguese attendants. Their somber farthingales seemed to be more furniture designed for mourning than dresses for a queen’s court. A few English ladies were mixed in among them like hothouse flowers in vivid golds and blues. In stark contrast to all the feminine elegance, a gentleman in a simple dark suit, with a tailor’s apron pinned to his doublet, paced around the middle of the room.

  At the center of his orbit, on a small stool, the queen stood in her dressing gown. Her Majesty’s face lit when she saw Jenny, which made the fear strangely worse.

  Jenny dropped into a low curtsy and waited to be addressed.

  “You may rise.” The queen beckoned her closer. “I should like to make use of you to translate, if you would be so kind.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Jenny hurried closer, keeping her eyes fixed on the rich rug beneath her slippers. Translate? But surely the queen had translators aplenty.

  Lady Suffolk made a tsking sound, apparently of the same opinion. “If I will not suffice, then would not the honorable Lord Aubigny be a more appropriate choice?”

  “If you do not know all of the Spanish words for English fashion, then I hardly think a gentleman will fare better.” The queen cleared her throat. “Jenny, I hope you might help me bridge the gaps in understanding. But . . . I shall require you to look up, I am afraid.”

  If she ever wished to rise to the station of lady’s maid, she must be more forward. She was not trespassing, she was here by the queen’s own invitation. Jenny raised her eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am well versed in the latest fashions and shall be happy to assist.”

  The delighted smile the queen gave her was more trusting than any she had seen from a noble. For all that the queen was said to be three-and-twenty, she seemed younger than Jenny, in a way. The queen beckoned to a man who wore the apron of a tailor. “Mr. Gilman has made the trip from London to design my clothes for our entry into the city. Will you please listen and correct any mistakes my ladies make as we converse?”

  For the next little while, Jenny only listened. She had to step in only rarely. Most of the English ladies spoke enough Spanish to handle a basic conversation, but their grasp of fashion terms was decidedly thinner. But as the afternoon wore on, she thought the queen was watching her reactions to fabrics the tailor’s apprentice brought forward. Though the queen never said it directly, Jenny came to believe that her true reason for being in the room was that the queen’s Portuguese attendants did not understand English taste.

  It was an unspoken mark of favor. With God’s will, it would lead to a better appointment than a simple chambermaid.

  Jenny stood, with her hands folded in front of her, outside the circle of farthingales surrounding the queen. The tailor was showing Her Majesty a length of dark gray material, which would be better suited for a widow. Handling the fabric, the queen glanced at Jenny, who shook her head slightly. The queen let go of the material and waved it away.

  “Do you think Her Majesty would like this?” The tailor’s apprentice stood just behind Jenny. He was a tall young man whose deep complexion and long nose put her in mind of an Arab. Given the current fascination with Persian fashion, it was hardly surprising that the tailor would employ him. What was surprising, though, was that he spoke English as though he were a native. His eyes were large and liquid brown, wreathed in dark lashes, and seemed to be laughing at some private joke. She dragged her gaze down to his hands and the fold of deep purple fabric he held out.

  “Why don’t you ask Her Majesty?”

  “Because . . . she is looking to you with every sample my master shows her.” His voice was a rich baritone. “I thought simply consulting you first might be more efficient.”

  “I would never presume to speak for Her Majesty.”

  “Ah . . . but I did not ask you to speak for her, did I? I merely asked for your opinion about her opinion.”

&nb
sp; Jenny narrowed her eyes at him. “It is much the same thing.”

  “Not even a guess?”

  She compressed her lips, not completely masking her smile, and faced the queen.

  The young man stepped forward so he stood beside her and held the fabric out closer, into her line of sight. “Then . . . may I ask if you like it?”

  “The color is attractive.”

  He nudged her with his elbow. “Touch it. You can tell nothing of fabric if you do not feel the hand and weight of it.”

  “Will you leave me alone if I do?”

  “Absolutely not.” The laughter rose to the surface of his voice.

  “Impertinent man.”

  He grinned and shifted the fabric closer. “Go on . . . It is a blend of silk and wool, which gives it a high sheen, but also a supple drape. The color comes from a shell which is only found in Greece and was used to dye the robes of Caesar.”

  Almost without her volition, Jenny’s hand rose to touch the fabric. Under her fingers, the material yielded like mist to the morning sun. An involuntary “oh” escaped her.

  “Do you think she would like it?”

  “Yes, devil man. I do.” She withdrew her hand and glanced at the queen, who was watching her. Jenny straightened and folded her hands in front of her.

  “My name is Thomas Hammett, but you may call me Thom.”

  She kept her gaze straight ahead. She had rather expected him to have a somewhat more exotic name. Thomas Hammett sounded so very English. Well, no matter how handsome he was, no man was worth losing her place over. “I will call you Mr. Hammett or Troublemaker, as I see fit.”

  “So long as you speak to me again, I shall be satisfied.” He gave her a little bow and walked to his master with the bolt of cloth. The queen watched him all the way, and when he arrived with the fabric, she put out a hand and smiled. And then she nodded to the tailor. Thom glanced over his shoulder at Jenny with a wink.

  She warmed all the way from her toes to the tips of her ears. Now here was the sort of troublemaker one would not mind seeing again.