by Jean Plaidy
I was sure that my usually practical mother felt the same, for although there had been several offers for my hand her reception of them had been lukewarm.
This surprised my ladies, for I was no longer young. Most princesses were affianced at a very early age, as I should have been to Charles if our plans had gone as we hoped. I was not disturbed by the rejections, for the only bridegroom I wanted was living a nomadic life far from home.
He had found refuge in France, Holland and Jersey. His sister, the Princess of Orange, had been especially hospitable. I learned that he was liked by most and, in spite of his precarious position, he was far from being a tragic figure. He was said to be merry, amusing and witty and his company was sought, but that was poor compensation while his kingdom was in the hands of his enemies.
I had never forgotten him through the years and I had a strange feeling that it was right for me to wait and that one day some miracle would happen and all would be well.
I remember my father paying one of his rare visits to the palace.
I was shocked when I saw him: he had aged so much. He seemed fatigued but happy to have this respite with his family. I was gratified that he sought my company.
My mother was deeply immersed in state affairs, for she had taken over many duties which would have been my father’s if he had not been away fighting. My brother Alfonso was a not very serious thirteen, and of little help. I believed his nature was causing my parents some concern. Pedro, of course, was very young. Perhaps that was why my father turned to me.
I asked about his health and he admitted to a certain exhaustion.
“Dear father,” I said, “I believe you would be happy to return to the country. Do you remember when we were at the Villa Viçosa all those years ago?”
“Ah, Viçosa! Yes, I well remember those days.”
“It was my second birthday.”
“That was when it started.”
“You must be proud of what you have done for your country.”
“Perhaps. But although we have to some extent had our successes, we cannot rest there. They will be ready to strike again at the first opportunity. They do not give up easily. Your mother is a wonderful woman. She should have been the King.”
“But you are the King, and she is happy to be of service to you.”
“Without her it would have been so different.”
Yes, I thought, we should be at the Villa Viçosa, living quietly, contentedly. But perhaps not. There would never have been a suggestion that I should marry the Prince of Wales. The daughter of a duke would not have been for him. And if my father was not recognized as a king by some countries, he was one in the eyes of the English.
“It was God’s will,” he said.
“And you have done your duty.”
“Under God’s will…that may be so.”
And, I thought, you have worn yourself out in doing so.
“Dear father,” I said, “you are unwell.”
“No,” he replied, “just tired. I cannot tell you how contented I am to sit here with you. You are a child no longer, Catherine.”
“I am eighteen years old.”
“It is an age of maturity. Do you regret that no marriage has been arranged for you?”
“No…I believe…”
“I know. You share your mother’s belief. She has always wanted you to marry into England.”
“It was talked of once.”
“That was long ago. It must have been more than ten years ago. Of a surety that was no time for the King to think of the marriage of his son.”
“No. It was a tragic time.”
“With an even more tragic end. There have been approaches, you know, but your mother has rejected them all. She cannot rid herself of the belief that you are going to England…and for that reason she has rejected all offers for your hand. I cannot understand her. It is a kind of dream of hers. It is so unlike her to cling to fancies.”
“I think I understand,” I said.
“I have been the most fortunate of men in my marriage, and I trust when the time is ripe you will find a partner who is as good to you as she has been to me. My greatest regret has been that I have had to be away from you for so long. I have had too little of my family and too much of war.”
“It has been a sadness for us all, dear father. But you are here now.”
“For a short time. I confess to you, daughter, while we are alone, that I should have been a happier man if I had not been a king. Now let us talk of other matters. You are eighteen years old—as I said, an age of maturity and wisdom.”
“I feel sure I fall short of the last.”
“You are as I would have you, my daughter, and to show my love for you, I have gifts for you. I propose to put certain lands into your possession. First, there is the island of Madeira. It is a beautiful spot, fertile and temperate. The city of Lanego is also to be yours, with the town of Moura. There will be tributes from these which will come to you.”
“But, father, it is too generous…I do not need…”
“My dear daughter, you are a child no longer. You need independence and security. So…they will be yours. But we must remember that they belong to Portugal and if you should marry out of the kingdom you would perforce relinquish these. On the other hand, if you married some Portuguese nobleman they would remain in your possession.”
I saw that my father thought this would be my eventual fate…if I married at all; and he wanted to assure himself that I was in the possession of independent wealth.
It was good of him, but I, with my mother, shared the feeling that one day I should go to England. I was, though, deeply touched by his generosity and care for me.
I told him this.
“I want you to be happy,” he said, “whatever may befall you.”
It was only a few months after that when he died.
IT WAS MORE THAN the loss of a beloved parent. The court was thrown into turmoil. My brother, Alfonso, at thirteen, had few of the qualities necessary to a ruler. There was rejoicing in Spain, where they must have been assuring themselves that it would not be long before Portugal was once more their vassal.
They had reckoned without my mother.
She said firmly: “I shall complete the work my husband has begun.”
Our people had always been aware of her strength and many of them knew of the part she had played in my father’s successful campaigns. She was without hesitation proclaimed Regent and the Spaniards’ jubilation was short-lived. Very soon they began to realize that they had little cause for rejoicing. Donna Luiza, Queen Regent, was not only a leader of resolution and dedication, she was a shrewd and skillful politician. My father had been right when he had said she should. And now she was the ruler.
She was more decisive than my father had been, less sentimental, more ruthless. Our armies were more successful under her direction and the government more secure.
Within two years of her dominance, Portuguese independence from Spain was established and there was growing prosperity throughout Portugal.
We now had some standing in Europe and Donna Luiza was one of its most respected sovereigns.
There were two offers for my hand which my mother feigned to examine with care, but nothing came of them. My worth had risen. Alfonso might not be recognized universally as king, but my mother could not be ignored; and her daughter was considered an important match.
And I was getting older.
“Is there never going to be a marriage for the Infanta?” my ladies were asking each other. “Is she going to spend her days as a spinster in Lisbon?”
I wondered, too. But the dream was still there, incongruous though it might seem. Charles, King of England in name only, was still wandering about the continent, flitting from court to court in search of hospitality. The Puritans still reigned in England. Charles was getting older, as I was—and we were still apart.
And then one day my mother sent for me and she said, with an excitement rare in her
: “There is news from England. Oliver Cromwell is dead.”
I stared at her in amazement. “Does that mean…?”
“We shall see,” she replied. “His son Richard will succeed him. Oliver Cromwell was a strong man.”
“And Richard…?”
“It is not easy to follow a strong man. People want change. Whatever they have they dream of something different. They believe that what they cannot get from one they will get from another. Then the disappointment comes and the desire for change.”
“Do the English want change?”
“I am not sure. They are not a puritanical people by nature and are inclined to be pleasure-loving and irreligious. It surprises me that they have endured Puritan rule for so long. But Oliver Cromwell was such a strong man.” There was a grudging admiration in her voice which she tried to suppress.
“We shall see, daughter, we shall see,” she went on.
There were plans in her mind. I knew it. I wanted to talk to her but she would say no more. She was not given to speculation. She just wanted me to know that it would not altogether surprise her if the death of Oliver Cromwell was significant, and perhaps it would not be long before there were changes in England.
I was thinking of Charles more persistently than ever.
MY MOTHER HAD BEEN RIGHT when she said it was difficult to follow a strong man like Oliver Cromwell. He had died on the third of September of that year 1658, and less than two years after his death the King was restored to the throne.
Richard Cromwell, who followed his father, it appeared, was of a likeable nature. Perhaps the same could not have been said of his father, but Richard was pleasure-loving, fond of the sporting life and prone to extravagance, which led to trouble with his creditors. He was certainly no Oliver Cromwell.
The English were restive. Under Oliver Cromwell they had been kept under control. Now the resistance grew. The truth was that they were tired of Puritan rule, which was alien to them. It must soon have become clear that the majority of them wanted the return of the monarchy.
Charles was in Breda when an emissary was sent to him to discover whether he would come back to England and take the crown. With the offer came a gift of 50,000 pounds, that he might discharge any debts and equip himself for the journey.
I can imagine his joy. He was now asked to accept that for which he had fought and struggled for more than ten years.
He accepted with alacrity.
And what a welcome he received! I could picture it all so clearly when later he talked to me of that day. I know he never forgot it.
The people were exultant. I can picture his riding among them. He would have looked—all six feet of him—the perfect king. I knew how he could mingle that quality of regality with familiarity which enchanted all. I doubt whether there was ever a king of England so loved by his people.
He always called himself an ugly fellow, and when one considered his features that could be true, but his charm was overwhelming. There could never have been a more attractive man. I know that I loved him and one is apt to be unaware of the faults of the object of one’s devotion, but I can vouch for it that I was not alone in my opinion.
He used to talk of the ringing of bells, the flowers strewn in his path, the women who threw kisses at him, the shouts of loyalty.
“Odds fish!” he said. It was a favorite oath of his. “They gave me such a welcome home that I thought it must have been my own fault that I had stayed away so long.”
But he was home, and from that moment the excitement grew.
My mother was exultant. She had known, she said, that this must be. She had planned for it since my seventh birthday when the matter had first been raised. Keeping me from suitors, which had amazed so many, had proved to be right. She had not been fanciful, as so many had thought. She had been shrewd and realistic. She had one regret—that my father was not alive to see how she had been vindicated.
But we were not there yet. A king restored to his throne, fêted by his people, having learned the lesson of his father’s downfall, being determined—in his own phrase—“never to go wandering again,” seemed secure on the throne. He would need to be married, of course—and such a king was a very desirable parti.
My mother was very much aware of that. And, being herself, she immediately took action. Don Francisco de Mello was already in England.
She talked to me a good deal, for indeed I was at the very center of her plans. She watched me anxiously, wondering, I was sure, how well I should play my part. She took me into her confidence as she never had before.
One day I said to her: “England is an important country. There will be many eager to marry the King.”
“That is true,” she replied. “The King of Spain will have his protégées. But I trust Don Francisco. He is an able man. He knows the importance of this match to us. I tell you, Catherine, we need this marriage. I wonder if you realize how much.”
“I have always known that you wanted a union between our two countries.”
“It does go deeper than my personal hopes for you, my daughter. At this time we have freed ourselves from the hated Spaniards, but our hold on freedom is frail. We must remember that they have the might. We have been fighting for our freedom which has given us great strength. That is good, but it is not everything. They are a mighty nation. We shall live in fear until we have strong allies to support us.”
“You mean the English.”
She nodded. “The nation the Spaniards fear most is the English. They do not forget, though it is some hundred years ago, the ignoble defeat of their so-called invincible armada. They still talk of El Draque—the Dragon—their name for Sir Francis Drake who drove them to disaster and destroyed their dreams of conquest. They will say it was the storm which defeated them, but they were defeated before the storm arose, and they know it was the English sailors and El Draque who beat their armada. If England were allied to us, they would not dare attack us. So, my dear daughter, you must marry the King of England to strengthen the alliance we already have with them. Your country needs this.”
“Do you think I shall?”
She looked fierce. “Anything else is unthinkable. It would be the happiest day of my life if I could see you Queen of England.”
“Countries always look for gain in marriages,” I said.
“Our country would gain a good deal from this. I may tell you that the English will not be without gain. I have sent a good offer by Don Francisco. I believe it will be one which the impoverished King of England will not be able to refuse.”
I waited and she seemed to be convincing herself that, as I was deeply involved, I should be told the facts.
She said: “Five hundred thousand pounds in ready money, the possession of Tangiers, which is on the African coast, and Bombay in India, shall be part of your dowry. We shall grant them the right to free trade in Brazil and the East Indies. Of course, the possession of Tangiers and Bombay will give the English immense opportunities for increasing their trade.”
“Am I worth so much?”
“This alliance with England is worth everything we could reasonably give. In it lies the security of our nation and the final triumph over our enemy Spain.”
“I see,” I said slowly, “that it must succeed.”
THE TIME WAS PASSING. There were prolonged delays, for, in spite of my tempting dowry, there was hesitation.
My mother was watchful of the Spanish. The last thing they wanted was an alliance between Portugal and England and they were going to do everything in their power to stop it.
Vatteville, the Spanish ambassador at Charles’s court, was spreading evil tales about me. I was deformed; I was ugly; I was barren. I did not know then of Charles’s great admiration for female beauty, otherwise I might have been alarmed.
I was passably good-looking. My eyes were dark and large; my hair was abundant and chestnut brown. I had always disliked my teeth which protruded in the front—not a great deal, but too much for beauty. I was sh
ort in stature, which made me lack grace. But I was certainly not ugly, only just not handsome.
The delays must mean that our offer had not been entirely acceptable and my mother could not hide her anxiety.
Every day we had news that Spanish troops were massing on the border. They were waiting for the match to founder. Then they would attack. I began to wonder whether even my mother’s optimism was beginning to wane.
Dispatches reached us from England. My mother was taking me more and more into her confidence because the matter so deeply concerned me.
“It is that villain Vatteville who is doing everything he can to stop the match. It shows clearly how much Spain is afraid of this alliance. If it were to fail…but it will not…but if it were to, they would immediately attack us. We need more troops…we need ammunition. It must not be…It would be the end of all our endeavors. Oh, why is there this delay?”
I went to her one day and found her laughing.
“Vatteville is a fool,” she said. “I think he has gone too far this time. Francisco writes of this. Until now I did not realize how very much those Spaniards are set on breaking this match. They are really alarmed. Did I not say they were still in awe of the English? Oh, Catherine, this must come to pass. How right I was to hold out. Listen to this. They can be arrogant, those Spaniards. It blinds them to the truth. They are powerful…very powerful…but not quite as powerful as they believe themselves to be. Vatteville had the temerity to tell Charles that if he went through with this marriage to a daughter of the rebel Duke of Braganza he, Vatteville, had been ordered by his master, the King of Spain, to withdraw from the court and war would be declared on England.”
“Could that really be so?” I asked.
She snapped her fingers. “It was nonsense. He could have had no such orders. He was just a little too clever that time.”
“And what did Charles say to that?”
