“Charles … pray sit down. I implore you. I beg of you. Do you not understand why I am nervous this night? I am afraid. Yes, it is my fear that makes me so. I am afraid of this woman with her cruel teeth, and her odd hair, and her farthingale. I am afraid that she will hate me.”
“I doubt not that she would—should your paths cross.”
Barbara had turned pale. She said quietly: “I beg you eat of this pheasant. I had it specially prepared for you.”
She held out the dish to him; her blue eyes were downcast.
For the rest of the meal she did not mention the Queen; but she became gay and amusing, as she well knew how to be. She was soothing; she was the Barbara he had always hoped she would be, and her pregnancy had softened the rather hard beauty of her face; and lying on a couch, a brilliantly colored rug hid her awkwardness, and her lovely auburn hair fell loose about her bare shoulders.
After a while others came to join them, and Barbara was merry. And when they had gone, and left the King alone with her—as it was their custom to do—he stayed talking to her; and she was tenderly tearful, telling him that she was sorry for her vicious ways towards him, and that she hoped in the future—should she live—to improve her manners.
He begged her not to talk of dying, but Barbara declared she had a feeling that she might not be long for this world. The ordeal of childbirth was no light matter, and when one had suffered during the weeks of pregnancy as she had suffered, death was often the result.
“You suffered?” asked the King.
“From jealousy, I fear. Oh, I am to blame, but that did not lessen my suffering. I think of all the sins I have committed, as one does when one approaches death, and I longed for a chance to lead a better life. Yet, Charles, there is one thing I could never do. I could never give you up. Always I shall be there if you should want me. I would rather face damnation than lose you.”
The King was disturbed. Not that he entirely believed her, but he thought she must be feeling very weak to be in such a chastened mood. He comforted her; she made him swear that he would not let this marriage interfere with their relationship; she must have a post which would result in her seeing him frequently; but she knew that, if she lived, she would have it, for had he not promised her the post in his wife’s bedchamber? She would be content with that, but she could never give him up.
“No matter,” she said, “if a hundred queens came to marry you bringing millions of bags of sugar and spices, still there would be one to love you till she died—your poor Barbara.”
And to be with Barbara, meek and submissive, was an adventure too strange and exciting to be missed.
It was early morning before he left Barbara’s house; and all London took notice that the King passed the night at his mistress’s house while his Queen lay lonely at Portsmouth. Outside the big houses of the city, bonfires had been lighted in honor of the Queen’s coming; but it was seen that there was none outside the door of that house in which the King spent the night with Lady Castlemaine.
What was detaining him? Catherine wondered. Why did he not come? Imperative business? What was that? After the second day she ceased to care, for she was smitten with that fever from which Elvira had suffered during and just after the voyage. Her throat was so sore and she was so feverish that she spent the hours lying in her bed while her maids of honor brought her dishes of tea, that beverage of which she was particularly fond and which was rarely drunk in England.
She would lie in her bed thinking of him, wondering when he would come. She longed to see him, yet she did not want him to come and see her as she was now, with dark shadows under her eyes, and her hair lusterless. She was terrified that he might turn from her in disgust.
Lady Castlemaine, she supposed, would be very beautiful. The mistresses of kings were beautiful because they were chosen by the kings, whereas their wives were thrust upon them.
She knew that her maids whispered together and wondered, as she did, what detained him. Perhaps they knew. Perhaps among themselves they murmured that name which, her mother had impressed on her, must never pass her lips.
Could it be that he, in her imagination the hero of a hundred romances, could so far discard his chivalry as to neglect his wife? Was he so angry about the dowry? Each day there came for her those charming letters from his pen. He wrote like a lover; he wrote of his urgent business as though he hated it, so it surely could not be Lady Castlemaine. He longed to be with her, he declared; he was making plans for the solemnization of their nuptials; ere long he would be with her to assure her in person of his devotion. She treasured the letters. She would keep them forever. Through them lived again the romantic hero of her imagination: Yet the days passed—three … four … five—and still there was no news of the King’s coming.
The fever left her, but, said the physicians, she was to remain in bed. And on the fifth day news came to her that the King had left his capital.
It was two days later, and she was still confined to her bed, but there had been a miraculous change in her. She wondered how long the journey from London to Portsmouth would take, and she pictured him, having done with his “imperative business,” riding with all speed to her, and thinking of her as she thought of him.
It was afternoon and Catherine was sitting up in bed, her luxuriant hair falling about her shoulders, when Elvira and Maria came hurrying into her room to say that the King was below.
Catherine was flustered. “I must be dressed … at once. How can I receive him thus? I pray thee, Donna Maria … call my women. I must wear my English dress…. Or should it be my own? …”
“You are trembling,” said Elvira.
“It is because I shall not be at my best when the King arrives.”
Elvira said: “The doctors’ orders are that you shall not leave your bed. Why, if you were to take a chill now … who knows what would happen? Nay! The King shall wait. We will let His Majesty wait to see you, as you have waited to see him.”
But at that moment there was a knock on the door and the Earl of Sandwich was craving permission to enter.
Elvira stood back and he came into the room, bowing to the Queen.
He said: “The King has ridden from London that he may be with his Queen. Your Majesty, he is ready to wait upon you now….”
Elvira said: “Her Majesty is indisposed. She has been ill these several days…. Mayhap tomorrow she will be well enough to receive His Majesty.”
But at that moment there was the sound of footsteps outside. A low musical voice cried: “Wait until tomorrow? Indeed I’ll not. I have ridden far to see the Queen, and I’ll see her now.”
And there he was, just as she had imagined him—tall, very dark, and smiling the most charming smile she had ever seen. He was as he had been in her dreams, only so much more kingly, she told herself afterwards, so much more charming.
Her first thought as he approached the bed was: Why was I afraid? I shall be happy. I know I shall be happy, because he is all and more than I hoped he would be.
Sweeping off the big plumed hat, he had taken her hand; his eyes had twinkled as he smiled at her.
Now the room was filling with his attendants. The ambassadors were there, the Marquis de Sande and his gentlemen who had accompanied him to England; there were the King’s cousin, Prince Rupert, my lord Sandwich, my lord Chesterfield, and others. Elvira had grown pale with horror on seeing so many gentlemen in the bedchamber of a lady.
The King said: “I am most happy at last to greet you. Alas, I do not speak your tongue. Nor you mine, I understand. ’Tis a merry beginning. We must speak in Spanish, which means that I must needs pause to think before I utter a word. And that may not be a bad thing, do you agree?” He was still holding her hand, pressing it firmly, and his eyes said: You are afraid. Of what? Not of me! Look at me. Do you think you should ever be afraid of me? Of these men! They are of no account, for you and I are their King and Queen, to rule over them.
She smiled tremulously, and her dark eyes never left hi
s.
“It grieves me much to see you indisposed,” he continued. And then he did a strange thing which no Portuguese gentleman would have dreamed of doing: He sat on the bed as though it had been a couch; and he still kept his grip on her hand. He threw his hat from him. One of the gentlemen caught it.
He went on: “Catherine, my happiness on this occasion would have been greatly diminished had your doctors not assured me that there is no cause for anxiety concerning your indisposition.”
“Your Majesty is graciously kind to be so concerned,” she said.
He smiled and waved to the people who had come into the room to retire a little, that he and the Queen might converse together in more privacy.
The courtiers moved back and stood in little groups while the King turned to his Queen.
“We shall have time in the future,” he said, “for more private conversation. Then we shall be quite alone. Just now it would seem that your duennas are eager that you and I should not be left quite alone together.”
“That is so,” she said.
“And are you as solemn as they are?”
“I do not know. I have never had any opportunity to be other than solemn.”
“You poor little Queen! Then we must contrive many opportunities for making you the reverse of solemn. You shall see what I have planned for you. I thank God you have come to me in summertime, for our winters are long, and doubtless you will find them very cold. But we shall have sylvan entertainments; we shall have river pageants. I mean to show you that your new country can look tolerably well in summertime. I trust you will not be displeased with it.”
“I know I shall be very pleased.”
“It shall be our earnest endeavor to make you so. Ah! You smile. I am glad you smile so readily. I am an ugly fellow who likes those about him to look pleasant—and what is more pleasant than smiling faces?”
“But indeed you are not ugly,” she said.
“No? Doubtless the light of your bedchamber is favorable to me.” “No. Never, never ugly….”
“Ah, it would seem I have not made such an ill impression after all…. I rejoice in that. Now you must get well quickly, for your mother will expect our nuptials to take place as early as can be arranged. As soon as you are fit to leave your bed the ceremony must be performed.”
“I shall soon be well,” she promised him.
Her face was flushed, but not with fever, and her eyes were bright.
He rose from the bed. “Now I shall leave you, for this was a most unceremonious call. But you will soon learn that I am not overfond of ceremony. I wished to see my bride. I could contain myself no longer, so great was my eagerness. And now I have seen her, and I am content. I trust you too are not entirely disappointed?”
How kind he looked—eager, anxious, determined to tell her she must not be afraid!
It was as though that romanticized figure of her dreams had materialized; and in the flesh he was more charming than her dreams had fashioned him, for the simple reason that, before meeting him, she would not have believed so much that was charming and fascinating could be concentrated in one person.
“I am content,” she said; and she spoke from the bottom of her heart.
Then he kissed her hand again.
She heard her women, whispering together after he had gone, and they were talking of him. They were shocked because he had come thus unceremoniously, but she did not care. She would not care what they said in future. She was only anxious that she should please him.
She whispered to herself: “I am content.” He had said that; and she had answered: “I am content.”
The King was pensive as he left the apartment. He was pleasantly surprised. From some reports, and in view of the way the Queen Mother had cheated him over the dowry, he had half expected a bride who looked more like a bat than a woman. It was true that she was no beauty, and he was such an admirer of beauty; but he realized that he could hardly have expected a woman who was suitable as a wife to be also a suitable mistress.
He liked very much her manner; quiet, innocent, eager to please. That was such a change after the imperious conduct of Barbara. Had his Queen the temper of his mistress he would have visualized a very stormy life ahead.
No. He believed he had good reason to congratulate himself.
He could grow fond of his little Catherine; he could find it easy to forgive her for not bringing him the promised dowry—and indeed how could a man of his nature do aught else, since it was in truth no fault of hers?
He would be kind to her; he would help her overcome her fears; he would be a gentle lover and husband, for he knew that was what she would want. He would make her happy; and they would have a fine family—several sons as handsome as young James Croft, Lucy Water’s boy—and he would no longer have any need to sigh with regret every time his eyes fell on that young man.
He smiled, thinking of her shyness. What a life she must have led in her solemn Portuguese Court; and if her mother was anything like those dragons who had come to guard her daughter, it was no wonder that the poor child was eager for affection.
Have no fear, little Catherine, he mused. You and I can bring much good to one another.
He was looking forward to the nuptials, for a new woman was always a new adventure. Her eyes are good, mused the connoisseur, and there is certainly nothing in her face which could in the least way disgust one. In fact there is as much agreeableness in her lips as I ever saw in any woman’s face, and if I have any skill in physiognomy, which I think I have, she must be a good woman. Her voice is agreeable and I am sure our two humors will agree. If I do not do all in my power to make her happy—in spite of the spice and sugar—I think I shall be the worst man on Earth, and I do not believe I am that, although I am far from saintly.
It was not in his nature to grieve unnecessarily. He doubted not that this Jew, whom Queen Luiza had sent with the cargo, would be able to dispose of it satisfactorily; and it should be his pleasure to care for his new wife, to make her feel welcome in her new country, and perhaps in some measure compensate her for having led such a dull life before she came to England.
The meeting with the King had had its effect on Catherine. The remains of her illness had disappeared by the morning; she felt radiantly happy.
During that day and night she thought continually of her husband. That was real affection she had seen in his eyes; he had spoken so sincerely when he had said he was glad to see her and they would be happy together. And how he had smiled! And the manner in which he had sat on her bed had been most amusing—and quite charming. He had thrown his hat from him for one of the gentlemen to catch, a somewhat boyish and unkingly act! she thought indulgently; yet in what a kingly manner he had done it! He was so perfect that every gesture, every word, had a ring of nobility and became exactly right just because they were his.
He came to her that morning early, to the room which he called her presence chamber. He chatted easily and familiarly, and his warm dark eyes watched her closely. She blushed a little under the scrutiny, for she did not quite understand the meaning behind those eyes and she was very eager for his approval.
If he did not love me, she thought, I should want to die. And she found that every minute in his company increased her wish to please him.
He told her that their marriage should take place that day. “For,” he added, “your mother has shown great trust in me to send you to me thus.” He did not add, though he felt a temptation to do so: “And in particular considering she has sent me spice and sugar instead of the money she promised.” He could not say anything that might hurt her; he could see that she was vulnerable; and he had determined to make her happy, to keep from her anything that might prove hurtful, for he could well imagine how easily she could be wounded. She was a gentle creature and she should be treated gently.
“Catherine,” he said, “the ceremony shall take place here in this house and be registered in the church of St. Thomas A’Becket here in Portsmouth. Unfortunatel
y you and I are not of the same religion; and my people, I think, should not be reminded that my Queen is a Catholic. It would be an unfortunate beginning to your life here if the Catholic ceremonial should be performed. So, my plan is that we shall dispense with it, and that there shall only be our Church of England ceremony.”
He was unprepared for the look of horror which came into her face.
“But …” she stammered “… to dispense with the ceremony of my church! It would be as though we are not married.”
“None could say that, Catherine. In this country all would consider the church ceremony completely binding.”
She looked about her in distress. She longed for her mother. Her mother would tell her what she ought to do. She feared to displease Charles, and yet she was sure her mother would never have agreed to her dispensing with the Catholic rites.
Charles regarded her with the mildest exasperation. Then he said: “Oh, I see you have set your heart on it. Well, we must find some means of pleasing you. It would not do for us to disappoint you on your first few days in our country, would it?”
She was immediately radiant. It amused him to see the fear fade from her face and joy take its place.
He took her hand and kissed it; then, with an expert gesture, he drew her towards him and kissed her on the lips. Catherine gasped with pleasure.
“There!” he said. “You cannot say I do not do my utmost to win your love! I will even submit to this ceremony—and I confess to you here and now that you will find me a wicked man who has no love for such ceremonies—and all to please you!”
“Oh, Charles …” she cried, and she felt as though she might weep or swoon with the delight which swept over her; but instead she laughed, for she guessed intuitively that that would please him more than any other expression of her pleasure. “I begin to feel that I am the most fortunate woman in the world.”
He laughed with her. “But wait!” he warned in mock seriousness. “You do not know me yet!”
A Health Unto His Majesty Page 11
