There was sadness to come in the New Year. His aunt, Elizabeth of Bohemia, who was at his Court, died there, and it was to him that she turned in her last moments.

He was saddened; he was indeed a family man; he could not bear that any member of his family, which had been so tragically torn apart in his youth, should die.

He had been fond of his aunt.

“So few of us are left now,” he pondered. “There is James and Mam and Minette … and Mam is ailing, and Minette has never been strong … as James and I are.”

He wrote to his sister then: “For God’s sake, my dearest sister, have a care of yourself and believe me that I am more concerned for your health than I am my own.”

She understood him as, he often thought, no one else in the world had ever understood him.

She wrote to him that she was thinking of sending him a little girl to be a maid-of-honor to his Queen when she arrived in England. “She is the prettiest girl in the world,” wrote Minette, “and her name is Frances Stuart.”

The Earl of Sandwich was soon on his way to Portugal. Arrangements were being made to receive the King’s bride in England; and there was always Barbara to placate.

He was spending as much time in her company as he ever had.

He was now supping at her house every night, and the whole city was talking of the King’s infatuation for its most handsome woman, which did not diminish even though he was negotiating for a wife.

He but takes his fill of Castlemaine until the Queen arrives, said the people. Then we shall see the lady’s handsome nose put out of joint.

Charles was treated to the whole range of Barbara’s moods during that spring. She would plead with him not to let the Queen’s coming make the slightest difference to her position; she would scorn him for a coward; she would cover him with caresses as though to remind him of the physical satisfaction which she alone could give.

She was determined to bind him more closely to her than ever.

She talked continually of the child—his child—which was to be denied its rightful bedchamber when it came into the world. She pitied herself; she flew into rages and threatened to murder the child before it left her womb.

She demanded again and again that she should have her lying-in at Whitehall Palace.

“That is impossible,” said the King. “Even my cousin Louis would not so insult his wife.”

“You did not think of your wife when you got me with child!” “A King constantly thinks of his Queen!”

“So I am scorned.

“For the love of God, Barbara, I swear I cannot much longer endure such tantrums.”

Then she wept bitterly; she wished that her child had not been conceived; she wished that she herself had not been born; and he was at his wit’s end to stop her doing herself some damage.

But on one thing he was adamant. It seemed likely that her child would be born just at the time of his Queen’s arrival in England and the child must be born in Barbara’s husband’s house.

“What will become of me?” wailed Barbara. “I see I am of no account to you.”

“You shall have a good position at Court.”

She was alert. “What position?”

“A high position.”

“I would be a lady of the Queen’s bedchamber.””

Barbara, that is almost as bad as the other.”

“Everything I ask is bad. It is because you are tired of me. Very well. You no longer care for me. I shall take myself to Chesterfield. He is mad for me. He would leave that silly little wife of his tomorrow if I but lifted my finger.”

“I will do much for you,” said the King. “You know it well.”

“Then promise me this. I will go quietly to my husband’s house and there bear our child. I will not embarrass you while you receive your wife. And for that … I shall be made a lady of your wife’s bedchamber.”

“What you ask is difficult.”

“Are you a King to be governed? Are you not a King to command?””

It seems that you would command me.”

“Nay! It is that humpbacked, squint-eyed woman who would do that. Come, Charles. Show me that I have not thrown away all my love on one who cherishes it not. Give me this small thing. I shall be a woman of your wife’s bedchamber and I swear … I swear that I will then be so discreet … so gracious … that she will never know that there has been aught between us two.”

He was weary of her tirades. He longed to rouse the passion in her … He wanted to find the Barbara who returned his passion so gloriously when she was in that abandoned mood which made her forget to ask for what she considered to be her rights.

She was near that mood. He knew the signs.

He murmured: “Barbara….”

She leaped into his arms. She was like a lovely animal—a graceful panther. He wanted her to purr; he was tired of snarls. “Promise,” she whispered.

And weakly he answered, for now it seemed that the moment was all important to him, and the future a long way off: “I promise.”

THREE

In the apartments at the Lisbon Palace sat Catherine of Braganza, her eyes lowered over a piece of embroidery, and it was clear to those who were with her that her attention was not entirely on her work.

She was small in stature, dark-haired, dark-eyed; her skin was olive and she had difficulty in covering her front teeth with her upper lip. She was twenty-three years of age and not uncomely in spite of the hideous garments she wore. The great farthingale of gaberdine was drab in color and clumsy, so that it robbed her figure of its natural grace; her beautiful long hair was frizzed unbecomingly to look like a periwig and, as it was so abundant, her barber was forced to spend much time and labor in bringing about this disfigurement. But, since this hairstyle and the farthingale were worn by all Portuguese ladies, none thought their Infanta was disfigured by them.

The two ladies who sat on either side of her—Donna Maria de Portugal, who was Countess de Penalva and sister of the Portuguese Ambassador to England, Don Francisco de Mello, and Donna Elvira de Vilpena, the Countess de Ponteval—were very conscious of the disquiet of their Infanta and, because of certain rumors of which Donna Maria had learned through her brother, she was gravely disturbed. Her outward demeanor gave no hint of this, for Portuguese dignity demanded that a lady should never betray her feelings.

“Sometimes it would seem,” Catherine was saying, “that I shall never go to England. Shall I, do you think, Donna Maria? And you, Donna Elvira?”

“If it be the will of God,” said Donna Elvira. And Donna Maria bowed her head in assent.

Catherine looked at them and smiled faintly. She would not dare tell them of the thoughts which came to her; she would not dare tell them how she dreamed of a handsome bridegroom, a chivalrous prince, a husband who would be to her as her great father had been to her mother.

Tears filled her eyes when she thought of her father. It had always been so. Yet she must learn to control those tears. An Infanta did not show her feelings, even for a beloved father.

It was five years since he had died. She had been seventeen at that time—and how dearly she had loved him! She was more like him than like her clever, ambitious mother. We were of a kind, dearest father, she often thought; had I been in your position I too should have wanted to shut myself away with my family, to live quietly and hope that the might of Spain would leave us unmolested. Yes, I should have been like that. But Mother would not have it. Mother is the most wonderful person in the world—you knew that, and I know it. Yet mayhap if we had lived quietly, if you had never been called to wrest our country from the yoke of Spain, if we had remained as we were at the time of my birth—a noble family in a captive country, a vassal of Spain—mayhap you would be here with me now and I might talk to you about the prince whose wife I may become. But, of course, had you remained a humble nobleman, I should never have been sought by him in marriage.

“I have a letter from him,” went on Catherine, “in which he calls me his lady and his wife.”

“It would seem now,” said Donna Elvira, “that God has willed that the marriage should go forward.”

“How strange it will be,” said Catherine, her needle poised, “to leave Lisbon; perhaps never again to look from these windows and see the Tagus; to live in a land where, they say, the skies are more often gray than blue; where manners and customs are so different.” Her face showed fear suddenly. “I have heard that the people are fond of merrymaking; they laugh often; they eat heartily; and they are very energetic.”

“They need to be,” said Donna Maria. “It keeps them warm since they rarely feel or see the sun.”

“Shall I miss it?” mused Catherine. “I see it often from my window. I see it on the water and on the buildings; but I seem only to look on the sunshine, not to be in it.”

“It would seem that you have a touch of it to talk thus,” said Donna Elvira sharply. “What should the Infanta of Portugal be expected to do—wander out into the sun and air like a peasant?”

They had been with her—these two—since her childhood, and they still treated her as a child. They forgot that she was twenty-three, and a woman. So many were married long before they reached her age, but her mother had long preserved her for this marriage—marriage with England, for which she had always hoped, because in her wisdom Queen Luiza had foreseen that Charles Stuart would be recalled to his country, and as long ago as Catherine’s sixth birthday she had decided that Charles Stuart was the husband for her daughter.

At that time the fortunes of the Stuarts were low indeed; yet, although Charles I had been in sore need of the money a rich Portuguese wife could bring him, he had decided against the match for his son. Catherine of Braganza was a Catholic and it may have been that he—at that time the harassed King—was beginning to understand that his own ill fortune might in some measure be traced to the fiercely Catholic loyalties of his own wife.

Disaster had come to the Stuarts and the first Charles had lost his head, yet, with that foresight and instinct for taking action which would be useful to her country, Luiza had still clung to her hopes for union with England.

“I do not think I shall miss the sun,” Catherine said. “I think I shall love my new country because its King will be my husband.”

“It is unseemly to speak so freely of a husband you have not seen,” Donna Maria reminded her.

“Yet I feel I know him. I have heard so much of him.” Catherine cast down her eyes. “I have heard that he is the most fascinating King in the world and that the French King, for all his splendors, is dull compared with him.”

Donna Maria lifted her eyes momentarily to Donna Elvira’s; both looked down again quickly at their work. But not before Donna Elvira had betrayed by the slightest twitch of her lips that she was aware of what was in Donna Maria’s mind.

“I think,” went on Catherine, “that there will be a bond between us. You know how deeply I loved my father; so must he have loved his. Do you know that when his father was condemned to death by the Parliament, Charles—I must learn to call him Charles, although in his letter to me he signs himself Carlos—Charles sent to them a blank paper asking them to write what conditions they would and he would fulfil them in exchange for his father’s life. He offered his own life. You see, Donna Elvira, Donna Maria, that is the man I am to marry. And you think I shall miss the sun!”

“You talk with great indiscretion,” said Donna Maria. “You, an unmarried Princess, to speak thus of a man you have never seen. You will have to be more discreet than that when you go to England.”

“It is surprising to me,” said Donna Elvira, “that you can so little love your mother … your brothers and your country as to rejoice in leaving them.”

“Oh, but I am desolate at the thought of the parting. I am afraid … so very afraid. Please understand me. I sometimes awake with terror because I have dreamed I am in a strange land where the people are rough and dance in the streets and shout at me. Then I long to shut myself into a convent where I could be at peace. So I think of Charles, and I say to myself: No matter what this strange new land is like, he will be there. Charles, my husband, Charles, who stopped the people torturing those men who had killed his father; Charles, who said: ‘Have done with hanging, let it sleep;’ Charles, who offered his life and fortune for that of his father. Then I am less afraid, for whatever awaits me, he will be there; and he loves me already.”