She watched his progress, smiling slightly.
He bent over her hand. “Lady Castlemaine.”
“Rochester.” She gestured toward a small table. “Will you play?”
“Gladly.” He removed his hat and settled it to one side, showing off his golden hair, which shone in the firelight. He, too, knew how to position himself to best advantage.
As Barbara stacked the disks onto their arrows, she cocked her head. “You’re fair bursting, dear friend. Out with it.”
“You’ve not heard the news, then?”
“Depends on what you bring.”
He leaned in, eyes glittering. “Our fair queen struck your name from the list of the Ladies of the Bedchamber.”
A silver prick of dismay pierced her, though she masked it with a smile. “Pray, how on earth did you come by this knowledge before I did?”
“I have ears all about.”
“Where, I demand it!” She patted him playfully with her fingers. “Tell me your source.”
He laughed, the sound resonant and free. Truly, he was one of Barbara’s favorites. Witty and beautiful, only a little younger than she. Their lives had taken similar paths, as well, in some ways—his beauty was ill-supported by fortune, forcing him to dance for his supper. “A stablehand whispered the news to my man, who then carried it to me.”
Barbara tossed out a pair of dice. “A stablehand! How interesting. The wren appears to have shown new feathers.”
“Bold feathers, those. More the feathers of a peacock.”
She scowled. He picked up one die and Barbara the other, and they tossed them side by side. Hers landed on a two, his a six.
With just the right note of lightness, Barbara said, “I hope that is no omen.”
“Oh, no. Your fortunes are secure, dear lady.” He reached for his die and tipped it till it showed a one. “You see?”
Barbara flashed him a grateful smile. Deliberately, she touched his hand as she picked up the dice. His gaze dropped to the broad expanse of her white bosom as she leaned. “What possessed her to take so bold a stance, I wonder?”
“They say she has fallen in love with her king.”
“Do they, now?” Barbara spilled the dice and watched them tumble to a stop. Six and three.
“See how your fortunes change!”
“You must be good luck, dear Rochester.” She moved the pieces, blocking the entrance to his harbor, and passed him the dice cup. “A woman in love is a vulnerable creature.”
“Mmmm.” He rolled, a simple one and four. “Unlike a certain lady who is known for her temper.”
Barbara shrugged. She had learned long ago that men loved exuberance and a witty mind. They would tolerate passionate outbursts from a beautiful woman, but not from one who wasn’t. In that, the queen was at a disadvantage, for while she was not the disfigured, sickly troll the Spanish ambassador had painted her, no one would ever call her a beauty.
Still, Charles seemed overly fond at times, taking his duty to get a child on the queen far too seriously. The whole of June had passed, and he had only come to supper or to visit his new son, then scurried back to Catherine’s bed. Of course, his obligation was to procure an heir, but Barbara worried that her sway over the king had weakened during her confinement. She’d only just lately found her full vigorous desire.
It was her turn—she rolled. A pair of fives tumbled out, and she laughed. A good omen, then. Still, she nudged it along. “I hope he will remember how much I have forgone for him.”
“I’m sure he will not forget, my lady.”
• • •
After a lunch of meat pie and wine, Charles gestured to Buckingham to walk off the heaviness. “Come, my botanist says he’s something to show me.”
Charles knew that Buckingham did not care for constitutionals, but to his mind, Buckingham needed a bit more vigorous activity than wenching and drink. He noted the sigh before Buckingham answered, “Of course, sire.”
They strode out with a passel of eager spaniels—True sticking close—into the dim day, clouds holding pearlescent hues, a bare mist wetting the lawn and their faces. Charles breathed in the air, smelling the river and grass, and the natural scents eased his tensions somewhat.
The impasse between his queen and his mistress continued. Charles had not returned to Catherine, passing her at court with a simple nod. She maintained a stony silence, refusing to listen to reason. It vexed him. He’d tried to tempt her with a relic of St. Sebastian, a coffin filled with wildly expensive saffron, a length of fine white silk.
She refused to bend even a little.
He pondered what else he might tease her with—a sweet or a cake, perhaps? But the blessed Portuguese cooks only brought out the queen’s mysterious dishes, nothing Charles knew or recognized.
“How can my queen so hate our food?” he mused to Buckingham, a fleshy man and said to be the richest subject in the kingdom. “She delights in the strangest flavors, from India and the east.”
Buckingham wiped dampness from his face, setting a ring on his pinky finger winking with the light. “She’ll come around, sire, surely.”
“I hold no trust in that, Buckingham.” He narrowed his eyes at the feathery trees on the horizon. Today, more news of the Dutch, more news of complaints over the state of the city—which was not his doing, it must be said, as he’d been exiled while Cromwell let London fall half into ruin—and Barbara had indulged one of her infamous furies. She’d flung shoes and sent vases crashing, her hair loose, eyes flashing, voice roaring. She would not be denied her wish. It had given him a headache.
In between, she offered her succulent favors and he never knew from one moment to the next what it would be—fury or delight?
Women would be women, advised his courtiers, all of whom had one thing or another to gain, most by continuing in their long alliance with Barbara, who had the advantage of knowing them all well.
Bah!
Enough of it. All of it. He made his way to an orangery that had only recently been completed. Charles had seen the structures on the Continent and had ordered one erected upon his return. It was now the realm of a young botanist who not only cultivated the usual fruits—oranges and peaches—but conducted experiments with many other plants.
Science gave him near the same ease as his long walks, and his curious mind was deeply engaged by the possibilities arriving with ships from the east and the new world, exotic plants and trees, shrubs and flowers. So much potential! But which ones would prove a boon, and which nothing at all? It gave him pleasure to contemplate the idea.
He ducked into the glass-fronted building, whistling softly. The spaniels, sadly, waited outside, for although he could do as he wished, the botanist had stutteringly, humbly, but urgently begged that the dogs be kept out to avoid sullying the experiments. Charles had acquiesced in the name of science.
“Smell that,” he said to Buckingham, slapping the back of his hand against the man’s belly. “Life!” He inhaled deeply of the humus and earth and moistness. Somewhere, water dripped into a pool or puddle, and birds twittered against the rafters.
“Hallo!” Charles called out.
Jacob Winthrop, that same young botanist who’d forbidden the dogs, emerged from behind a wall of greenery, blinking. When he saw it was the king, he bowed hurriedly. “Your Majesty! We don’t—I have not been warned—”
“Never mind, never mind,” Charles said, gesturing the youth to a standing position. “I’ve come on a whim, to see what you might be up to.”
“Well, er, right this way, sire.” Winthrop’s dark hair was tied back from his face, wisps falling loose as he led them down a damp aisle to a pond. “I think you’ll be pleased with this.” He stepped aside and gestured with pride toward a line of small trees growing against the brick wall. At intervals, small dark knobs of fruit peeked out from the leaves.
“Are those figs?” Charles cried out.
Winthrop clasped his hands behind his back. “They are, Your Majesty. It
is said you have a great fondness for them, and I took it upon myself to see if we might coax this vine to grow here.” He reached out and plucked a fig, offering the elegant purple teardrop to Charles. “It overwintered perfectly, and I—er—we believe it should be a staple. We might even be able to grow them on southern-facing walls.”
Charles bit into the fat, juicy fig, tiny seeds spilling over his tongue. “I’ll be damned. Good work, Winthrop.” Gulping the last of the fig, he said, “Gather a few for the queen and have them sent to her in my name.”
“Of course, sire.”
“Now show me what else you’ve been up to,” Charles said. “I’ve been hearing word of glass houses in France. Have you heard such a thing?”
“I have, sire,” he said. “But how could it be finer than what we have here?”
“Well said.” Buckingham leaned in to examine the figs. “Remarkable!”
“Come, I will show you what else I am doing,” Winthrop said. “I’ve been in correspondence with a friend at the Physic Oxford Garden. I hope you will be pleased to see how we are expanding the gardens at Whitehall.”
“Carry on, lad,” the king said, and cheerfully followed.
• • •
Catherine veiled herself for mass, the one portion of her day that would give her relief from the gossip of the court. The litany of prayers, the familiar Latin, the homilies, the scent of incense—all blended to create a perfect cocoon into which she could retreat.
Accompanied by a quartet of her ladies and a pair of servants, she made her way to the gilded chapel, down a wide staircase from the main hall of the palace. Overhead, rain tapped an unceasing song.
So it was with surprise that Catherine saw a woman and her retinue waiting at the foot of the staircase. She wore a deep yellow gown embroidered richly with flowers and tiny birds. The wide white sleeves of her shift fell to wrists adorned with silver bracelets, and wound round her neck were strands of lapis beads, which set off the extraordinary quality of her white skin. By her carriage, Catherine assumed she was a woman of substance.
As the woman curtsied deeply, Lady Chesterfield said, “Your Majesty, may I present Anne, the Duchess of York?”
As Anne reached for Catherine’s hand to kiss it, Catherine drew her into her arms. “Sister,” she said in English, kissing Anne’s cheek. In Spanish, with a glance toward Lady Chesterfield, she added, “I have longed to make your acquaintance.”
“Forgive my delay,” Anne said in Spanish, “and my poor Spanish.”
“Perhaps between us we shall make one language,” Catherine said, and Anne smiled.
“May I accompany you to Mass today?”
“Oh, yes,” Catherine said in English. “Please, sister.”
Catherine took her hand. The chapel was cool and dim, the light poor on so rainy a Tuesday. Only a few benches were provided, but it was enough for the scattered handful of parishioners gathered to hear the liturgy. The two women settled side by side, their voluminous skirts soughing together, and for the first time in many days, Catherine took a deep breath. Anne smelled of gillyflowers, and her hand was smooth and soft. She was no great beauty, but humor lived at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were a fine, clear gray.
Winding her rosary beads—carved intricately of rosewood, the decades marked with silver—around her wrist, Catherine released the struggle of the moment and rested her gaze on the kindly face of the Madonna. In this world, she understood the rules. She knew how to proceed and was not tripped at every turn by some new twist of social protocol or the language she could not understand.
Anne leaned close. “How do you fare, madam?”
The tone of her voice made it clear that her new sister was not inquiring about her health. “Does all the world know of my husband’s demand?”
“I do not know about the world, but all at court tell the tale.”
Catherine pressed her hand into Anne’s, shaking her head. “Allow me this time of comfort, sister,” she murmured.
“Of course.”
The priest entered and began to chant the familiar Latin phrases. Although she tried to be devout and focus her attention, Catherine’s thoughts wandered back over and over to the moments in her chambers when Charles had come to her, first so coaxing and friendly, his touch and warm voice reminding her of what she had come to expect from him. A husband who indulged high regard for his wife, a lover who wished to please her.
But that silky voice reminded her, too, that he spoke thus to another, that he’d gotten two children on that very mistress, when Catherine showed no sign of pregnancy herself. Three times her flower had arrived unimpeded. Three times, her hopes for a quickening had been shattered.
Now Charles was vexed, and did not come to her. But Catherine could not bear to lose this skirmish, to allow the Lady Castlemaine, tucked away in her apartments at Whitehall, to rise triumphant from this first, crucial battle between them. Catherine had never even glimpsed the woman, and intended to keep it so for as long as she was able. If Catherine did not acknowledge her, the queen maintained the upper hand.
Father Patrick murmured the Mass, and she rubbed her beads between her fingers. The wood released its subtle scent, and the silver beads rolled over her palm. She peered up at the Mother’s face, seeking assistance. Holy Mary, Mother of God, she recited in her mind. Holy art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb . . .
After Mass, Anne walked with her. They left the dark hallway and climbed the stairs, emerging into the bright day through a pair of heavy doors propped open to catch the breezes from the river.
Anne looped her elbow through Catherine’s as they made their way along the garden paths, their sleeves tumbling together in a tangle of lace and silk. “I find such comfort in the celebration of the Mass,” Anne said, letting go of a breath. “I am grateful that I may share our faith with you.”
Catherine squeezed her hand. “Your Spanish is quite good.”
“Good enough?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered in English. They walked in harmony, slippers poking out beneath the hems of their skirts. “Mass is wicked here, no?” she continued in Spanish. “I find it bewildering.”
“Catholics have been punished here for a long time.”
“I have heard the muttering of those who despise Catholics now.” Catherine raised her head. “The English did not want a Catholic queen.” One brow rose. “Only her gold.”
Anne laughed. “You may trust in me, madam. Ours is the true faith, and it has survived more than this.”
“Yes.”
“May I speak plainly, madam?” Anne asked.
“I cannot promise to be biddable, but I grant you leave to speak plainly.”
“I have known your husband a very long time. My father, Lord Clarendon, has been his advisor and counselor these many years.”
“Lord Clarendon is your father? He must be pleased at your marriage.”
“Oh, no,” Anne said with a wry laugh. “He wished for a much better marriage for James than his own lowly daughter. Some have accused my father of ambition, but he was furious with me for the marriage.”
“Then why did he not prevent it?”
Anne bent her a head in a slight, abashed nod. “Perhaps a foolish young woman let herself be led astray and found herself expecting a child.”
Shocked, Catherine halted. “Oh.”
“Is our friendship stillborn, Your Majesty?” She gave a sad smile. “I only tell you the story so that I might tell you the rest—it was your husband who insisted upon the marriage, despite the outcry about my comparatively low birth. James had promised, you see, and the king ordered him to make good on his promise.”
Catherine nodded. “I see. Did you mind?”
“No. I love my husband, and despite his momentary lapse, he loves me in return. In this court, we are rare enough.”
Bowing her head to hide her expression, Catherine bit back her sense of sorrow and anger. Why could they not find such joy together, she
and Charles?
“The king is famous for his fairness, madam. And notorious for his libertine ways.”
They strolled over thick grass planted in a passageway, then through clipped hedges toward the herb garden. At points amid the shrubbery, roses had been added. The spicy scent filled the warm air, and their lush heads nodded as if in collusion with the women. “Yes. So I have heard.”
“His life was not easy in exile, and deprivation often leads to later excess. It will be no simple matter to mold him, to bend him to your wishes, and you do not wish to vex him so thoroughly that you cannot sway him at all.”
Catherine glanced up at her, listening.
“The Lady Castlemaine rules him just now, though she will not always. Youth fades.”
“As will mine.”
“But you are queen, and not subject to being dismissed when a new beauty arrives at court.”
The idea of yet another beauty was too painful to contemplate. Catherine set her jaw. “She may rule my husband. But she will not rule me.”
“I see.” Anne considered. “Well, then. Perhaps I can be of some help.”
• • •
It was well known that Charles took the dogs out for a ramble around the parklands of the grounds most days. On this damp lavender morning, Catherine aimed to take the advice of her sister-in-law and, dressed simply in a riding costume, set out to see if she might intersect him. In her arms, she carried Feliciana, sweet baby, still so sweet-smelling and young.
As Anne had suggested on their stroll, Catherine’s goal was to soften the king by illustrating how much she, too, enjoyed a vigorous walk. Dona Maria, breathless and ill-suited to the business, insisted she must accompany her mistress, but once Catherine spied Charles, ahead with his dogs, she said, “You may wait here, Dona Maria.”
“But, Alteza, it will be—”
“Please.” Catherine pressed a hand on her arm. “Wait for me here.” Catherine set off at a quick pace. Ahead, long-legged Charles walked briskly, the dogs romping around him. The mists moved as if they were alive, swirling through tree branches and parting suddenly to reveal a splash of color, the shimmer of water, then coyly covering it again. Catherine caught her skirts in her hands, set Feliciana down to make her happy way by her side, and the two ran across the grass. In no time, she was able to call out, “Your Majesty!”
Whitehall--Season One Volume One Page 11
