Charles, dressed impeccably in an embroidered yellow doublet and scarlet cape, halted. She could not read his expression. “May I walk with you, sire?”
“If you will not harangue me.”
She shook her head.
“Come, then.”
In the silence of the morning, it was enough to simply walk together, the dogs tumbling and running. Rogue spied his dearest love and rushed back to greet her, and Catherine laughed lightly, bending to offer her fingers for him to lick. Another pup dashed up to her; this was no spaniel, but a merry red-haired little fox kit with a pointed, puffy tail. “Who is this?”
“Gregory. A hunting party found him orphaned a week or two back, and he fancies he’s a dog.”
“How pretty!” The kit sniffed her fingers, then one of the young pups barreled into him in a game of tag, and they were off. Catherine laughed again. “Charming.” The king offered his arm, and she took it gratefully. “I did not have pets as a child. I find I quite like these animals.”
“None at all?”
“The kitchen cat at the convent, or sometimes one of the court’s hunting dogs who’d grown old and wanted a rest, but no more.”
“Dogs are good company,” he said.
“Indeed.”
In quiet they walked, and Catherine sneaked a glance upward at her husband. His dark, lively hair tumbled out from beneath his hat, over shoulders as broad as a mountain.
“This is what I missed in my exile,” he said. “These grounds and familiar landscapes.”
She could forget that he’d spent much of his youth running from an enemy who wanted him dead. The stories were legion—hiding in a tree, living on the kindness of relatives. Some of them had been shared by Charles himself in the privacy of their bed, and the darker tales by her own godfather. The king’s father had been executed in the courtyard of Whitehall itself, a spot he must pass a dozen times a week. Out of such darkness had his lust for life been born. “It is very beautiful,” she agreed. “I did not know I would find it so appealing.”
“And you do?”
“Yes. It is sometimes too chill for my tastes, but I expect I will adapt in time. And like this, it is invigorating.”
“Good. You’ll need a warm cloak come winter. We’ll have something beautiful made. Perhaps in scarlet, to show off your lovely brown eyes.”
So easily he charmed her! It was as if he wove enchantment right from the pale fabric of the morning, capturing her, making her forget how angry she was. “Thank you, my lord.”
For perhaps three quarters of an hour, they walked together in the mist. He pointed out landmarks from childhood—a secret passageway, a duck pond—and spun tales of himself as that child before the terrible years, describing a mischievous adventurer, prone to mess, possessed of the same vitality and vigor he displayed now, as a man of thirty-two. She longed to bear him a child of the same high nature, a mighty son.
Barbara had already given him one. The fact stung, and took some of the sheen from the moment.
Hail Mary, full of grace, she prayed silently. Pray for me.
As they returned to the palace, Catherine spied Dona Maria standing like a massive raven on the edge of the lawn, and she paused. “Sire.”
He halted, pulling his hat from his head. A swath of light fell from the sweet clouds and caught his face, the tips of his lashes and the lush curve of his red mouth. He waited.
She nearly could not say it, wishing to hang in this lavender quiet with him a little longer, a place where he approved of her. But if she did not fight on her own behalf, how could she stand as queen? “Please, I beseech you to reconsider your stance and allow me to choose anyone other than Lady Castlemaine to be a Lady of the Bedchamber.”
“Wife!” he warned.
“It is a deeply personal position! I am humiliated to share it with her.”
“Have you come to trick me and beguile me?”
“No—or perhaps beguile, not trick.”
He shook his head, his mouth softening. “If there were any way to please you, I would do it.” He took her arms. “But she will be shunned. Would you cast another woman away so? One who had no sway over your life, only was my company before you arrived?”
She wavered. She had no wish to be cruel. And yet . . . “If you do not act, I shall be humiliated. It is one or the other.”
He stepped back. “I have ordered it so and it will be done.”
“Sire!” Tears welled in her eyes and throat. “You do me wrong in this. You must know it!”
“Catherine, I will not hear another word. You will do as I say.”
“In all ways I will serve as well as I am able, but in this I stand firm.” She placed a flat palm against his chest. Her breath came quickly. For a long moment, she hesitated, then said in a rush, “If you will not relent, I shall return to Portugal.”
“You would leave?”
“If I must.”
“Do not threaten me, Catherine,” he warned in a low, hard voice. “You have seen the softer side of my nature and might still rescue that kindly man who wishes to please you, but in this, I will not yield, do you understand? The Lady Castlemaine will be a Lady of the Bedchamber. It is political only.”
“I will not, sire!” she cried, fists at her side.
“Enough!” he bellowed. “Leave me.”
He strode away. For long moments, Catherine held her emotions at bay, deep in her throat, her fists tight at her side. It was too awful to be borne. She would be the laughingstock of the court.
Worse, he could not love her and behave in so cruel a way. All of her imaginings of the growing love between them were only that, the gossamer fairy tales of a stupid child.
Roaring filled her ears, and suddenly Dona Maria was at her side, murmuring words of comfort. Catherine swayed, the edges of her vision darkening, and she reached blindly for her duenna’s arm. A firm hand braced the small of her back.
“There, now,” Dona Maria murmured. “Come, let us find you a repast. You have wearied yourself this cold morning.”
Steadied, Catherine nodded, leaning gratefully on Dona Maria’s arm as they made their way back to her chambers.
• • •
A letter from her mother was delivered to Catherine in her chambers only shortly after her talk with the king.
Dearest Catarina,
My dear, obedient girl, I must first say that I am ever pleased with your good sense and constant nature. A queen must never act in great passion or in heedless disregard for the measure of a thing. For the nonce, remember “paciência excede sapiência.” An ounce of patience is worth a pound of brains.
You are queen, while the mistress is only a mistress, and fleeting. He will tire of her in time, and you will yet be queen, and mother of future monarchs. Remember, too, that you have saved Portugal. Because of your sacrifice, our country will not be devoured by our rapacious neighbors. That, for all that it may be cold comfort, is much larger than any moment in the womanly life of a queen.
Know that I am always with you in spirit.
In great devotion,
Your Mamãe
Holding the letter in her lap, Catherine stared through the wavery panes of mullioned glass that distorted the swaying branches of trees beyond, blurring close by the lead lines, clearing toward the center, blurring again on the other side.
Had she been wrong in this, then? Caused a deadlock for no reason but her own—burning and painful—female jealousy? Was she so shallow?
If that be true, she had not behaved like a queen at all, then, had she? If she read through the lines of her mother’s letter, was that what her mother expressed—let go of womanly desires, and stand tall as queen?
Her throat hot with tears she dared not shed before her ladies, she rose with as much dignity as she could muster. “I have suddenly a headache,” she said to Jenny, who was mending a stocking. “I would like to lie down. Will you bring me a compress?”
The girl bowed and hurried away. Catherine rub
bed her brow, allowing the Lady Chesterfield to escort her to her bed and pull the curtains. Where she could be allowed the peace to weep in private.
A queen’s duty was to create the kingdom she wished to live in. This place of strife was not what she wished. She would have to give way.
In a day or two, she would make amends. Once this headache cleared. Once her words could be genuine and sweet.
She would end the war.
• • •
Barbara paced restlessly about her quarters in the humid evening. The rain had stopped at last, but it had left behind a moist ghost of itself, air so thick it could nearly be sliced. Her skin was irritable and itchy, and a fine rash had broken out on her arms, a remnant of the birth process. It had plagued her after her first child, as well. She dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and cooling mint, then squeezed it out and pressed it to her face, her neck, her breasts, which still prickled when a babe cried, though her milk had been gone these six weeks past.
Pacing out to a stone balustrade adjoining her rooms, she lifted her heavy hair and let the air cool her neck. The evening was still, without a breath of wind. In the reeds by the river, crickets sang loudly and, from some hidden corner, a nightingale whistled for her lover. The sky shone with stars, red and blue and white. Close in, a bright star clung to the lower point of the moon.
But she could not appreciate any of it. The troublesome matter of the queen weighed upon her. Both the matter of Her Majesty’s unexpected show of spirit and the fact of Charles’s unmistakable tenderness toward the dark little creature.
Barbara’s position, which only a few months ago had appeared to be unassailable, now showed cracks. She had pressed him for the position of Lady of the Bedchamber to secure her position at Whitehall, to keep her eye on matters, to prove she was still triumphant.
She would have to do yet more. Perhaps fan the flames of this spat. In contrast, Barbara would be gracious and full of laughter and show her great gifts as a hostess.
“My lady,” said her woman at the door. “Shall I prepare you for bed?”
“Yes.”
The girl rubbed her head to toe with an oil scented with frankincense and powdered her face, then helped her into a gown made of the finest silk, loose and gossamer, which fell in coy folds over her body. Last, she brushed out Barbara’s long, wavy hair, coaxing it to a fine sheen.
“Thank you, Alice. You may go.” She leaned into the looking glass, rubbing the smallest drops of essential oil of frankincense along the sides of her mouth, in the shadow of her cleavage, and into the folds of her thighs.
Tapers had been lit in strategic corners, the pillows plumped, the coverlets turned back. She checked her reflection, reveling in the glow of her skin and the allure of the thin silk and the curves and shadows of her body. It was as she bent one more time to examine her face that he entered, his dogs running in beside him, filling the room with their damp dog scent.
In the mirror, she saw Charles halt, tall and loose-limbed, to admire her posterior view. “Do not let me interfere with your toilette, my love. The moon itself cannot shine as sweetly.”
Laughing, she wiggled her behind then turned to present herself in the best possible light. His approving gaze moved over her, and she languidly crossed the room, stepping around Bacchus, who’d slumped like a dead thing on the floor. He licked her heel. She steeled her face to show no reaction, though she wished to wipe the slobber off immediately.
Barbara reached for her lover’s coat, helping him off with it, then stood on the very tips of her toes to kiss him. “There you are, my sire.” She trailed her hands down his torso. “And king.”
He bent into her. “And here you are, my juicy plum. Make me forget my trials.”
She laughed. “I shall endeavor to leave you senseless.”
And so she applied herself with great pleasure and skill, indulging delight with the man who most delighted her on all the earth. When both were spent and sprawled, she flung back her hair to display her pretty breasts and poured him a cup of wine. Perched at his side, she settled a hand along his thigh. “What news?”
He cupped her knee. “None. She will not relent.”
Beside the bed, Rogue whined softly, and Charles patted the spot beside him. The pup leapt up, settling against his master’s naked side. Barbara tried not to think of the dog hair that would be shed onto her sheets. She hated them in her bed. Most of them seemed to know that—only Rogue insisted. Across the room, as far as she could get from Barbara, was True, who’d never liked her.
She forced herself not to glare at the old dog, returning her attention to Charles. “I see.” She trailed a single finger down over his leg. “It is not so much the trial of my exile—”
He snorted. “Exiled in a palace, a sore trial in any book. So far away that I must walk a full five minutes, all the way across the palace, to find you.”
“Exiled away from court while the tempest swirls. Away from all the pleasures and intrigues you know I most enjoy.”
“Mmm.”
“I am a help to you at court in ways that are not possible when I am exiled and unacknowledged. Who coaxes the best gossip from the lips of the courtiers? Who brings you news of betrayals and leverage you might use?” She used her most dulcet tones, feathering her fingertips through the line of hair on his belly. “Lately, I’m left with those who take the time to find me, who wish to flatter and offer me gifts.”
He smiled lazily as that finger slid lower, traced shapes on his spent cock. These were the times she most loved, when he was no longer king and master of all, but her singular lover, masculine, virile and well-shaped, alone with her. Revealed and at ease. “Do you tease me with your suitors, now?”
“They are legion, of course,” she replied, twisting hair around her finger.
“Though none can hope to compete with the king.” He thrust his hips.
She reached for him. “A kingly sword.” Suddenly, she laughed. “Oh, my liege,” she purred. “I have the most wonderful idea.”
“Do tell.”
• • •
A stretch of warm days and nights had improved Catherine’s temper—of all the matters to which she had to adjust in her new country, the weather was the least of it, but she found the number of gray days to be wearying. Today, the sun poured through all the windows of the palace, lifting her spirits, easing some of her pique. She would hold court. And once she had shown her friendly face to the people, she would show it to Charles, as well.
Attired in an apple-green silk with tissue undersleeves, a dress that gave her confidence, she admired herself in the looking glass. The color showed off the warm tones of her skin and made her eyes more pronounced, and although the English seemed to favor the buxom, she thought her delicate neck and collarbones were more elegant. She imagined Charles admiring her in the dress, coming to her later, apologetic and amorous.
“I will wear the emerald necklace,” she said. It was brought, and settled just above the curve of her breasts, echoing the roundness of flesh, the angle of bone. “Yes,” she said. A woman dressed her hair in the simple English style, brushed to a sheen and then curled softly around her face. Rows of emeralds and pearls were woven amid the dark locks. Whimsically, she placed a heart patch below her left eye.
With her retinue, she settled in the Great Hall to receive visitors. The doors were open to the day, and the mood in the room was pleasant, filled with laughter and conversations. A breeze wafted over Catherine as she greeted her first guest—an extraordinarily pretty young woman, not yet fifteen, who had hair of the sunniest gold and curtsied very nicely. Catherine received her, unable to catch her full name, only Frances, a name that was used in Portugal and was thus familiar. The girl kissed her hand, blushing sweetly.
Why not this one as a Lady of the Bedchamber? “Mark her name,” Catherine said quietly to Lady Buckingham.
“She is Frances Stuart, Your Majesty. A girl of good family.”
Across the room, Catherine spied h
er new sister Anne, laughing and plainly flirting with her husband the Duke of York. Her hand lingered on his sleeve as she uttered some light thing, and the duke laughed outright, his brown hair spilling over his shoulders as he leaned his head back.
Happily married. For a moment, a cloud touched Catherine. She wondered if she would have that sense again, or if it had been ruined for all time.
A stout married couple was presented, the woman impeccable in gray silk. “Make note of her as well,” Catherine whispered after, impressed with her bearing. Perhaps she could be a Lady of the Bedchamber, though there were protocols that had to be followed, of course.
At one point, Lady Buckingham asked to be excused and Dona Maria took her place, standing beside Catherine while the crier introduced supplicants. There were many of them, and Catherine found herself wearying, catching fewer names as the morning unfolded. It was a tiresome thing, this business of a new language! Lord Sun, she thought she heard once, which was impossible.
Still, it was not so difficult to smile and offer a hand to be kissed, give a musical laugh. A queen did what she must.
At last, she saw Charles. His thick hair fell over the shoulders of his red coat, and she had never seen anyone who moved so easily, as if he had no bones or joints, only lightness and grace. Her stomach leapt a little as he caught sight of her and gave a small, sideways nod, his lips curling slightly in acknowledgment of their feud.
It had been more than a week since the disastrous walk in the garden; a week since they’d spoken. Anticipation fluttered over her nerves as he began to make his way through the gathered crowd, stopping to greet this one and then that. She opened a fan and pretended not to stare. Another woman was presented, and Catherine heard only a blur of words. The woman was middle aged, pale, and her hands were quite cold.
Over the woman’s head, Catherine saw Charles intercepted by a lady of the court, who curtsied and gestured toward Catherine. He gave a nod and offered his arm, and the pair approached. Catherine barely spared a glance for the woman. Her attention was entirely on her husband, who gave her his very best smile, his dark eyes glinting. His gaze lit on her dress, and it was just as it should be.
Whitehall--Season One Volume One Page 12
