Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  Jamie repeated, “She is nothing, I say.”

  “She is the queen,” Rochester said, reasonably enough,

  “So she may be, but her children won’t be kings. I will be. I am the son of the king, and I will be king after him.”

  Barbara felt a pang, a kind of pity. This was not so amusing, after all. “Oh, darling. We do know who your father is. Everyone knows. But that doesn’t mean . . . you do understand, don’t you? He wasn’t married to your mother.”

  To her surprise, the young man leaned back in his chair, and his lips curled in a smile that was very like a sneer. “Forgive me, lady. But it is you who does not understand. They were married.”

  The other two stared at him, speechless. He said, “It is a great secret. But it is true. He did marry her, and though she is dead now and can never be queen, I am no bastard.”

  The room went very quiet.

  And then he added, “I have proof.”

  Barbara took a deep breath, and let it slowly out.

  And she smiled.

  Episode 6: Divine Passion

  Mary Robinette Kowal

  October 1662

  Autumn leaves drifted across the gravel path of the privy garden and twirled about Catherine’s skirts. Around the garden, the great stone walls of Whitehall rose in many-windowed splendor. At her feet, Feliciana sniffed the path as though she were a much bigger dog tracking a boar—a performance spoiled when she started as a leaf danced under her snout. Catherine laughed at her little dog and her breath steamed in the air. She tucked her hands deeper into her pockets.

  “Are you cold, Your Majesty?” Lady Eleanor stepped closer with a shawl she carried over her arms.

  “No. No cold—I am not cold.” English grammar was so nonsensical with all those extra words, but she would speak it. “It is good. This weather. At home . . . that is to say, in Portugal, the autumn is not this.” The sky was a high, clear silver that erased shadows and left the world glowing in faerie light.

  “It must have been a very great shock to come here.” The brisk air had brought a little color into Lady Eleanor’s cheeks, which made her seem less sickly. “The weather, and the language, and then getting married straightaway.”

  “Always I knew I would be sent for marriage.”

  “Was it . . . was the wedding what you had imagined?”

  An image of Charles’s smile took up residence in her memory. “I still did not meet your question for our marriage?”

  “I only meant that I would imagine, given your great devotion, that you must have wished for a Catholic ceremony.”

  Feliciana barked and saved Catherine from a response, as the little spaniel ran after a squirrel. It was not in her nature to lie, but the Catholic ceremony that Charles had granted her must remain a secret. “Vem aqui, cadela parva!”

  Feliciana’s plumed tail waved like flag into battle as she circled the tree the squirrel had gone up. Catherine clapped her hands to summon the spaniel back to them, but Feliciana paid her no heed.

  “Shall I fetch her back, Your Majesty?”

  “A moment.” Catherine shook her head. “A wonder there are squirrels still here, with all the spaniels of the king.”

  She clapped her hands again and tried to use a firm voice as Charles did. “Feliciana! Agora! Vem!”

  To her delight, the spaniel dropped back down to all four paws and trotted over to her, tail wagging. If only she were able to speak in such simple sentences for her regular communications in English. Catherine crouched to meet Feliciana and fondled her ears. The dog panted white clouds into the chill air.

  “Boa menina. Como uma boa menina.” She straightened, smiling, until she saw Lady Eleanor’s face. Now she seemed quite drawn and pale despite the weather. The poor thing seemed to not be eating enough no matter what tempting delicacies were sent up from the kitchens. “Let us get in?”

  “At your pleasure, Your Majesty.” She adjusted the shawl she held over one arm. “You were telling me about your wedding, I think?”

  Catherine linked her arm through Lady Eleanor’s, which she hoped would steady the young woman. Young . . . in truth she was three years Catherine’s senior, but her fascination with Catherine’s wedding made her seem like a girl fresh from the convent. “I told about the ribbons at my dress?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  Attempting to describe them in English took most of Catherine’s attention. She steered them back to the palace in order to get Lady Eleanor out of the cold; she was trembling as they walked. Catherine would have to bring a different lady when she next stepped out with Feliciana. The cool air was quite bracing, and the warm glow through the mullioned windows of her rooms promised the coziness of a fireplace. They entered inside the palace, and Feliciana raced ahead of them.

  Catherine laughed. “She knows where we go.”

  “Perhaps she smells her dinner?”

  “That looks likely.” They caught up with the dog just outside the door to Catherine’s apartments. Feliciana stood on her hind legs, tail wagging furiously, as Jenny scratched her ears with one hand. The other held a tray from the kitchens.

  At the sight of Catherine, the girl pulled her hand away and dipped into a curtsy, nearly upsetting Feliciana as she did so. The little dog hopped on her hind legs again and then rested her front paws against Jenny’s apron. Against the snowy fabric, small muddy paw prints left their tracks.

  Catherine laughed and lifted Feliciana.

  “Let me, Your Majesty.” Lady Eleanor held her hands out for the dog. “You will soil your dress.”

  Catherine held Feliciana at arm’s length, though the position was far from graceful. Feliciana’s tail did not stop its wagging and her nose wrinkled and snuffled at the tray. Jenny’s face was flushed red and her gaze was fixed on the floor. Catherine turned to Lady Eleanor. “Would you be so good as for open the door. I will hold this bad dog.”

  With a disapproving frown at Jenny, Lady Eleanor pushed the door open into a room of laughter. Lady Castlemaine’s voice belled over the group: “‘. . . my other weapon,’ and he reached for his breeches.”

  From her position outside the door, Catherine could see Lady Suffolk blotting her eyes as she laughed at Lady Castlemaine’s story. Lady Buckingham had doubled over, hand clapped to her mouth as she giggled.

  She had never heard such laughter from her ladies before.

  Feeling more awkward than a queen should feel, she set the little dog down. Feliciana ran into the room. Stomach tight, Catherine stepped in after her.

  The laughter stopped.

  In the silence, Lady Eleanor entered behind her, trailed by Jenny and her tray. Catherine forced herself to smile at her Ladies of the Bedchamber. They had out their sewing and books, and all their faces were turned down studiously to their work. The roses on their cheeks betrayed the high merriment that had filled the room only moments before. Catherine turned about the room and sought Dona Maria’s gaze.

  Looking up from the tapestry she was working on, the older woman’s lips quirked. In Portuguese she said, “It is like this every time you leave the room.”

  “This saddens me.”

  “They are beneath you.”

  That was far from true. While Catherine might outrank them, she had little power in court other than that which was reflected from the king. It was all too clear that they were following Lady Castlemaine’s lead. While Charles might not visit her bed, her very presence proclaimed that she still had the king’s favor, because it showed that her wishes outweighed Catherine’s.

  Catherine walked to the tray of dainties and picked up a piece of sausage for Feliciana. She bent down to give it to her, smiling as Feliciana’s delicate pink tongue wrapped around the morsel. If she could just win the affection of her ladies so easily.

  She straightened, brushing the folds of her skirt smooth. Turning to the ladies by the fire, Catherine framed the sentence in her mind, thinking through the English until she was certain it was correct.

 
; “I should like to hear your story, Lady Castlemaine.”

  The room paused between breaths. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to still in astonishment. The beautiful Lady Castlemaine raised her head from the embroidery it seemed she had been sewing since she had become a Lady of the Bedchamber. No sign of surprise marred her countenance, though Catherine had acknowledged her presence for the first time. With a languid hand, Lady Castlemaine lowered her embroidery. “But of course, Your Majesty. I am entirely yours to command.”

  She smiled. Gracefully. Elegantly. Bitterness filled Catherine’s stomach.

  • • •

  Jenny carried the tray back to the kitchen. It hadn’t been her job to take it to the queen’s chambers, but none of the other servants could be bothered to help Her Majesty unless absolutely commanded to. Oh, they wouldn’t go so far as to refuse, but they would dawdle. As she slipped into the kitchen, a scullion snorted.

  “Rolling in mud with your Portuguese pig?”

  Jenny kept her jaw tight and wiped the tray down. Running errands to the queen’s chambers kept her out of the kitchens, at least.

  The scullion’s comment had attracted the notice of Master Giles Rose, the Royal Cook, who cuffed the boy’s ear and demanded, “What is all this hurly-burly?”

  “Lookit Jenny. Her apron’s all over mud.”

  Master Rose rounded on Jenny. “Here, now! What are you doing going about with a stained apron!”

  “The queen’s dog—” A sharp blow to her ear cut off her next words.

  “We keep ourselves tidy,” growled the cook. “No matter what the foreigners do.”

  “She’s foreign herself now, isn’t she.” An undercook scowled at her over the pudding he was stirring.

  “I was born here, same as you.”

  “Oh, aye. You’re as English as the Queen of England.”

  A wave of laughter rolled through the kitchen. At the far end, the Portuguese cooks looked around in question but with no understanding.

  “She is the queen.” Jenny lifted her chin. “And I’m proud to serve her.”

  “Too proud to know your place.” Master Rose narrowed his gaze. “I’d not have taken you on if it had been my choice, and Heaven knows the Lord Steward wasn’t happy to have you forced on the household. But if a foreign chit with no sense of cleanliness is what pleases Her Majesty, then so be it.”

  Jenny drew a breath to respond. Across the room, Mavis caught her eye and gave a tiny shake of her head, and she let the breath out with her retort unspoken. That she was smarter than most of the menservants mattered not one whit. Her mother was foreign. She herself was from the wilds of Hampshire and common and—most unforgivable of all—a woman. She dropped a curtsy to the irate cook. “My apologies, Master Rose. I’ll fetch a clean apron at once.”

  One of the Portuguese cooks turned from the stove and stepped farther into the room. He spoke in Spanish to Jenny. “Tell them I need you to go into the city for some herbs.”

  There were boys for that, but Jenny tried to keep the impatience off her face. Master Rose would be glad of any excuse to see the back of her, and being cast out in a city like London would mean an ignominious return to Portsmouth and nothing to show for it but the grand silken gown the queen had given her. “Of course. I’ll be happy to fetch whatever you need.”

  “Oh—I need nothing, but I thought you might be glad of a reason to be out of the kitchen.” The cook spread his hands. “They think I cannot understand, but it is clear that they despise the Infanta and take out their disdain on you as proxy.”

  “Thank you.” Jenny folded the offending apron. Switching back to English, she told Master Rose, “They’ve some errands they need doing.”

  “It is not their place to be giving orders to one of my staff,” the Royal Cook said stiffly.

  “I thought you had no use for me?” Greatly daring, Jenny looked him straight in the eye. “Or have you another maid who can write and understand Spanish?”

  With a frown, Master Rose waved her away and stalked back to the hearth, where he relieved his feelings by cuffing the boy watching the roast.

  Mavis spoke up. “You can write?”

  “In English and Spanish.” Jenny walked down to the Portuguese end of the kitchens. “I don’t intend to spend my life emptying chamber pots.”

  • • •

  As the priest intoned yet another interminable phrase in Latin, Barbara tipped her head back and stared at the chapel ceiling. She did not bother to stifle her sigh. Dona Maria, the Portuguese crone, glared at her. Honestly. Who wore black all the time? And the farthingales the woman continued to wear were beyond absurd.

  They had been the mark of a well-to-do lady in Barbara’s childhood, but no one wore them now. For Barbara, they had taken on a taint as a reminder of her family’s impoverished years after the king was executed. She would never go back to that powerless state again.

  Barbara shifted on the pew, trying to find a comfortable position. If she had realized that being a Lady of the Bedchamber would require her to attend Catholic Mass, she was not at all sure she would have insisted upon it. She might have liked it better when the queen was ignoring her.

  Still . . . the gamble was paying off. The woman had finally acknowledged her, which only solidified Barbara’s position. Lord—now the musicians were playing something.

  Did that mean the service was nearly over? With everything said in Latin instead of good, plain English, it was impossible to tell. Was she nearly free of this absurd masquerade? At least they were well-trained, even if the liturgy was incomprehensible.

  She sighed again, and this time the queen looked around. Barbara gave a sour smile, making it as clear as she could that it was not sincere. She clasped her hands at her breast and raised her gaze heavenward in a mockery of the queen’s piety.

  The queen compressed her lips and turned her gaze to the front of the chapel. She bent her head, eyes tightly closed, and mumbled some papist phrase.

  The musicians finished their song and Father Patrick stepped forward, with his arms raised. Barbara straightened in her seat. The benediction. That meant she was nearly free of this wretched duty.

  He intoned, “Uni trinoque Domino, Sit sempiterna gloria: Qui vitam sine termino, Nobis donet in patria. Amen.”

  “Amen!” Barbara’s enthusiasm made the word echo through the chapel. She sprang to her feet, stretching her back.

  The queen rose more slowly. “If it hurts you for attend Mass, Lady Castlemaine, you may excuse yourself.”

  Oh, no. Barbara would not fall into that trap so easily. If she refused to attend the queen, then the woman would be able to make a case to Charles to get rid of her. With Roger gone, the forty pounds per annum that came with her position was more necessary to her than she would have liked. “I serve at your pleasure, of course, Your Majesty.”

  Lady Eleanor kept her head lowered. “The music was lovely today. Does His Majesty ever attend with you, ma’am?”

  “No.” A shadow of a frown crossed the queen’s face. “He no does. It would be not appropriate.”

  “But surely, if you asked him, nothing would be untoward about pleasing his queen.”

  “He pleases himself often enough.” Barbara lifted her chin to study the bas relief of the cherub behind them. “He pleases me. Frequently.”

  Lady Suffolk laid a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She had wisely taken a seat behind the queen rather than in the position of “honor” that Catherine had granted to Barbara.

  “Oh? You had pleasure of company of the king recently? I did not realize.”

  Barbara’s cheeks burned. The Portuguese wench’s command of English had improved drastically. Even if her grammar were still faulty, her aim was true enough. The king had not, indeed, visited her bed of late, but she would not give the queen that comfort.

  Barbara smiled enigmatically and chose to let silence be an answer rather than the truth. “Oh, His Majesty takes pleasure in the company of many. For instance, I
have been most grateful to him for introducing us to Mister Crofts, and his interesting story.” She took that opportunity to turn to face the queen fully. Jamie and his claims of being legitimate offered so many delicious possibilities. A vein pulsed at the queen’s temple. Would she faint again, or scream? Another nosebleed would be amusing enough and do nothing to improve the woman’s standing in court, queen or no.

  “Yes. The king told me much of the history of his son.”

  Ah. A point to the queen—she parried more coolly than Barbara would have expected. A sharp inhalation came from Lady Eleanor, and for once the meek woman looked up, eyes blazing. She must not have heard the rumors yet, which Barbara would hasten to repair. If she had her way, the whole of the court would hear of it, and the path would be laid for Jamie to produce his proof. Which, frustratingly, remained vague; the youth did not entirely trust her yet, and would only hint at certain letters he had in his possession. She would draw more from him soon, no doubt.

  The Portuguese woman had turned her back on Barbara and left the pew for the aisle. “Lady Eleanor, you enjoyed the music?”

  “I did, Your Majesty.” The country mouse, Barbara thought, followed the queen like one of those cursed spaniels. “It is a pity that no one but your ladies can enjoy it.”

  The queen looked up to study the musicians who sat in a loft overlooking the chapel. “Perhaps . . . In Portugal, for times they would play outside chapel. It is something to consider.”

  “I am certain that people would enjoy hearing them.”

  Barbara ran a finger along the back of the pew as she walked down its length to the aisle. With a legitimate heir, Charles would have less urgent need for the queen. Even with the desire for extra sons in case of the death of the heir, he wouldn’t feel pressed to bed his wife quite so assiduously. The simplest course would be to give the queen room to make mistakes. In this case, their mutual animosity could be an effective tool.

  Sniffing, Barbara flicked a speck of imaginary dust from her fingers. “If you wish to alert people to your . . . unique taste, then, by all means, Your Majesty, invite them to hear your musicians. I am certain everyone would find much to interest them in such a curiosity.”