May 1662
Portsmouth
Charles leaned into the stiff breeze from the port, fondling the silky ear of the red spaniel in his arms as they walked across the parade grounds of King’s House. Ironically, the palace was his brother’s, not his, for all that Charles was king. Ah well, he had plenty of palaces now, not like their days in exile. When his fingers stopped, Rogue the Fourth pushed his cold little nose into the king’s palm. Rogue was showing his age, and had gotten worn out halfway through their walk around Portsmouth. By contrast, Babette and Bacchus were dashing around in a flurry of black and white fur and gave no signs of tiring. At his side, James kept his silence, which Charles appreciated. Trust James to read a situation correctly.
Of course, his keen understanding was why Charles had chosen him to be his best man for his marriage to Catherine. Od’s blood, but she was more like a doll than a bride. Still, with the state of Britain’s finances, she could have been a doll in truth, and her dowry would have made wedding her worthwhile. It was not as if he would lack other opportunities for sport. He sighed. In truth, his preferred sport would be in short supply until after Barbara’s confinement.
The clear spring morning seemed to have been ordered especial for the day. It was the sort of day on which one went on a picnic with a beloved companion—or it was the sort of day on which a king married his queen. The contract alone would not suffice to make the marriage binding and, Lord knew, he had put off the ceremony longer than he ought.
James cleared his throat. “Lord Aubigny seems none too happy.”
Charles lifted his head. They were turning the corner into the yard of King’s House, and on the broad stone stairs, Lord Aubigny waited with a crease between his brows. Crouching to set Rogue on the ground, Charles bent his head to the elderly dog so he need not acknowledge the peer on the stairs. “See to him, would you, James?”
“Of course.”
Likely he had not needed to ask, but it was nice to offer James permission to act sometimes. Giving Charles time to collect himself, James walked briskly to the stairs, nearly tripping as Babette and Bacchus dashed past him. Rogue waited, panting on the grass by Charles.
Charles gave him a final pat. “Shall we, little man?”
The dog wagged his tail vigorously and hopped to all fours as Charles stood, then trotted along at his feet as if he had not been tired from the walk.
James turned from Aubigny and gestured for Charles to join them. Lord, but he had hoped it was some minor detail that did not require his attention. Keeping a placid expression, Charles followed his dogs up the steps to where the two men waited.
Aubigny swept into a low bow. “Your Majesty, a word, if I might?”
“Only a single word?” Charles smiled to mask his unease. The man was one of Catherine’s almoners; he should not already require funds. She had arrived no more than a week ago and, having presented him only half her dowry, could not possibly have the effrontery to ask him for money. “I do not want to keep my queen waiting, so will grant you one. Mind you, one word only.”
Aubigny pursed his lips. Tucking in his chin, he glanced over Charles’s shoulder as if considering his choices. At last he faced the king and said, “Catholic.”
Charles’s heart leapt sideways in his chest. He swallowed. The disaster his mother had made of things with her insistence on Catholicism had led by steady steps to the end of his father’s reign. “You have my attention. Pray, feel free to use more words to elaborate.”
Leaning closer, Aubigny murmured, “Your bride . . . She has requested a Catholic ceremony.”
Under the pretense of petting Rogue, Charles bent to give himself time to consider. The dog stood on his hind legs to meet his master’s hands, closing his eyes with pleasure as Charles scratched his ears. He had a certain amount of sympathy for Catherine in this matter. If she were truly devout, then it stood to reason that her faith would extend to this sacrament also. But England would not regard the matter as anything but Charles breaking with the Anglican Church. With the monarchy so recently restored, he could ill afford to jeopardize his people’s faith in him. He straightened. “The country will not stand for it.”
“I know, sire, and to her credit, Catherine does as well. She will go through with an Anglican ceremony, but will not regard herself as married unless it is also done by a Catholic ceremony.”
“Ah.” Charles narrowed his eyes at the man. “And presumably you have discussed this with her at some length.”
Aubigny swallowed. “Indeed.”
He glanced to James. “Some warning might have been appropriate.”
“What, would you have hurried the faster from your mistress’s side? You left her to wait a full week.”
“A week in which you might have discovered many things about my bride.”
James spread his hands, shaking his head. “As far as I knew she was aware that she was marrying an Anglican king.”
“And somehow that understanding has failed.” Charles turned his gaze upon Aubigny. “I asked you to be one of Catherine’s almoners so that she was not surrounded by only her Portuguese contingent. I had rather hoped that would lessen their influence on her.”
With his head ducked and hands pressed together, Aubigny might have been a repentant monk, were it not for his embroidered gloves. “I wish I could have contrived to help her understand the situation without troubling you. She is a good and tractable creature—”
“Except on the subject of her vows.”
“One could consider holding to her previous vows as a sign of an obedient nature.”
“Or as a sign that she holds old loyalties higher than England’s own best interests.” Charles lifted his chin and studied Aubigny.
Aubigny flushed. “I assure you, sire, my first loyalty is to England and to you.”
Charles held up his hand. “I do not doubt you . . .” Though, of course, his assurance would only serve to make Aubigny more concerned that Charles had doubts and this, in turn, would hopefully encourage him to be more comprehensive in his reports in the future. He glanced at James, who pressed his lips together and gave the merest shake of his head. So much for an easy solution. Charles waved Aubigny ahead of him. “Let us go and see her.”
Seeing them start up the stairs, Bacchus raced ahead, barking to clear the path with more exuberance than the most diligent courtier. Babette and Rogue seemed to have caught Charles’s mood and stayed close by him. What was he going to do about Catherine? She had been so lovely and shy yesterday, but then, his mother could also appear compliant when it suited her. With the treasury issues, he did not need to add a Catholic problem to his reign.
Outside Catherine’s chambers, the tall vaulted ceilings made the hall seem narrower than it was. It was saved from being suffocating by the light from the windows set in the thick walls. A fire lit outside Catherine’s door lent a resinous warmth to the hall. The honor guards standing at attention straightened as Charles approached. With a bow, they opened the door and Bacchus rushed inside. Through the door, framed as if in a portrait, Charles watched Catherine sink to her knees to greet the little dog. Heedless of her ladies’ cries of dismay, she let Bacchus wiggle his delight and burrow his nose into her rose-colored skirts. The hem of her gown lifted and a tiny black nose peeked out, followed by the rest of the brown-and-white puppy he had given Catherine. The creature squirmed, rolling over to present her belly to Bacchus, and Catherine laughed.
Charles had never seen a more beautiful picture.
He stepped into the room as Babette and Rogue rushed forward to meet Catherine in a flurry of wagging tails. The room itself was crowded with women in farthingales. Save for his queen, he might have stepped back in time to when he was exiled on the Continent. The lace at his throat seemed to tighten with old memories. Always beholden to others. Always aware of what had been taken from him. Always aware of his father’s death. Charles took a breath and knelt in front of Catherine.
She glanced up, face coloring with a very pretty pink. In Spanish, she said, “Oh— Your Majesty. Forgive me for not seeing you.” Gathering her skirts, Catherine made as if to rise.
“My dear, you could not have made me happier than by greeting my little lady and gentlemen with such a welcome.” He picked up the puppy. “And how is Feliciana?”
“She was sad last night, so I let her stay on my bed.” She leaned forward and the wire frame under her hair creaked with the movement. “My ladies did not think it was appropriate, but I could not let her cry so.”
Charles fondled the puppy’s ear while the little thing squirmed in its efforts to return to the other dogs. “I am also weakened by tears, but sometimes the duties of the king require them.” He sighed and peered up at her. “My dear . . . I do not wish to make you cry.”
“I do not doubt that.” She turned her attention back to Feliciana. “And yet, I must wonder why you are concerned that you will.”
“It is only that . . . ” Setting Feliciana down carefully, he placed both hands on his thighs. “I understand that you wish to have a Catholic ceremony. That you will not, in fact, consider yourself wed without it.”
“Yes. I do. But not at the expense of the Anglican ceremony, I assure you. I merely wished to add the Catholic service.”
“It will still cause the English people some consternation to hear that I was wed as a Catholic. They recall my mother too well.” He hesitated. “My mother was Roman Catholic and . . . my father was very devoted to her. Some of the reforms—some of the policies he produced—were not well received. It is . . . The short of it is that the English people blame Catholicism for my father’s failures.”
She knit her hands together and bent her head. He could see the years she had spent praying in her convent echoed in the line of her neck. “If it were secret?”
The trouble was that Charles could not see any way in which the Catholic Church would not use this as a tool to promote its own agenda. Even if the ceremony were private, any priest who conducted it would be all too likely to share that he had married the King of England in secret rites. Charles sighed again and rubbed his brow. “I do not think we could keep it secret, and to be frank, marriages in England may not be performed by a Catholic priest.”
Behind him, Lord Aubigny cleared his throat. “If I might offer a possible solution, sire?”
“Since the alternatives are less than agreeable, yes, by all means.”
“There is a provision in the Catholic church for a lay wedding. I am qualified to perform it, and I am not a priest . . .”
For all Charles’s teasing of him earlier, he knew Aubigny was loyal. He could trust him to keep the secret. Charles turned it over in his mind. The law explicitly forbade marriages conducted by a Catholic priest, but if it were not a priest conducting it . . . It would still need to be a secret, but if it would soothe Catherine’s heart, then there was no true reason to decline beyond worn fears that lingered from his time in exile.
“Well, then . . .” Charles rose to his feet and held out his hands to Catherine. She placed her delicate palms in his. Her weight was so slight he scarcely needed any effort to lift her to her feet. “My lady, would you do me the honor of wedding me twice?”
A small dimple formed at the corner of Catherine’s mouth. “I would, my lord.”
• • •
Catherine’s head itched where the wire frame of her hair dug into her scalp. She kept her hands by her side and waited in the midst of the Great Chamber in the home of the Governor of Portsmouth. She had thought they would be married in London, but evidently cementing the marriage contract with the wedding ceremony was a priority. More specifically, and in all ways terrifying, the need to consummate the marriage meant they would be wed with utmost haste. Catherine wet her lips and tried to find another topic to occupy her mind. The soft fabric of her veil fell about her shoulders and smoothed the details of the room with a haze of white. The waiting would have been more tolerable if her duenna had allowed her to bring the puppy, but Dona Maria insisted it would not be appropriate for a wedding.
In the eyes of God, she was already a married woman, thanks to the offices of Lord Aubigny. Another ceremony was about to take place, but the one which mattered to her had happened earlier. She was married to Charles in the eyes of God and Holy Mother Church.
Still, she felt the stares of everyone in the room. All of them had come to gawk at the foreigner who would be their queen. Biting her lip, Catherine rolled the end of a blue ribbon between her fingers. Dona Maria cleared her throat. Though she had not needed a governess since she was a little girl, the habit of obeying her duenna was hard to break, and Catherine pulled her hands away from her dress. Hundreds of little lovers’ knots covered her rose gown, and she kept fidgeting with them.
Then Charles entered.
Of his dogs, only Rogue accompanied him, and stayed by his left leg. The little dog’s nose was held up in the air with as much pride as a human attendant. Charles paused, his gaze resting on her, and Catherine’s skin warmed.
He smiled and the warmth spread to Catherine’s middle. Dear Heavenly Father, she was married to this man.
His strides were long and graceful as he crossed the room. Stopping at her side, Charles bent his head and murmured in Spanish, “Good afternoon, my little wife.”
Catherine tilted her face up. The cloth of her veil brushed against her lips, tickling as she spoke. “Good afternoon, husband.”
His dark eyes twinkled as he offered her his hand. “Shall we sit?”
She nodded, placing her hand in his. His hand had callouses along the side of his index finger and the edge of his thumb. Charles gave her fingers a squeeze and led her behind a rail, which spanned the room. On the other side, two specially made thrones gleamed in the afternoon light. The sun from the high windows caught on their gilding and brightened the red cushions. Both seemed made for a man, with arms bending down to meet the carved legs, but without the wooden frame of a farthingale, she did not have to fight her skirts to sit gracefully. In fact, Catherine spread the rose fabric wide as she settled into her chair. Charles pressed her hand again and sat next to her, extending one leg in a graceful attitude. Rogue stood on his hind legs, eyeing Charles’s lap.
Leaning forward, Charles patted the dog’s head and said something in English. Rogue dropped to the floor again and turned in a circle. Without any further fuss, he settled on the carpet between them. His little body made a spot of warmth against Catherine’s foot.
One of the courtiers approached the throne and bowed to Charles. Upon being acknowledged, he spoke to the king in English and Charles answered him in the same language. Catherine picked at one of the lovers’ knots on her dress, trying to pull some thread of understanding out of the language. With another bow, the courtier backed away from the throne and crossed behind the rail. He raised a hand, nodding to the footmen beside the doors.
With matched steps, they opened the great doors. A press of spectators crowded in, bringing a cacophony of English with them. Catherine’s hands tightened on the knots. So many people.
Charles leaned over the arm of his throne and murmured. “My dear, let us thank whoever provided the rail, or we should both be crushed in the excitement.”
She nodded, still shrinking into her veil. In the convent, it would have been remarkable if she had seen half so many people in a month. They kept coming. How would they all fit into the room? Her stomach twisted into a cramp. What if there was a fire? They would be trampled in the rush.
Charles cleared his throat. “Do you see the man with a mustache in the red doublet with slashed sleeves?”
By the window, a trim man with rippling waves of light brown hair leaned over a woman, apparently having a conversation with her bosom. “I do.”
“He plays the young spark, but Thomas Killigrew is fifty if he is a day. Runs the King’s Company in London. Do you like theater?”
Catherine bent her head at yet another reminder of how little she had been out in the world. “I have never been.”
“Well. Well . . . we shall have to remedy this.” He squeezed her hand again. “Now, across the room, you shall find a young man who I think shall please you. Blond curls. Charming smile. Dressed in blue brocade. There—do you see him?”
The young man in question was gesturing with great animation to a small group of people who gazed at him with rapt attention. He could not have been above eighteen, and yet had such presence that he had created a clear space for himself to rant in. He had a very pretty manner and said something which made those near to him laugh.
“Who is he?”
“John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. He has been a supporter of mine since the cradle. Ah—there is the law clerk, just come in the door, so I suspect we are about to begin.”
The man whom Charles had identified as the clerk had an overlong nose, and bags beneath his eyes. He walked to the rail and turned to face the crowd. With a raised voice, he called them to order and then lifted a roll of paper over his head. From the faces of the attendant crowd, it must have been something impressive, but Catherine did not know what it might be.
He lowered the scroll and unrolled it. Catherine worried the inside of her lip and tried to make sense of the English. Any real comprehension was obliterated by the droning tone in which he read. How was it possible to be both drowsy and nervous at the same time? She was uncertain whether being able to understand him would relieve either state. She used the privacy of her veil to study the crowd. Most kept their eyes fixed on the clerk, but one lady stared boldly at Catherine. No—not at Catherine herself, but at her dress.
Catherine pulled her fingers away from the ribbons on her dress. At the first moment alone, her duenna would chide her for such a display of nerves. Now that Catherine was queen, Dona Maria would have no real power over her, but Catherine did not wish to endure the confrontation, after which she would surely receive a letter from Mamãe expressing disappointment. What she would give for someone who answered to her and not to her mother.
The clerk finished reading to a mild scatter of applause. He re-rolled the paper and gave them a grave nod. From the side of the room came a welcome sight. Her godfather, Dom de Mello, had been at court making arrangements for their marriage, though she had not been privy to those. Now he walked forward and took his place. Like the clerk, he addressed the crowd in English but apparently displayed some wit, for the crowd gave a polite chuckle. Then he too unfurled a roll of paper and began to read.
He had spoken a half-dozen words before Catherine realized that she could understand him. A knot in her chest relaxed a little.
Their marriage contract . . . then the clerk must have read the English version of the same. She rather wished that de Mello had read first, so she might have tried piecing the English together. Though from the language in this one, it was clear that being able to understand the marriage contract did nothing to relieve her drowsiness. The abbreviated Catholic ceremony earlier had involved none of the pageantry being displayed here, but that had given it a quiet sanctity.
Catherine worried one of the knots again. Mamãe had promised so much with her dowry, and it had been obvious, no matter how much Catherine’s ladies tried to protect her from distress, that her mother had not sent all of the goods and money she had promised. May God forgive Mamãe if she had borne false witness with the contract.
At last, de Mello came to the end of the long legal language of the contract and rolled the paper again. Charles stood. Whatever had prompted him, Catherine had missed, but the king was standing so she stood as well. Rogue roused himself to stand with his head turned up, watching them both. Charles offered Catherine his hand. “Well, my dear, this is the last bit to suffer through.”
She placed her hand in his. “You make marriage sound like torture.”
His mouth opened with a smirk and then he stopped, gaze sobering again. “I hope you will not find it so.”
With that, he led her to the rail. A stout, ruddy man had taken Dom de Mello’s place. His snowy surplice, draped over a deep purple cassock, marked him as a clergyman of some sort. She presumed he was the Bishop of London, who Lord Aubigny had said would conduct the ceremony. The bishop greeted them in English and, save for their names, Catherine comprehended nothing. Charles retained her hand, giving her some comfort.
The bishop paused and Charles gave a brief answer. Then the man’s gaze turned to Catherine. He very clearly asked her a question—it could be nothing but asking if she, Catherine, would take Charles as her husband. Yet the little English she possessed had fled from her mind. She could only stare at him, scrambling for what she was supposed to say.
Charles gave her hand another gentle squeeze. Beyond the rail, the spectators shifted, murmuring among themselves. She must give some answer. Catherine nodded, desperately hoping the words would come to her mind, but it remained resolutely blank. The bishop merely waited, staring at her.
The room spun about her and a hint of darkness crowded the edges of her vision. No. No, this was not the time to faint. She clung to Charles’s hand and tried to find her way out of the morass.
Charles spoke in a mild tone to the bishop.
The man frowned a trifle, but gave a nod and began to speak again. She could only infer that Charles had told him that her nod was all the agreement required.
And then the bishop was turning from them to the assembled crowds. He lifted his hands in benediction and she heard her name, linked to Charles. As he finished speaking, the crowd burst into cheers and applause.
At last, in the eyes of England, they were married.
Charles released her hand and lifted her veil. The world took on sharp edges and brighter colors and there, in the center of her vision, her husband smiled at her. Her husband. “Poor thing. You are terrified, are you not?”
“Only overwhelmed with emotion.”
“Well, Queen Catherine . . .” He leaned down a little closer. “Let us go somewhere private, hmm?”
Catherine clutched his hand. “Wait—please.”
Raising his brow, Charles regarded her. “Ah . . . I did not mean to frighten you more.”
“I am not—oh.” He had suggested they go somewhere private. Private—which could only mean one very certain thing. Catherine flushed. “It is not that. I mean to say—there is a Portuguese tradition with . . .” She gestured at the blue knots on her dress and could not think of the Spanish words for them. Plucking at one of the knots, she frowned. “These. They are . . . We put them on bride’s dresses to symbolize . . .” She sighed. “It does not signify.”
Dom de Mello approached and bowed. “Your Majesties. May I be of assistance?”
Shoulders sagging with relief, Catherine turned to him and lapsed back into Portuguese. “Would you be so kind as to translate for me?”
“With gladness.” He turned to Charles and spoke to him in English, gesturing to Catherine.
At a nod from Charles, Catherine spoke in Portuguese. “I had my dress made to represent both England and Portugal. The design is English, but the knots belong to the Portuguese tradition. They are supposed to be cut from the dress and given to our guests to represent the sacred bonds of our marriage. May we . . . ?” She switched back to Spanish so she could appeal directly to Charles. “May we share this tradition with our guests?”
He gathered both of her hands in his and raised them, kissing each. “You are a delight.” Then he turned to the audience and explained her wishes. In short order, her duenna was brought out with a pair of gilt scissors to do the honors of cutting the knots from the dress.
Catherine stood in the middle of the room with her chin raised, and tried to welcome their guests as they pushed past the railing. Without her farthingale, guests crowded close to her person. An older woman spoke to her in English, clutching the blue ribbon in one hand. Catherine could only smile at her. She must learn English, and soon. She could not speak to their guests, but their eagerness to snatch the scraps of ribbon seemed promising. If only they would accept her as their queen with the same willingness that they took the ribbons.
It seemed as if the line would never end, as people continued to press forward. Each made some effusion in English. She nodded, over and over, as if she understood what they were saying. As the knots were clipped from the gown, the dress brushed her legs with disturbing intimacy. She had traded the weight of the frame for a decrease in privacy.
And, in some ways, for a husband.
• • •
By the time Catherine returned to her rooms after the wedding, she was fairly certain the cramping in her stomach was not simply due to nerves. Nor was the dampness between her legs simply from the heat. The door closed on the hall and she let out a sigh of relief.
“Beautiful! You are beautiful today,” Dona Maria cooed at her. “It seems almost a shame to let your hair down, Infanta.”
Lady Suffolk, one of her English ladies, swished through the room with her skirts swaying gracefully. In Spanish, she said, “She is queen now.”
“Eh . . . but she will always be Portugal’s Infanta.” Dona Maria patted the chair as if Catherine were still a child, or one of Charles’s dogs. “Sit here, Your Majesty, and we shall prepare you for your wedding night.”
Catherine pulled her rings off and handed them to Lady Suffolk. “Thank you . . . I believe I might be in need of—” She stopped. Her Spanish education had not included the terms surrounding a woman’s cycle, so she switched to Portuguese to request the linen rags. “Paninhos de linho.”
The activity in the room stopped. With a hiss of fabric, Dona Maria rose from her chair at the dressing table. “I beg your pardon?”
Flushing, Catherine cleared her throat. “I believe . . . estou chovendo.”
Lady Suffolk stared at her for a moment, delicate brows drawn together in confusion at the idiom.
Catherine translated the Portuguese idiom as best she could. “I’m raining.”
For a moment longer, the confusion remained upon Lady Suffolk’s face, then her expression cleared. “Oh! Your red flower has blossomed.” She folded the delicate cotton gown. “I see. It is a shame the king will not be able to . . . attend you tonight.”
Catherine’s flush burned brighter, and yet she was also deeply, deeply relieved.
• • •
Charles raised his glass and laughed with the others at whatever Rochester had said. Probably something witty and, judging by the glances cast toward James, it was at his brother’s expense. Good lord, but he was exhausted, and his head was splitting. The trip down from London had been anything but pleasant, and then to have to go through two wedding ceremonies in a single day . . .
He bent to pat Rogue, who slept at his feet, and tried to cover his yawn, but the crack of his jaw would have given him away if his courtiers weren’t all so loud. Rogue, at least, had no shame about falling asleep wherever he wished. Catherine must be just as exhausted as he.
He grimaced. That was one more duty left to fulfill before he could sleep. At least it was likely to be quiet. Unless she wept. He would have to do his best by her to make it as pleasant as possible. He had surely given her ladies enough time to make her ready by now.
Charles set the cup to the side and stood. Rogue lifted his head, tail wagging sleepily. Hastily, the men scrambled to rise, but Charles held up his hands to stop them. “Gentlemen. You must make merry in my absence.”
“What, my lord, have you not made marry enough?” Rochester lifted his glass.
“Indeed no, I have never made marry before. But I do have a merry maid awaiting.”
“She might be a maid, but there’s nothing merry about her.”
Charles tilted his head and stared at the young man. “I think I did not hear you.”
Rochester swallowed. “My lord. That is, she seems quite pious.”
“Yes. The queen is pleasing to me.” A fact that had startled him more than a little when they had met yesterday. He smiled, to take the edge off his displeasure. “And now . . . gentlemen. I take myself off to teach her to . . . make merry.”
They all burst into more laughter than the jest deserved. James caught his eye and tipped his glass in a salute. They had spent years in Europe at the pleasure of other courts and survived only on their charm.
Which he would need to charm his queen. He walked out of the room, flanked by two of his honor guards, as always. In the hall, he nearly collided with Lady Suffolk.
He put out a hand to steady her and she used the movement to sink into a deep curtsy.
He would have expected her to be with the queen, as one of the English ladies who spoke Spanish. Barbara had recommended her to the placement. Charles cocked his head, chest suddenly tight. Lady Suffolk was one of Barbara’s favorites. “Is there word?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She rose, head still lowered, with a slight flush upon her cheeks. “Her Majesty bids me to send her apologies that she cannot attend you tonight.”
Charles barked a laugh. “Cannot attend? This bodes ill for our relations.”
“Her Majesty would be happy to receive you, only she is having . . . a womanly complaint.”
“Ah.” He rubbed his brow and glanced back at the honor guard. Beyond them, he could still hear the sound of revelry in his rooms and, of all things, he did not wish to have to return there. Charles straightened, smiling a little at a realization. His queen would be tired and abed. “Well. Well . . . I would not wish her to feel neglected. Have the cook send up some supper, and we shall dine together. Quietly.”
And, if he was very lucky, he might be able to fall asleep.
• • •
Hampton Court Palace
Outside the windows of Catherine’s rooms, the bagpipers played jaunty tunes as everyone continued to celebrate their arrival at Hampton Court. Catherine let Feliciana down on the floor. Immediately, the little bundle of silk and exuberance began her task of exploring the new chambers. In the week they had been in Portsmouth, she had grown more comfortable with the abundance of skirts surrounding her. “She seems keen enough, I think.”
“Mm? Yes, my dear.” Charles moved to the window and studied a message one of the pages had delivered upon their arrival. He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. “If you will pardon me, I have some matters I need to attend to.”
But they had only just arrived, and it was their honeymoon. Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth. Mamãe had said Charles would not respond well to a challenge, not with his own mother’s willfulness as an example. She cast her eyes down and sought some answer to reassure him that she had some worth beyond her dowry. “Of course. I shall see to getting us settled in.”
“And I shall return as quickly as I am able.” He folded the note with some force. “Alas, the time of a king is never his own.”
He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and then was away out the door. She had not thought to have exclusive demands upon his time, but now that she had stopped raining, she had expected the consummation. Until it happened, he could still have the marriage annulled.
Turning from the door, Catherine shook her head to clear it. Portugal needed England’s navy and she must make this marriage work to cement the bonds between their nations. Time alone with Charles would be rare, for as king, even his sleep had attendants.
Their honeymoon suite was no different. Far from the quiet of the cloisters, her chambers had been crowded with ladies in farthingales since her betrothal. English ladies in their bright colors had joined her entourage. The ladies of both courts busied themselves directing maids in the unpacking, so despite her soothing words to Charles, there was little for Catherine to do.
She drifted through the room, searching for Feliciana. The puppy had discovered one of Catherine’s gloves, which had fallen from its box. She knelt by the little dear and tugged at the glove.
Feliciana wagged her tail and dug her paws in, thinking it a game.
“Silly thing.” She pulled on the glove and the puppy followed, grunting with delight. At least Charles had given her some token to remember him by. Catherine shook her head. “Silly, silly thing.” She was at least as silly as the puppy if a single meeting concerned her.
Around her, ladies talked amongst themselves in a flurry of languages. The English ladies spoke to each other in English, the Portuguese ladies in Portuguese. Across the room, a pair of one English and one Portuguese lady—the young Dona Emelia—had discovered a common language in Spanish, and were talking intently.
“. . . Castlemaine is with child, I hear.”
“I am certain that is where he has gone—a ‘meeting,’ if you will.”
“What? Here? When her—” The voice cut off and Catherine glanced up, finding Dona Emelia with a betraying flush on her countenance.
Catherine stood, lifting Feliciana along with her glove. She walked over to the ladies. “Where did you say the king had gone?”
“Oh . . . I am certain I do not know. Did he not speak of a meeting?”
“Yes.” She tilted her head and regarded her Portuguese lady. “With Lady Castlemaine, you said?”
“I—” Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, madam. So Lady Suffolk told me.”
“And what can you tell me of Lady Castlemaine?”
“Other than that she is bearing her second child, I know very little, I am afraid.” She glanced across the room and made a small beckoning gesture with one hand, held low as if Catherine might not notice it.
Furrowing her brow, Catherine bent her head to regard Feliciana and used the movement to glance behind her. Dona Maria was crossing the room with some speed. She would no doubt put an end to Catherine’s questions as being beneath her. Beneath her! To wonder at her own husband’s doings. But how was she to find out what she wished to know? Though Lady Suffolk was one of the attendants whom Charles had assigned to her, it was not a question that she could put directly to the lady. Catherine’s life might have been sheltered, but she was not so naive as to think any of her English attendants were more loyal to her than to Charles. She would get no useful information there.
With a great rustle of silk, Dona Maria arrived and made a perfunctory curtsy. “How is Your Majesty finding your apartments?”
“Adequate, thank you.” She had no great hope of receiving an answer, but she made the effort. “What can you tell me of Lady Castlemaine?”
“Oh, the English and their ways . . . Your mother would not wish you to trouble yourself with such things.” Dona Maria gestured to the other side of the room. “Have you a thought as to where we should put Feliciana’s bed?”
“I am not a child, Dona Maria. I am aware that my husband has a mistress.”
“Your Majesty, it is beneath your notice.”
Catherine stifled a sigh. Her duenna was undoubtedly loyal but, having served since Catherine was a child, could see her as nothing else. She needed someone who answered to her—someone local—to help her understand customs. None of the English ladies would do, as she was certain they were all instructed to report on her to the king. It was what her mother would have done. No . . . she needed someone who answered to her alone. She cocked her head and frowned with concentration. “There was a young woman in Portsmouth—Jenny. She made an herbal brew for me.”
“I recall.” Dona Maria’s mouth twisted with a little distaste.
“Pray, send for her.”
Dona Maria’s brows rose sharply, cracking the fine lacquer on her forehead. “Is Your Majesty unwell?”
“I am quite well, thank you.”
“Then what need have you for a common waiting woman?”
Catherine almost apologized for causing a fuss, but she was a queen now. She tried to think of how her mother would have handled this and raised her chin. “I was not aware I was required to justify my choices to you.”
If the good lady were any more astonished, her entire face would have cracked off. But, to her credit, she bowed with more effort than before. “Of course. It shall be done.”
Catherine bent her head to Feliciana again and buried her face in the puppy’s warm fur. Tiny puppy kisses covered her cheeks. She wondered who her husband was kissing now.
• • •
Barbara ran a hand up Charles’s leg, tracing a line from knee to inner thigh. She tried to keep a smile on her face as her stomach cramped with a bearing pain. She had been having them off and on since the carriage ride from London. But with Lady Suffolk placed in the Portuguese woman’s chambers, Barbara had been receiving regular and alarming reports that Charles was demonstratively fond of the woman. Barbara could take no chances with the king’s affections. She was too great with this child to give him her usual sport, but she only had another few weeks to suffer, and in the meantime there were other methods of pleasing a king.
He caught her hand and lifted it, kissing the inside of her wrist. “Now, my dearest. I do not wish for you to exert yourself on my behalf.”
“And yet, you know I would like nothing better.” She leaned closer and let her tongue touch the lobe of his ear. “I have a special fondness for . . . exertion.”
At that, Charles chuckled, but still slid away on the bench. “This is not, perhaps, the best time.”
Barbara straightened and widened her eyes at him. The answer was obvious, but it would be better to force him to say it. “Whyever not?”
“Well . . . darling.” He tugged at the lace around his neck. “I was just married and—”
“I see.” Barbara stood, placing her hands on her hips to emphasize her swelling belly. “I see. It is of no matter to you that I have been married during the entirety of our acquaintance. But you—you—a marriage of a few days, to a little foreign doll, and you can no longer touch me? After I traveled from London to be with you. After I endured mockery. After this!” She slapped her hands against her stomach.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You do understand our situations are quite different.”
“Yes. Of course! I am a mere woman. You are my king. Jus primae noctis makes my duty to you abundantly clear.”
“Oh please. That has never been—”
“I know my histories.”
He sighed and studied the ceiling for a moment. “Barbara, my dear, you know my feelings for you are strong.”
“Do I? I hope you do not think me such a fool as that.”
He faltered, as she had expected. “What do you mean?”
“I am merely convenient because my husband will let you have me for the price of a title.” Though, in truth, Roger was making a bit of a fuss over this latest baby. “Were it not for his willingness to take credit for your bastards, you would never tryst so frequently with me.”
“If you had not already been married, I—”
“What? You would have married me and made me your queen?” Barbara laughed, and her stomach clenched at the injustice of it. “Please. My father could not have afforded the dowry to buy you as Queen Luisa did for the Portuguese woman.”
“Her name is Catherine. She is my queen. I would thank you to show her a little respect.”
Barbara straightened her spine and gathered her skirts. “Respect? Perhaps I shall, then.” She turned and strode toward the door, trying not to waddle.
“Where are you— Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Charles hurried across the room and caught her by the arm. “Where are you going?”
“To see the queen and honor her.”
His eyes rested incredulously on her belly and Barbara knew she had won. “That would not be a good choice in your condition.”
“Do you think she would disapprove if I laid my whelp on her doorstep?”
“Be reasonable, I beg, though—” His jaws clamped shut suddenly. “Please, please be reasonable.”
“Though it is not in my nature? Is that what you were going to say?” Barbara’s cheeks burned and she tossed her head, letting her curls tumble around her shoulders. “What would be reasonable, in your eyes, sir?”
“Just . . . Just wait until after your confinement is over. Please.” Charles sighed. At his feet, one of his dogs whined, gazing at his master with adoring eyes.
Barbara wrenched her arm away from him. “I suppose you would like me better if I were like one of your bitches. Is the queen like a spaniel? Does she gaze at you with unfaltering love? And I—I who have given you the best years of my life. Who have borne a child for you, who is bearing another—I cannot be allowed to express my disquietude. Not even here. Not even in private with you.”
Her anger evaporated into tears. Bosom heaving, she fled to the sofa and sank upon it. A moment later, the cushion shifted as Charles sat beside her. Barbara kept her face covered, waiting to hear what he would say.
“I am sorry . . . My dear, I am so sorry this is difficult. The timing is such . . . I wish you could meet her now. Truly, I do. I think the two of you would become friends.” He stroked her hair. “What can I do to make it easier for you?”
Always, he was so predictable. She had only to work herself into tears and Charles would relent. She sniffled and sat up, dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of lace. “May I . . . May I be a Lady of the Bedchamber?”
He gave her a smile, leaning forward to kiss her cheeks. “What, not a duchess?”
“I want to be near you, and by necessity, I would travel with the court and have reason to be close always.” And, as a Lady of the Bedchamber, she would have control over who was able to meet with the queen. In such a position, it would take little effort to make certain that all information that reached the Portuguese woman would first have to pass through Barbara. If a courtier wished to meet with her, well, then a gift to the Lady of the Bedchamber who arranged that would not be unusual. “I could be of use to her, and smooth things for you as well. And . . . you know that Ladies of the Bedchamber share the queen’s bed. Would you not like us both in your bed?”
A laugh burst from Charles, bouncing around the room. “Oh, you do know me well. And were it up to me, the answer would be very, very . . . certain. But it is the queen’s decision. Hush—” He put a finger to her lips. “You know it is.”
Sighing, she leaned in to him, then turned to kiss him more fully. From his posture, it was clear he was going to stay with her for some time. As for the Lady of the Bedchamber . . . it was the queen’s decision, but even the queen was ruled by the king.
• • •
Catherine knelt on the velvet prie-dieu in her little chapel. Father Patrick’s Latin was rendered strange and charming by his Irish accent, which rose and fell in a melodious line. “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”
“Amen,” the small congregation replied. Only two of her ladies had come with her for the morning Mass, the others preparing for the seemingly never-ending string of callers who wished to welcome her. Or, rather, they wished to be seen to welcome her, and to gawk at her. Very few, she suspected, had any interest in actually meeting her.
Catherine anchored herself in the familiar words and rituals as a relief from the constant frivolity of the English court. She had already received an abundance of nobles that morning, all eager to congratulate their new queen. She prayed for strength to endure the afternoon, which promised to be more of the same.
The priest joined his hands together and faced them to end the mass. “Ite, missa est.”
“Deo gratias.” She gave thanks to God in earnest for this small respite in her day.
As she rose, the door to the chapel opened as if someone had been waiting for their voices to cease, and a little dog burst through. Jenny followed, carrying a bowl of tulips that was the evident draw for her companion. Catherine sagged in her stays. She had so hoped it would be Charles. In the week since they had arrived at Hampton Court, she had spent wonderful days with him, laughing and strolling the lawn, but not yet a night.
“Is something the matter, my child?” Father Patrick paused on his way to the door.
She could not—not even under the seal of the confessional—bring herself to say that she felt an unfulfilled carnal desire for her husband. It was not a sin by any definition, and indeed should be encouraged between a husband and wife. Indeed, her duty to Portugal, and now to England, required her to . . . to know her husband. It was only . . . she blushed even thinking of it. “No. Thank you, Father.” She gestured to her ladies. “I should like a few moments longer for contemplation.”
Dona Maria cleared her throat. “Your Majesty—”
“You may wait for me in the hall.” Catherine faced the small altar without giving them leave to respond further. She’d had so few private moments since her marriage. The Lord’s chapel was not the correct place for such a conversation, but when else could she have it?
Carrying the flowers with her head lowered, Jenny crossed the room to the round marble table beneath a statue of the Virgin, where another offering sat. Her efficiency was such that she might almost not be in the room. Father Patrick had scarcely left the chapel before Jenny had finished swapping the two arrangements.
“Jenny . . . Stay a moment, if you would.”
The girl stopped, eyes wide, even as they remained turned down. The flowers trembled a little. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“I have been very pleased with your work.” More honest would be that she had not had cause to notice Jenny’s work, which was the mark of a good servant. “There is another service you might do for me, if you would not mind.”
“I am yours to command.” Her head remained bowed, fingers pressing against the bowl so hard the nails turned white.
Catherine bit her lip. She could bow to propriety and hint or she could simply ask. The latter, painful though it would be, would at least be faster, and the awkwardness of the subject would be extreme in either case. “What can you tell me of my husband’s mistress?”
The girl’s cheeks flushed. “Which facts are you interested in, Your Majesty?”
Catherine sat on the edge of the wooden pew and inhaled deeply, resting a hand against her busk. “I believe Lady Castlemaine is here at Hampton Court.”
“She is.” Jenny ran her thumb up and down the side of the bowl. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but would not one of your ladies be better suited to—to advise you?”
“I am a stranger here. My ladies are, as well . . . It occurs to me that you must have occasion to hear things I do not.” She studied the pew cushion, examining the wing of the dove embroidered there.
“I am new to the palace as well, Your Majesty. And grateful I am to be here, but my duties have not taken me into the ladies’ sphere.”
“But you do hear things, do you not? Let us say that I should very much like to know what you have heard.”
Frowning, Jenny nodded. “She is expecting a child very soon, and I have heard— Oh, please, Your Majesty. Are you certain you want me to—”
“The child is my husband’s.” Catherine smoothed her skirts. “I know. But what sort of woman is she? How does she . . . He is with her often, it seems.”
“Ah. I mean . . . I think I understand better your question, Your Majesty. She is said to be very beautiful. Her spirits run high. She—she quarrels with the king, apparently . . . The servants can hear them even through the walls.” Jenny shifted her weight, still studying the floor. It was not fair, perhaps, to ask the young woman to report thus, but Catherine had no one else who would be honest with her. Her own ladies insisted on protecting her, and the English ladies had different loyalties. The crease between Jenny’s brows deepened as she went on. “I have heard tell that if her rages will not work, then she collapses weeping. The king cannot stand to see her cry.”
It was not how the nuns had taught her to behave, but if heightened sensibilities were what it took to hold Charles’s attention . . . Catherine nodded, digging her thumb into the side of her finger. “Thank you, Jenny. You are a good girl.” She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, embroidered in gold, and tucked it into the girl’s apron as a token of thanks. “You may go.”
For some time after the girl had departed, Catherine stared at the new flowers, deeply conscious that she and her husband had yet to consummate their marriage. Since her mother had yet to deliver the rest of her dowry, England would stand to lose little if the marriage was annulled. She must attach Charles to herself, despite his interest in his mistress.
All that was required was for Catherine to seduce her own husband. She prayed to God that she could.
• • •
Charles’s heels echoed against the stone floor as he strode toward Catherine’s room. Rogue and True ranged ahead of him, little silken tails waving like flags of exploration. Rogue guessed where he was going and stopped outside the door, putting his paws on the painted wood. True had gone on ahead and then stopped in the hallway to look back at Charles with a small whine.
“Do not fear, True, we will not be long.” He only needed to speak with the queen for a few minutes and see her settled for the night, before going to Babs and his new son. Charles knocked twice on the door, out of courtesy.
“Enter,” Catherine called.
He frowned as he turned the knob. Odd, usually one of her ladies opened the door for him. He followed Rogue through the door and stopped. The room was dark save for tapers lit around the bed. There, clad only in a gown of Brussels lace, stood his bride.
Her hands moved as if to cover herself, but she stilled them and kept them by her sides. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. She had stripped the layers of makeup she usually wore, to reveal clear skin. The hint of rosiness at her cheeks might be her natural blush or the most skilled artifice.
He had been used to thinking of her as a little doll and, though naive, she was also clearly a woman. The slight tremble to her frame only added to the allure. She raised her chin bravely and smiled at him. “Husband . . . will you come to bed?”
As his answer, Charles shut the door to the hall and smiled back at his wife.
• • •
Barbara stared out the window of her suite into the courtyard below, where Charles and the new queen were enjoying a stroll. Even through the mullioned windows, their laughter rang clear. The Portuguese doll had been at Hampton Court little more than a fortnight and ought not think she could supplant Barbara so readily in Charles’s affections. She might wear the crown, but Barbara ruled the court.
She turned away from the window, hands clenched into fists. In the corner, the wet nurse sat with baby Charles, rocking in a chair. The child had Charles’s eyes already, and Barbara’s golden hair. Both might change, but for the moment, their son was the perfect blend of the two of them. Charles had to see this as a sign for how well they suited each other. Behind her, the door to her suite opened with a bang. Spinning, Barbara had to put a hand against the wall to catch herself. Dizziness had been plaguing her since her delivery. When the spots cleared from her eyes, she almost wished she had simply fainted.
Her husband had arrived at Hampton Court.
Putting on a smile, Barbara went to him. “Darling! What a pleasant surprise.”
“I would say it is neither surprising nor pleasant.” Roger’s handsome face twisted into a sneer. “Though I should have been surprised to find my wife gone, I was not.”
Barbara let her pretense of welcome drop and sighed. “Really, Roger. The terms of our marriage have been made clear enough.”
“Yes. A title in exchange for raising your bastards as my own.” He took two more strides into the room. The sun from the windows lit the spatters of mud on his breeches. He stripped the riding gloves from his hands as though he had left his horse and come straight to her rooms. “The terms of my title make the truth clear enough.”
“If your ambition had matched your pride, then perhaps I would not have needed to secure a title for you.”
“Oh, do not pretend that you are whoring for my benefit.”
“Then do not pretend as if you do not enjoy the estate the king bestowed upon you for my ‘whoring.’”
“I am the laughingstock of the court.”
She flung out her arms in frustration. “Only because you play the aggrieved husband! If you had even an ounce of practical sense, you would see the power my position could give to you. The man whose wife has the ear of the king? Everyone should be bowing to you, and instead you whine about the privilege and wealth we have been given.”
He strode across the room, where the wet nurse sat with her face turned down to the babe’s, and snatched the child from her arms. Little Charles screamed with rage, his face screwing into a red knot. For all of Roger’s anger, he cradled the infant with care.
“What are you doing?”
“If I am to raise his whelps as my own, then they shall be mine in earnest.” He walked toward the door, bouncing the baby in his arms.
Barbara pulled her dressing gown closer and hurried after him. “That is not our agreement with the king!”
“And if I break it, what then? My title will not be passed on.” He pulled the door open. “Why the devil should I care if your bastards get a title?”
“Roger—” Barbara followed him into the hall, with the wet nurse close behind. “Where are you going?”
He strode through the halls ahead of her, pushing past the courtiers. From amid a knot of nobles, Rochester stepped free and raised his brows at Barbara’s dishabille. He gave her a mocking bow. “My Lady Castlemaine, will you entertain us all as you do the king?”
“Watch your tongue, Rochester.”
“I always watch my tongue; it is an organ with many uses.” He licked his lips. “Should you like to watch it as well?”
She had not the time to stop and give him the slap he deserved. Roger had rounded a corner and she dared not lose sight of him. Lord knew what he would do with little Charles in such a mood. Barbara turned to the wet nurse. “Go and find the king.”
The young woman’s eyes widened. “My lady—”
“Do it.”
She rounded the corner into the Queen’s Long Gallery. What the devil was Roger doing here? Her son howled in his arms as he hurried down the hall.
Lady Suffolk leaned out of the queen’s chambers, seeking the source of the howling. Barbara hurried toward her, clutching her robe tight across her bosom. Of all the circumstances in which to meet the Portuguese woman, this was not one she would choose. Stepping into the hall, Lady Suffolk pulled the door closed behind her. “Are you not still in your confinement?”
“I am only—” She paused as Roger stepped into a room not far down the hall. The chapel. Why was he going to the chapel? She abandoned Lady Suffolk and ran after him. Barbara reached the door, intent on flinging it open, but it was locked. She shook it.
“Roger!” She pounded on the oak panels. “Roger, let me in!”
On the other side of the door, her son wailed, drowning out any other sounds from within. She needed Charles. He would have this door open in a moment. She spun away and ran back to Lady Suffolk. Thank all the heavens that she had a friend placed with the queen. “The king is outside—would you go and fetch him for me?”
“I will do better. I have the key to the chapel.” Lady Suffolk opened the door to the queen’s apartments again and slipped inside.
Barbara withdrew, to avoid the Portuguese woman. But no—there was no need to hide, as the woman was outside walking with Charles. Barbara shifted her weight, furious energy making her restless.
When Lady Suffolk reappeared, Barbara fairly snatched the key from her. Her robes flapping around her, Barbara flew down the hall. Her hands shook as she fit the key to the lock. It turned easily, and she flung the door open, Lady Suffolk trailing in behind her.
At the far end of the room, Roger held her son as one of the queen’s Catholic priests poured water on the infant’s head. “Charles Palmer, ego te baptizo in nomine . . .”
Her stomach churned. “No!”
The priest—Father Patrick, that was his name—glanced up, eyes widening, but his grip on the silver ewer did not falter. “Patris . . .” More water dribbled out to splash on Charles’s head. “. . . et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”
She ran down the aisle and ripped her son from his arms. Little Charles’s face was red and his hair was wet with papist holy water. Barbara pulled him close to her, retreating from the men toward Lady Suffolk.
Roger was smirking at her and held up his hands in pacification. “It is done. My son is a Catholic now.”
“How dare you.” She had known he was a papist when they married, but their Anne had been baptized in the Anglican Church. Rage shook her. “How dare you! You had no right!”
“You wanted me to raise the children as my own. So, madam, I have every right.”
“He is the king’s son!”
“Believe me, madam, I am very much aware of that.” He advanced on her, jaw set. “And I am your husband. So, again, it is my right, and in our marriage my word is law. If you do not wish to be subject to it, then I suggest you leave my house.”
Barbara laughed at the foolishness. “Really? Do you think I would choose you over Charles? And then what, stay at our estates and do nothing but rot?”
“No, you are correct. Your choice was made clear when you left my home to have your confinement here. You could not even grant me the courtesy of pretending that the child was mine. Understand, madam, I have had enough. From this point forward, my duties as your husband are over. You will not return to my estate.” He spun, riding cloak flaring and scattering dust about the room.
“Roger!” Barbara hurried after him. “Roger! You are not considering the matter clearly, you stupid—”
The door to the chapel slammed behind him. He could not mean it. After everything she had done for him, he would leave her like this? And insult the king by making his child a Catholic? Charles would be furious when she told him. Shaking, Barbara spun to Lady Suffolk. “Get me an Anglican priest.”
“Daughter, your son has been baptized.” Father Patrick’s Irish accent rendered his patronizing speech absurd. “Would you not care to—”
“What I would care to do is to slap you, but as I am holding my son, I cannot.” She worked her jaw and spat in his face. “That will stand for now, papist dog. And if you ever come near my child again, so help me, I will have the king see you drawn and quartered.”
She stalked away from him, soothing little Charles in her arms. How dare Roger endanger her son like this. And to leave her? It would not stand. He would relent, surely. She stood by the chapel’s window, rocking her baby and trying to calm his distress. Through the stained glass, she watched Charles and the Portuguese woman walk arm in arm, laughing within a flurry of spaniels.
If she did not have her husband, or the king, what was she to do?
• • •
Since Portsmouth, Jenny had seen and spoken to the queen on several occasions, but she had never been summoned before. She followed the Moorish page who had come for her through the halls as her stomach tried to strangle her heart. Swallowing heavily, she was ushered into the queen’s receiving rooms.
Heavy red curtains, embroidered with silver thread, draped the walls and made a vivid backdrop for the Portuguese attendants. Their somber farthingales seemed to be more furniture designed for mourning than dresses for a queen’s court. A few English ladies were mixed in among them like hothouse flowers in vivid golds and blues. In stark contrast to all the feminine elegance, a gentleman in a simple dark suit, with a tailor’s apron pinned to his doublet, paced around the middle of the room.
At the center of his orbit, on a small stool, the queen stood in her dressing gown. Her Majesty’s face lit when she saw Jenny, which made the fear strangely worse.
Jenny dropped into a low curtsy and waited to be addressed.
“You may rise.” The queen beckoned her closer. “I should like to make use of you to translate, if you would be so kind.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Jenny hurried closer, keeping her eyes fixed on the rich rug beneath her slippers. Translate? But surely the queen had translators aplenty.
Lady Suffolk made a tsking sound, apparently of the same opinion. “If I will not suffice, then would not the honorable Lord Aubigny be a more appropriate choice?”
“If you do not know all of the Spanish words for English fashion, then I hardly think a gentleman will fare better.” The queen cleared her throat. “Jenny, I hope you might help me bridge the gaps in understanding. But . . . I shall require you to look up, I am afraid.”
If she ever wished to rise to the station of lady’s maid, she must be more forward. She was not trespassing, she was here by the queen’s own invitation. Jenny raised her eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am well versed in the latest fashions and shall be happy to assist.”
The delighted smile the queen gave her was more trusting than any she had seen from a noble. For all that the queen was said to be three-and-twenty, she seemed younger than Jenny, in a way. The queen beckoned to a man who wore the apron of a tailor. “Mr. Gilman has made the trip from London to design my clothes for our entry into the city. Will you please listen and correct any mistakes my ladies make as we converse?”
For the next little while, Jenny only listened. She had to step in only rarely. Most of the English ladies spoke enough Spanish to handle a basic conversation, but their grasp of fashion terms was decidedly thinner. But as the afternoon wore on, she thought the queen was watching her reactions to fabrics the tailor’s apprentice brought forward. Though the queen never said it directly, Jenny came to believe that her true reason for being in the room was that the queen’s Portuguese attendants did not understand English taste.
It was an unspoken mark of favor. With God’s will, it would lead to a better appointment than a simple chambermaid.
Jenny stood, with her hands folded in front of her, outside the circle of farthingales surrounding the queen. The tailor was showing Her Majesty a length of dark gray material, which would be better suited for a widow. Handling the fabric, the queen glanced at Jenny, who shook her head slightly. The queen let go of the material and waved it away.
“Do you think Her Majesty would like this?” The tailor’s apprentice stood just behind Jenny. He was a tall young man whose deep complexion and long nose put her in mind of an Arab. Given the current fascination with Persian fashion, it was hardly surprising that the tailor would employ him. What was surprising, though, was that he spoke English as though he were a native. His eyes were large and liquid brown, wreathed in dark lashes, and seemed to be laughing at some private joke. She dragged her gaze down to his hands and the fold of deep purple fabric he held out.
“Why don’t you ask Her Majesty?”
“Because . . . she is looking to you with every sample my master shows her.” His voice was a rich baritone. “I thought simply consulting you first might be more efficient.”
“I would never presume to speak for Her Majesty.”
“Ah . . . but I did not ask you to speak for her, did I? I merely asked for your opinion about her opinion.”
Jenny narrowed her eyes at him. “It is much the same thing.”
“Not even a guess?”
She compressed her lips, not completely masking her smile, and faced the queen.
The young man stepped forward so he stood beside her and held the fabric out closer, into her line of sight. “Then . . . may I ask if you like it?”
“The color is attractive.”
He nudged her with his elbow. “Touch it. You can tell nothing of fabric if you do not feel the hand and weight of it.”
“Will you leave me alone if I do?”
“Absolutely not.” The laughter rose to the surface of his voice.
“Impertinent man.”
He grinned and shifted the fabric closer. “Go on . . . It is a blend of silk and wool, which gives it a high sheen, but also a supple drape. The color comes from a shell which is only found in Greece and was used to dye the robes of Caesar.”
Almost without her volition, Jenny’s hand rose to touch the fabric. Under her fingers, the material yielded like mist to the morning sun. An involuntary “oh” escaped her.
“Do you think she would like it?”
“Yes, devil man. I do.” She withdrew her hand and glanced at the queen, who was watching her. Jenny straightened and folded her hands in front of her.
“My name is Thomas Hammett, but you may call me Thom.”
She kept her gaze straight ahead. She had rather expected him to have a somewhat more exotic name. Thomas Hammett sounded so very English. Well, no matter how handsome he was, no man was worth losing her place over. “I will call you Mr. Hammett or Troublemaker, as I see fit.”
“So long as you speak to me again, I shall be satisfied.” He gave her a little bow and walked to his master with the bolt of cloth. The queen watched him all the way, and when he arrived with the fabric, she put out a hand and smiled. And then she nodded to the tailor. Thom glanced over his shoulder at Jenny with a wink.
She warmed all the way from her toes to the tips of her ears. Now here was the sort of troublemaker one would not mind seeing again.
• • •
London
From the walls of Whitehall, Barbara’s view of the pageantry was all too good. The Thames was crowded shore to shore with boats and barges to welcome the arrival of the king and queen to London. Charles had bade her go to London and wait for him there, but she’d had little notion that his honeymoon in Hampton Court would continue so long as it had. Be that as it may, she had used the past month well, and her recovery from childbirth was complete.
Below her, Samuel Pepys stood on the banks, ostensibly to watch the pageantry of the king’s arrival but, if the lecherous little clerk’s gaze was any indication, he had eyes only for her. And by the veritable drool on his chin, she had lost none of her powers over men.
Barbara flung her hair over her shoulders and let it stream in the wind, glad she had chosen not to wear a hat today. It would be easier for the king to pick her out from the crowd. She had told Charles that she would stand upon Whitehall’s walls and wait for him. The nurse stood behind her, carrying baby Charles, stiffly swaddled, in her arms. When the king came near, she would take his son and hold him up. Let the boy see his father.
And let the queen see the boy.
Two great barges approached, covered in gilt and with the royal flags waving. Barbara leaned forward, straining for the first glimpse of Charles. There—he stood in red robes, with his long dark hair . . . no. No, it was not him. She sank onto her heels, clenching her fists. She had been taken in by a pageant. The two barges merely had actors playing the king and queen as a part of the celebrations.
Behind her, boots crunched on the gravel atop the wall. Barbara turned to see who had come to join the view and her heart clenched. Roger.
He removed his hat as a courtesy, but his gaze made it clear the salute was for the nursemaid and not for Barbara. She lifted her chin and gave a curtsy in response, as if they were alone and civil. Roger snorted and paced along the wall.
Barbara turned from him to the nurse. “Give me Charles.”
With a hasty curtsy, the woman handed the infant to her. Barbara tickled him under the chin and he made a pleased gurgle.
“And how do you do, my fine young man?” She walked with him along the wall, bouncing him gently in her arms.
Roger returned the way he had come, passing her upon the wall. His gaze stayed fixed ahead and he smiled cordially at the nurse.
Barbara stopped and turned her son so he could see the Thames, covered with barges and boats. The water was almost hidden. “There, now. You see? Your papa is coming soon.”
From upstream, a cry came upon the wind. Barbara craned her neck, seeking the source of the uproar. In the midst of the river, a gilt barge rowed under a canopy of royal purple. The king’s pennants snapped in the breeze as the ship rowed up the length of the Thames. Barbara clutched little Charles, holding him up, his head supported by his swaddling bands, as she searched for the king.
In the midst of the courtiers crowded upon the barge, she could spy only the edge of the throne of her lover. Of himself, any part she might know was obscured by a conspiracy of the canopy and the crowd. The barge came even with them, and the people on the scaffolding below shouted, “God save the king! God save the queen!” To think. Only a month ago, the theater had rung with cries pairing her name with Charles. She held her son in her arms and watched his father sail past without a glance towards her.
Behind her, Roger laughed.
• • •
Through a gap in the curtains surrounding Barbara’s bed, Charles could just make out the water-streaked windows. Rain pattered against the glass and created silver curtains across the courtyard as if the entirety of England was their bedchamber.
Charles ran his fingers along the warm fullness of Barbara’s breast, circling the aureole. Her skin was still flushed and slick from their lovemaking. She snuggled against him and sighed. Her own hand rose to run through the hair on his chest, sending pleasant shivers through his torso.
“Beloved . . .” Barbara raised herself on one elbow and the golden fall of her hair hung like another curtain to pool on the bed. “My circumstances . . . I need your help.”
Charles tilted his chin up to study her. Barbara might weep or rage, but his lively lady had a frown he was unused to seeing. “What is the matter?”
With another little sigh, she trailed her fingers up his chest to the line of his jaw. “Roger will not take me back.”
“Ah.” It might have been a mistake to have an Anglican priest rechristen the baby. At the time, he had been so outraged that he had agreed to Barbara’s demands and even granted the child “Fitzroy” as a surname, to claim him as his own. The “Fitz” marked him as a bastard and was, perhaps, too much for Palmer to overlook. “He needs only some time to calm down.”
“No . . .” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “No, he means it this time. I am utterly cast out, and—”
She pressed her hand to her lips and turned away. Charles sat up, cursing himself for a fool even as he put his arms around her shoulders. “There, there . . . Even if that is the case, you still have your apartments here and at Hampton Court. You shall not be out on the street, dearest.”
“But I cannot be your mistress!”
“You . . . but, dearest, you already are.”
She shrugged his hands away and struggled out of bed, almost upsetting the ewer on the bed table. “Oh! Men. You understand nothing of what it means to be a woman.”
“I can certainly attest that I understand nothing of women.”
“Do not mock me!”
Charles held up his hands and slid to the edge of the bed, setting his feet upon the stone floor. “Why can you not be my mistress?”
“Because my husband has left me!”
“Surely it makes things easier.” Though, in truth, Charles would never have pursued an unmarried woman, for fear of ruining her.
“If I am kept purely as your plaything, then the polite fiction which keeps me respectable is gone. I will have no position, no standing. No one will invite me into their home unless you are there, and then they will only suffer my presence.”
“Barbara, it is not as if our affair is a secret.”
“But you are married now!” She buried her face in her hands and wept. “And I am nothing—I have no husband. I have no honor . . . I must have some reason to be at court.”
He stood and took her hands, kissing the tears away from her cheeks. “If that is all it takes to make you respectable, you shall have a position. What should you like?”
“I have already told you! Make me a Lady of the Bedchamber.”
A cold spike buried itself in Charles’s spine. He pulled away from her. “That is a very bad idea.”
“I do not see why. It would more than make up for the precedence I have lost and give me unobjectionable cause to be always where you are.”
“It is the last I question.”
“Oh! You find me objectionable now, do you.”
He ran his hands up her arms to cradle her face. “It should be clear I do not.”
“Then why will you not grant me the position?” She yanked free of him, magnificent bosom heaving as anger painted her cheeks red. “Shall I tell you? It is because my association with you has sullied my reputation. Even you know it, if you will not admit it.”
“Are you not the most celebrated lady in my court?”
“I was, until you married. Now? Now I am only your mistress, and not fit to be seen in polite society.” Her voice rose. “Tell me truthfully, if I were not your mistress, would you have any objections to making me a Lady of the Bedchamber?”
“I have told you that is the decision of the queen.”
“Oh, yes. Hide behind the skirts of your wife!” She snatched the ewer from the bed table and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall. “Take no responsibility for the straits you have forced upon me. If you were not in some manner ashamed of me then you know full well that as ‘the most celebrated lady in your court’ I should be an ornament for the queen.”
“Enough!” Charles pressed his hands against his temple. “Woman, I will make it so, if only you will be calm. But heaven help us both. Nothing good can come of it.”