The Merry Monarch's Wife (12 page)

Of course I had lost the lover of my honeymoon days, but there was no doubt that the presence of the Queen Mother in the country had wrought a change.

I would sit at my window, watching Charles strolling in the gardens. He was always accompanied by his closest friends, and several of his spaniels were usually at his heels; and among those people with him I often saw Lady Castlemaine, and she would be walking close to him.

It was a complete defiance of my wishes and brought home to me how little influence I had with him.

Henrietta Maria came to Hampton Court, and during that visit I had opportunities to be alone with her. She comforted me considerably.

In the first place, we were of the same religion, and we worshipped together in my chapel; afterward she told me how glad she was that Charles had married me.

“It was always a matter of sadness to me,” she said, “that my husband was not of the faith. My Charles was a good man. Why should good men suffer so in this wicked world while those who commit great sins so often go free? They took him out there at Whitehall and they struck off that noble head. He was the King and they did that to him!”

She wept. I put an arm around her and she embraced me, tenderly. She wept easily; her emotions were very close to the surface. She was different from me. Anger bubbled over when she considered she had been unjustly treated. I wondered how she would have dealt with Lady Castlemaine.

It was easy to confide in her.

She nodded as she listened. “It is not an unusual story,
chérie.
It was a problem I did not have. My Charles was a good husband. He loved me…he loved his family dearly. They say he was not a good king. There was that wicked war…and they said it need not have been. He believed in the right of kings…given by God. The Divine Right. He would have none of the Parliament…so they went to war and cut off his head. They say we do not judge him as a man but as a king. Charles, they say, was a good man but a good man does not always make a good king. The two are apart, they say. They made that excuse…and they took him out before Whitehall and they cut off his head.”

She wept bitterly.

“My son Charles is less like his father than any man I know. They will let him keep his head, I am sure. They love him as they never loved his father. What is it that makes people love? My father was much loved. He was a great king. They say the greatest king the French ever had. But he was not a good man like my Charles.”

“Do not talk of it if it distresses you,” I said.

“I like to talk to you, my dear. You are of my faith, and you and I understand each other. And now there is this between you and Charles. It does not show. That is Charles for you. I never understood my firstborn. He laughs much. He turns aside one's wrath. He always did. Oh, what an ugly boy he was! When I first saw him after his birth ‘This is not my son!' I cried. ‘Not the son of my handsome Charles.' Charles my husband was a handsome man, you know. Why did we have such a little monster? And he stayed ugly. Yet somehow he managed to please them all. The nursemaids adored him. They gave him all he wanted, yet he was not what I would call a spoiled child. He loved to be fondled by the nurses. He loved all women…and they loved him, for,
ma chérie,
when people love they are inclined to be loved in return. He is his grandfather again. My father, the great Henri, was loved wherever he went. He was merry…laughing his way through as Charles does. Sometimes I think Charles is my father born again. Such get their way as they go along. Even great misfortune does not hit them as it does others. While we were wandering on the continent Charles was never really sad…as you might have thought he would be. He always hoped, I suppose, and if he did not have his kingdom, well, he was having a very pleasant time while he was waiting.

“My mother was a very clever woman. She was of the Medici family. You have heard of them. A very famous family. She was his second wife. He was a Huguenot at the beginning, but he became a Catholic because it was his only way to the throne. ‘Paris is worth a mass,' he said. My son Charles is very like him.”

“And Lady Castlemaine, you think…”

“Ah,
chérie,
I think you must turn away. You must not look. You say, ‘Who is this woman? A mistress! What does such matter to the Queen of England?' My mother had to accept the fact that her husband loved many women. Perhaps he did not love them. Love is rare and there were so many. But they were necessary to his comfort and the King must have his comfort…or he will grow unhappy…and then he blames those who cause his discomfort.” She lifted her shoulders. “It is not wise to be that one.”

“And Lady Castlemaine?”

“Ignore her. She is not the Queen. You are the Queen. You are the one who will bear the next King, remember that. The rest is not important…an irritation, yes. Let it be no more! It is one I never had to suffer…but I saw it with my mother. Oh…they are much of a kind…my son and his grandfather. Kind at heart…they do not cause hurt wantonly…only where these needs are strong…too strong for them. And that is how it was with my father and your husband.”

“So you think I should receive her?”

“No…not that. She is at court. Leave it at that. Put her from your mind.”

I thought a great deal about what she said. Clearly she thought the storm over Lady Castlemaine was of no great importance.

She was more deeply concerned with religion.

She said to me one day: “It was a great sadness to me that my children did not share my faith. They would not allow that in England. For an irreligious people, I never knew any so set against the Catholic faith as the English. They always hated me because of my religion.” She snapped her fingers. “I did not care for that. I know I am right and they are wrong. I did my best to bring the truth to my Charles…but he would have none of it. He had to remember that he was King of a Protestant country…but I did my best.”

I said: “I want so much to bring Charles to the faith.”

She put her hand over mine. “God speed to you, my dear,” she said, and drew closer to me. “I will tell you something: I believe he has a fancy for it. He would never be a religious man. He would use religion…if you understand what I mean. It is difficult to express my feelings when we do not fully understand each other's tongues. Charles would suit the Catholic faith. He would treat it rather as my father did. ‘Paris is worth a mass.' Nevertheless, he should come to it. Now James is different.”

“Oh yes, James and Charles do not resemble each other.”

“Except perhaps in one thing…this obsession with women. James was always close to me…not as close as my little Minette…that is Henrietta, my youngest…my beloved one. Now, do not whisper this to any. You see how I trust you. James is taking instruction.”

“Instruction?”

“Instruction in the Catholic faith. He is as yet undecided, I am told, but it will come. James will be one of us ere long.”

“I did not know.”

“It is such a pity that he has made a fool of himself over this marriage. How could he! The girl is a schemer. She must be.”

“I think she truly loves James.”

“Loves him! She loves the glory. Dear child, he is second in line to the throne. Of course, he will never be King. That is for the son you and Charles will have. But women like that always hope. The upstart daughter of that man Hyde to be Queen of England! That would never be allowed.” She was fierce now. She was so governed by her emotions that I was not sure how much of what she had told me I could believe.

“Oh,” she went on, “I have great hopes of James. He has seen the Light. Charles perhaps will come to it in time. My little Henrietta—there has never been any question with her. She is truly Catholic, and now she is married into France as well. Of all my children, she is the closest to me. I cannot tell you what a blessing she has been to me all these years. She hardly knew her father. She was only five years old when he was murdered. She escaped to France and has become more French than English. Charles loves her dearly.”

“Yes, he has spoken to me of her.”

“His dear Minette! She adores Charles and he her. They have always loved each other dearly. She is married now to Philippe, brother of the King of France. It should have been Louis himself. I trust she will be happy.”

“It is not often in royal marriages that happiness is found,” I said soberly.

“That is true, alas. I was fortunate. I believe you can be, my dear, if you are careful. We all have to pick our way through life. Nothing is easy. Do not ask for too much and you may not be disappointed. Harken to me. When did I ever say I was satisfied? I have made so many mistakes in my life and I greatly regret that I could only see them after I had made them. I often ask myself how much I contributed to the tragedy, how much was due to me that I am a lonely widow and my dear Charles was cruelly murdered. Perhaps I was in some way to blame. Perhaps he might have been here now…sitting beside me…and I might be Queen of England still and you, my dear, Princess of Wales.”

“You must not blame yourself,” I said.

“I wonder. When we get old, we look back…our lives become overshadowed by memories of the past. But no matter how much one weeps, tears will not wash it out.”

“I am making you sad.”

“No,
chérie,
you make me happy. You are the wife I would have chosen for Charles. He is fond of you, I know.”

“But fonder of Lady Castlemaine.”

“No. No. That is a sort of fever, I know. I was brought up at the court of Henri Quatre. I know how my father felt toward the myriads of women who surrounded him. They were necessary to him, but it was not deep love. It is a surrender to the irresistible passion of the moment. Understand that and you will have nothing to fear. The crown is yours. You are the King's wife. These women can do you no harm. Stand firm and remember that…and you have won the battle. You will be the Queen when they are forgotten.”

“How wonderful it has been for me to be with you.”

“For me too, my dear. I came to see you, and I have not been disappointed.”

         

WE HAD LEFT HAMPTON COURT
for Whitehall, that palace which for Charles must hold some very tragic memories, for it was there, before the banqueting hall, that his father had been cruelly murdered.

Whitehall was a fine building. Its gatehouse, made of small square stones, glazed and tessellated, was most impressive. It had been a royal palace ever since Cardinal Wolsey had presented it to Henry VIII, hoping to soften that despotic monarch's heart toward him for a little longer before he met his inevitable fate. It had been changed since then and, because some of the buildings which had been added were in white stone, it was called Whitehall.

I could not be as happy there as I had been at Hampton Court, where I had gone in blissful ignorance with my romantic dreams.

I had come a long way since then.

I saw a great deal of Lady Castlemaine, who was frequently at court. I used to watch Charles walking with her or sitting beside her at the gaming tables. Everyone was aware of his passion for her.

There had been one concession, though. She did not live as close to me as she might have done. Instead she had her apartments in what was known as the Cockpit, which was a part of the palace, though not exactly of it, for coming out of the palace one had to cross the road to reach it. It was situated next to the tennis courts and bowling green; and as there was cockfighting there, it took its name from this.

Queen Henrietta Maria was now installed at Somerset House.

The Queen's friendship had cheered me considerably, and I think Charles was delighted to see us getting on so well together.

It was necessary that I should be present on every occasion of importance, and as there were many such, for numerous entertainments were devised for the pleasure of the Queen Mother, I was constantly in his company. No one would have believed that there was a rift between us, but it was still there, and I supposed would be until I received Lady Castlemaine into my bedchamber.

Both Maria and Elvira had been ill and had absented themselves on many occasions for this reason. Maria was getting feeble; her failing eyesight inconvenienced and disturbed her more than anything else; but she was deeply upset by the manner in which I had been treated.

In spite of the language problems, Maria and Elvira had managed to pick up what was happening in the Castlemaine affair and were incensed by it. Together they talked of the dishonor and insult to their Infanta, and had been on the point of writing to my mother. I had prevented their doing this only by forbidding it. Naturally I did not want my mother to know. She had been adamant about my refusing to receive Lady Castlemaine; and that was exactly what I was doing. I could not return to Portugal, and if I were truthful, I must say I did not want to.

The talk with the Queen Mother had brought me comfort, and I had faced the fact that seeing Charles now and then was at least better than not seeing him at all.

Lady Castlemaine was always prominent at the functions, of course. She was the sort of person who had only to be at a gathering to be the most outstanding person there. She was always sumptuously dressed. She had some valuable jewelry—presents from the King, I imagined—her gowns were always more daringly cut than those of others; her magnificent hair was dressed to advantage on every occasion. She wore the most elegant feathered hats; and, hating her as I did, I had to admit she was splendid and the most handsome woman at court.

One day I noticed a young man in attendance on her. He was scarcely more than a boy. I supposed he was about fifteen…perhaps even younger than that. He was exceptionally handsome, tall and dark, with an unmistakable air of assurance. Lady Castlemaine obviously thought highly of him. She was quite coquettish with him; and he seemed to enjoy this.