by Jean Plaidy
I was delighted to think that I was so important—at least had been on this occasion.
“There you were, in your birthday gown. You looked…er…very pleasant. Your mother took you by the hand, and she said to your father: ‘Could you deny this child her due? Could she grow up the daughter of a mere duke when she is indeed the daughter of a king? It is your duty, if for no other reason than for the sake of this child…and your boys.’ After that your father gave way. What could he do? If he would not act for himself, he must for his family.”
I knew that Donna Maria’s version was near the truth because I had heard the story from other sources, and I think I remember my father’s serious look as he took me into his arms, holding me tightly and saying: “This must be.”
And soon after that he left the Villa Viçosa and went to live in Lisbon, where my father was proclaimed King Juan IV of Portugal.
I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD when the next momentous event occurred. Both my little brothers were dead. I did remember the sorrowful atmosphere throughout the palace when it happened—one death following quickly on another.
My mother shut herself in her apartments and appeared rarely, and when she did her grief was apparent; but she was not of a nature to flaunt her sorrow and soon she was emerging to dominate us all.
I was delighted to see her with us again. I think she had a special fondness for me. She had loved her boys, but they had always been delicate and, although she had never failed in her tenderness toward them, she had a natural distaste for weakness of any kind. I was a healthy girl and she delighted in me.
I realized that something was happening when I heard Donna Maria and Donna Elvira whispering together.
“Can it be true?” murmured Elvira.
“What a blessing it would be…after the tragedy.”
“Do not speak of that. It is too grievous…even now. But if this should be…”
“I shall pray for it.”
“And so shall I.”
I was not sure of what they were speaking, but I sensed there was some secrecy about it, so I refrained from asking my mother.
We had moved to the palace at Sintra and I saw little of my father. He was always away, driving the Spaniards out of Portugal, I supposed. He was known as King Don Juan, and my mother was very anxious that everyone should be aware of the family’s rank.
She was angry because my father was not generally recognized as King outside Portugal. The Pope, terrified of the Spaniards, had refused to acknowledge the title. There were only two countries who did. France was one, England the other. Both of these countries had reason to hate the Spaniards.
I discovered that my mother did not always trust the French, but she did have special feelings of friendship toward the English.
I had heard a great deal of talk about the troubles in England. It would appear they were in a worse state than Portugal. Their King was fighting his own Parliamant and there was civil war in that land. We, at least, were only trying to free ourselves from the usurper, and the Portuguese nation stood firmly together, whereas Englishmen were fighting Englishmen.
Reluctant as my father had been to take up arms, he had had several successes. This was encouraging, but not decisive; there was great rejoicing throughout the country at every success and hopes were high.
“It is Donna Luiza who is behind the King,” I heard Donna Maria say to Donna Elvira; and they nodded in agreement.
“The day will come,” said Donna Maria prophetically, “when King Don Juan with Donna Luiza will free this country absolutely.”
I wondered when that time would come and whether we should then go back to the Villa Viçosa.
Then the long-awaited event took place. My mother retired to her bedchamber and a hushed atmosphere pervaded the house. Everyone was waiting.
It had happened. There was rejoicing throughout the palace.
Later I was taken to see my new brother Alfonso in his cradle.
I WAS NEARLY SEVEN YEARS OLD when I first heard of Prince Charles.
My father’s success had continued, and although to the Spaniards he was still the Duke of Braganza, to the English he was King Juan of Portugal, which was no longer the subject state it had been before that important day at Villa Viçosa.
My mother sent for me, and I could see at once from her demeanor that she was about to talk of a very serious matter.
She was gentle but tender toward me as always, which gave me a feeling of warm comfort, for she was inclined to be severe when dealing with most people.
“Catherine, come here,” she said, and when I stood before her, she kissed me on both cheeks.
“You are growing up,” she went on. “Have you ever thought that one day you might marry?”
“I do not want to leave you,” I said in alarm.
She smiled. “Certainly you do not. But it will not be for some time. Your father and I have been talking of your future, and, as you know, it is the duty of us all to consider our country in every way.”
I was beginning to feel uneasy. She saw that and went on quickly: “There is no need to be afraid. Your father and I have decided that you should know now what is happening, as it concerns you. We did not want you suddenly to be presented with a situation of this nature…as has happened to so many. You know something of the state of our country, and that we are trying to rid ourselves completely of Spanish tyranny. You know of the great work your father has done and that we are succeeding in our task. Your father is the rightful King of Portugal, and we are determined that soon every state shall recognize him as such. The English have always been good friends to us. They are a more powerful nation that we are…one of the most powerful in Europe. But the King is now engaged in a war with his Parliament, who are trying to impose their will on the people. They will not succeed. The King has a son—more than one—but it is the eldest in whom we are interested—Charles, Prince of Wales. It is your father’s wish, and mine, that you shall marry him.”
“Go to England?” I cried.
“It would not be for some time. I am just telling you that your father has sent our ambassador with a suggestion that this might be. They are a great nation, but at war. We are a small one in semi-captivity. These matters depend on negotiations. Your father is in a position to bestow a good dowry on you and the King of England will need money to conduct his war.”
“So because of the money…”
“No, because you are the daughter of a king and young Charles is the son of one. We must accept these things as they are. It is the rulers who decide them. To marry a man who will one day be a king is a great destiny and one must be prepared for it.”
“I should like to know something about this prince.”
“He is fourteen years old—a charming boy, so I have heard.”
“That seems very old,” I ventured.
“You think so because you are younger. As you grow up, these seven years will seem nothing. It is better for a husband to be older than his wife. Charles is clever and charming, a loyal son and he will be a good husband.” My mother drew me to her. “You must not be anxious,” she went on. “It will not be for a long time, but I tell you now so that you will be prepared when the time comes. So far this is only a suggestion. With Oliver Cromwell at his heels, the King may have many matters with which to concern himself as well as the marriage of his son.”
It proved to be that he had, for there was no enthusiastic response brought back by my father’s ambassador. I learned from little scraps of gossip that my religion was a handicap. The King of England had had enough trouble through marrying a Catholic wife. He did not want his son to fall into the same trap.
That startled me. Our religion was of the utmost importance to us and I had always believed that anyone not of the Catholic faith was doomed.
I asked my mother about the King of England’s objection to our religion.
“Where do you hear such things?” she demanded.
I did not way to betray anyone, so I said vag
uely: “Oh, it must have been something I heard someone say…”
“Who has been talking?”
“Oh…several…Not talking to me but to each other. I cannot remember who…but there was a good deal of talk about the proposed marriage.”
She was thoughtful for a moment, then she said: “The people of England have rejected the true faith. It happened a long time ago after Queen Mary died and Queen Elizabeth came to the throne. And after Elizabeth there came the Stuarts.”
“But if they are not of the true faith…”
“First,” she said, cutting me short, “we have to think of an alliance which would bring honour to you and to our country.”
“But…”
“My dear child, you are too young to concern yourself with such matters which can safely be left to your father and to me.”
“But if Prince Charles is a Protestant…a heretic…”
“The Prince of Wales must be brought up in the religion of the country he will one day rule.”
“Then how…?”
She smiled secretively and whispered: “Who knows? If he had the right wife…”
“But the King himself married a Catholic…and…”
Again I was interrupted. “How knowledgeable you have become! That pleases me. You must learn what is going on. King Charles of England married the daughter of the great King Henri of Navarre who became the fourth Henri of France. It was a match of great benefit to both France and England. King Henri was a Huguenot at one time and he became a Catholic. Sometimes these matters are necessary. Who knows what might happen?”
“Prince Charles’s mother did not make his father a Catholic.”
“Perhaps she was not clever enough. If the Prince married a good Catholic wife, who knows what influence she might have on him…”
“You mean, I might lead him to the Truth?”
“Hush, my child. You must not say such things. You must learn to keep such matters to yourself. What people in our position say is often repeated. We must be careful at all times…even little girls. It is different with humbler folk. We do not know what the future holds, but I believe that one day you are going to be Queen of England, and when you are, you will do your duty to God and your country.”
“Oh yes,” I said fervently, “I will.”
I had a mission now. Not only was I going to marry Prince Charles, but I was going to save his soul.
I set about discovering all I could about him. It was not much. I did hear that he was taller than most boys of his age; he was dark and somewhat swarthy, not handsome, but of great charm. He bore a strong resemblance to his maternal grandfather, the great Henri, who had been known in France as the Evergreen Gallant because he had loved so many women.
I was constantly thinking of Charles.
Even when the overtures of our ambassador came to nothing, and there was no more talk of a possible marriage, he remained in my mind.
MY MOTHER WAS DETERMINED that I should have the best education possible, and that it should be presided over by herself; and I was sent to the convent of her choosing.
The Mother Superior of the chosen one received me very graciously and I was soon absorbed in the rules of the establishment.
It was a change from life in royal palaces. Lessons and prayers took up the greater part of my time. My actions were regulated by the bells which summoned us to our duties throughout the day. I joined the nuns in meals and religious duties and longed to be like them; it was a quiet and peaceful life if one obeyed the rules, and as I was of a docile nature I fitted in with comparative ease.
I learned a great deal about the saints, their endurance, their unshakeable faith and the sacrifices they made for their religion. I prayed with especial fervor for those who sinned against the Church, for I was thinking of Charles who, for no fault of his own, was in danger of losing his soul; and even greater than my desire to be a saint was my longing to save him.
I grew to love the hushed and holy atmosphere of the convent. I never strayed from its walls, but took exercise in the gardens which were tended by the nuns and in which was produced most of the food on which we lived.
It was a life of peace lived in the service of God. There was little excitement but I realized it had compensations for those who shared it. The nuns seemed content and at peace with the world. They believed that they were doing their duty on Earth and that they would in due course go to glory in Heaven.
I was different. I had a duty to perform. I had to marry for the good of my country and save Charles from eternal damnation. I had to think beyond the convent. But in the meantime I could enjoy the serene life.
I had a new brother. My parents were delighted and there had been great celebrations when Pedro was born. Alfonso was then five years old.
During my years at the convent I paid periodical visits to the royal palaces when my mother would question me closely about convent life. She was satisfied with my progress and the strong religious feelings which were being inspired in me.
I discovered that my elder brother Alfonso gave some cause for anxiety. He was a wayward child, given to tantrums, and he was not very pleased with the arrival of a brother.
It was during my visits to the palace that I was able to learn something of what was going on in the world. I was very eager to hear what was happening in England, and grieved to discover that the situation had not improved there. This news, because of our friendship with England, caused disquiet throughout Portugal.
Donna Maria and Donna Elvira knew of my interest in England, although they believed that those plans for my marriage to the Prince of Wales had long been set aside. It was just another of those suggested marriages between royal houses which came to nothing. It was happening all the time.
Donna Maria said one day: “It would seem as though this is the end of the monarchy in England.”
“How can that be possible?” I cried.
“You have seen what can happen in your own country. Kings can be dethroned.”
“Unless there is a miracle…this seems possible,” said Donna Elvira.
“Then there must be a miracle,” I said. “Or Prince Charles will not be King.”
“I think his father will not be King for long,” said Donna Maria. “Oliver Cromwell is going to see to that.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said.
“You dream too much, my dear Catherine,” said Donna Maria gently. “It was only a suggestion all those years ago that you should marry into England. It came to nothing, as so many such suggestions before. There will be many offers for you, and some of them may again come to nothing. It is the way with these proposed marriages. They are never certain until the marriage ceremony has been performed.”
“This is different,” I insisted. “The English have always been friends of Portugal.”
“That does not mean that you will marry a king without a throne.”
“How can you know?”
“I know from what I hear.”
Donna Elvira and Donna Maria exchanged glances. Then Donna Maria said: There is no point in keeping it a secret. Soon everyone will be talking of it. The King is now a prisoner in the Isle of Wight and, having him in his keeping, it is hardly likely that Oliver Cromwell will let him go.”
“And what will happen?”
“There is talk that he may lose his head.”
“They dare not.”
“Catherine, you must face the truth. It is never wise to delude yourself that it does not exist because it is unpleasant to you. The King is defeated. He is a prisoner. The Royalist army is routed. The Parliament is supreme. They will dare.”
“And Charles…the Prince?”
“He has fought bravely.”
“Is he their prisoner?”
“Not yet.”
“What will they do to him?”
There was silence and another exchange of glances.
I knew that Donna Maria was deciding whether I should be told the truth or be kept in ignoran
ce. Then she made up her mind that I must know the worst.
“The same thing as they do to his father,” she said.
“You mean…they will kill him?”
“They will think he is a threat,” said Donna Elvira.
“But I was going to…”
“It is in God’s hands,” said Donna Maria. “He is a brave young man. I have heard that he sent a blank paper to Cromwell—no, not entirely blank, because his signature was at the bottom of it. With it was a note saying that Cromwell could write his terms for saving the King’s life. The Prince’s signature meant he would accept them, whatever they were.”
“He has in truth done that?”
“I have heard it from several sources,” said Donna Elvira.
“I think we can vouch for its truth,” added Donna Maria.
“What could they ask of him?”
“Perhaps that he take his father’s place on the scaffold. They could ask anything.”
“And he would do this to save his father’s life? How noble he is! And yet he is a Protestant.”
Donna Maria smiled affectionately.
“It is God’s will,” she said.
I was sad thinking of him and what he must be suffering now. He was in danger…acute danger. He could lose his life and die a heretic because there was no one to save his soul.
I was in the palace when the news came. It was a shock to us all even though we had known the King was the prisoner of his enemies.
They had taken him to London where his trial had lasted seven days; and at the end of it they took him to the scaffold in front of Whitehall and cut off his head.
There was no longer a King of England.
That should have been the end of my hopes of marrying the Prince of Wales; but they persisted and I could not stop them. His image was as strong as ever. He was noble and brave; he had offered his life for his father’s. I believed that he would live forever in my mind.
I HAD LEFT THE CONVENT. I was eighteen years old and still unmarried. It was seven years since the English Parliament had murdered their King. The Prince had eluded them all those years; he was a wandering exile on the continent going from court to court, wherever he could find a friendly refuge. I often told myself that one day he would be successful and come back to rule the country of which he was undoubtedly King.
