Winsor, Kathleen (41 page)

As
the King appeared in the doorway, his gentlemen crowded behind him, peering
over his shoulders; the women stood motionless and waiting, a look of alarm on
their faces. Portuguese etiquette was as rigid as the clothes they wore and the
girls, having seldom seen men who were not members of their own families,
regarded the entire sex with suspicion and distrust. They had been creating a good
deal of trouble by refusing to
sleep in any bed which had ever been occupied by a
man, and at the sight of one of the creatures approaching had covered their
faces and run off in another direction, cackling and gabbling. Now, unable to
run, they stood and stared—defensive, nervous, wretchedly ill-at-ease. They
would have been more so if they had guessed what the men thought of them.

Charles's
face did not change and immediately he came forward, taking her hand to kiss.
"My apologies to you, madame," he said in soft Spanish, for she knew
no English. "Business kept me until late last night. I hope you've been
made comfortable?" He straightened then and looked down at her.

Catherine
was twenty-three but she looked no more than eighteen. Her hair was beautiful,
a cascading mass of dark brown waves, and her eyes which were also brown were
large and bright, gentle and just a little wistful as she looked up at him.
They seemed to beg for kindness and to ask apology for her own shortcomings.
For her skin was inclined to sallowness; her front teeth protruded a little.
And he had been told that she was scarcely five feet tall.

Still—he
thought—for a princess, she's not bad.

Catherine
had been bred in a convent, embroidering, praying, singing hymns, waiting for
her mother to find her a husband. When she did, Catherine was already far
beyond the age when most princesses married and still she knew nothing at all
of men, was almost as ignorant of their natures as if they had been members of
another species. She had expected to learn to love her husband because it was a
woman's duty to do so; but now as she looked up at Charles she realized that
she had already fallen in love with him. Everything about him seemed wonderful
to her: his swarthy good-looks, the powerful grace of his body, the deep smooth
gentle tones of his voice which lapped over her like a warm tide, stilling some
of her terrors, echoing in her heart.

The
next morning they were married, first by a secret Catholic ceremony in her
bedchamber, again in the afternoon according to the rites of the Church of
England. A few days later they set out for Hampton Court. And though there was
much gossip to the effect that Charles was disappointed in his marriage and
ready to accept Barbara Palmer back again as soon as she had recovered from her
confinement, both their Majesties seemed perfectly happy and content and as
much in love as though they had not married for reasons of political
expediency.

But
if Catherine was satisfied, there were others in her suite who were not.

Penalva,
an ailing, near-sighted old virgin, disliked England the moment she set foot
upon it. It was too different from Portugal to be good. The women, she decided
immediately, were wanton and bold, the men unscrupulous and dishonourable, and
she undertook to warn the naive little Queen of these facts.

"The
Court of England," she said sternly, "must needs be much remodelled
before it is fit for the occupancy of your Majesty."

Catherine,
who was still admiring her splendid crimson-and-silver-hung apartments,
examining the massive toilet and mirror made out of pure beaten gold, looked at
her in surprise, but with a happy little smile.

"Why,
perhaps it should be. I've not heard what condition it's in, but I don't doubt
his Majesty will be glad to make any repairs I ask—he's so kind to me."
Her dark eyes went out the windows, looking across the stretches of green lawn,
the blooming flower-plots, and something dreamy and thoughtful came into them
that evidently annoyed Penalva.

"You
misunderstand, your Majesty! I was not speaking of the
furnishings
of
the Palace. Quite possibly it will be as barbarous as this—" She gestured
quickly, for she did not like English taste either. "I was speaking of the
manners and morals of the courtiers and ladies themselves."

"Why,"
said Catherine, "what's wrong with them?"

"Can
it be your Majesty has not noticed how these women dress? All of them go half
naked from morning till night."

"Well—"
she admitted with some reluctance, for she did not want to be disloyal to her
new land and husband. "They are— different—from what we're used to seeing
at home."

"Different!
My dear, they're indecent! No woman whose intentions were innocent would
display herself before a man as these creatures do. Your Majesty, you have an
opportunity to earn for yourself the gratitude of all England—by reforming the
Court."

"I
wouldn't know how to begin. Perhaps they wouldn't like to have an
outsider—"

"Nonsense,
your Majesty! What does it matter what they would like! You're not their
subject! They are yours, and must be made to understand so immediately—or you
will find yourself a mere hanger-on at your own Court."

Catherine
smiled gently, flunking that the poor old lady was so concerned for her
happiness that she saw a great deal of evil where none existed. "I think
you've misjudged them, my lady. They all look so fine—I'm sure they must be
good."

"Unfortunately,
your Majesty, that is not the way of the world. The good are never
ostentatious—these creatures are. Now, your Majesty, you must listen to the
advice of an old woman who has lived a long while and seen a great deal. Be
mistress in your own Court! Be a leader, not a follower, or they'll leave you
alone for whoever does undertake to lead, and Heaven knows, in this abandoned
place it could be no one of good character. Begin, your Majesty, by putting off
those absurd English clothes his Majesty gave you. Return to your native
costume, and others will be forced to follow."

Catherine
looked down, somewhat dismayed, at her pink-and-blue taffeta gown with its full-gathered
skirt, billowing
sleeves, the neckline cut more discreetly than were those of most ladies, but
still quite daring, she had thought. She felt that in it she was prettier than
she had ever been before in her life.

"But,"
she protested softly, "I like it."

"It
doesn't become you, my dear, as your native costume does. Go back to your
farthingales, or these English will think they've converted you to their ways
already. They're an arrogant race, and will have scant pity or respect for
whoever is easily tamed by them. And one thing more, your Majesty—
don't
learn
the language. Let them speak to you in your own tongue—"

Catherine
had listened to Penalva all her life, and she knew that the old lady had
nothing but love and affection for her. She bowed to the wisdom of age and that
night she appeared at a banquet in her bobbing, black-silk farthingale. She
gave Charles a quick anxious glance, to see whether or not he disapproved of
the change, but his face was inscrutable. He smiled, bowing, and offered her
his arm.

The
honeymoon was celebrated with endless entertainment and gaiety. There were
banquets and balls and cock-fights, picnics, rides on the canal in the
luxurious royal barges, plays performed by actors who came down from London.
All day long the staircases, the chain of great rooms and galleries, were
crowded with a brilliantly dressed throng of men and women. In plum-coloured
velvet, blue satin, gold brocade, they clattered and swished from room to room,
strolled down the cradlewalk of interlaced hornbeam, drifted lazily on the
river. And the sound of their voices, calling to one another, laughing,
chattering eternally, reached Catherine whether she was with them or—more
often—when she was in her own apartments at prayer or talking to her ladies and
priests. She liked to hear them, for though she felt shy and lonely when she
was among them, from a distance it gave her a sense of being part of their gay,
debonair, heedless world.

She
did not guess what they thought of her.

"She's
ugly as a bat," they told one another, after the first glimpse, and
greatly magnified her defects because she did not look like an English-woman.

They
dissected her among themselves, the women giggling and murmuring behind their
fans even when she was in the room, for they knew she could understand nothing
of what they said. And if by chance the Queen's brown eyes rested upon one of
them and she smiled, they quickly composed their faces to smile back, curtsying
faintly, and gave a wink and a nudge to the nearest lady.

"Gad!
But she looks as demure as a dog in a halter!"

"I'll
be damned if I can bring myself to admire a woman with such a dingy skin! Why
the devil doesn't she give it a plastering of powder?"

"Oh,
heavens, my lord! Her monster would never allow
it! They say the old witch
thinks we're a pack of infidels and counsels her Majesty to have a care we
don't corrupt her."

"Look!
how she gives the king the sheep's eye! Ugh! I swear it makes me queasy to see
a woman who dotes so upon her husband—and in public in broad daylight!"

"I
say it's a mark of his Majesty's good-breeding he can make such a tolerable
show of seeming to endure her."

"Well—I'll
wager he won't make such a tolerable show much longer. Castlemaine laid-in last
week. She'll be here in another fortnight—and
then
we'll see—"
Barbara Palmer had been created Countess of Castlemaine some six months before.

"It
runs through the galleries the King promised long ago he'd make her a Lady of
the Bedchamber when he married—"

"And
she says he will or she'll know why!"

Much
as they disliked Barbara for her insolence and airs, hot though jealousy of her
flared among the other women, still she was one of them and they were united in
her favour against this newcomer who outraged them with her modesty and
reticence, her obstinate clinging to the fashions of her own country, her
persistent devotion to her church. But it was not only the frivolous and
cynical whom Catherine had offended. By seeming from the first to like
Chancellor Clarendon she had unwittingly drawn upon herself the enmity of the
most ambitious and able and influential men at Court.

But
Catherine could know nothing of all this. And in spite of Penalva's repeated
warnings she looked at her new subjects and saw only women dressed in beautiful
gowns, with glossy golden hair and a look of sleek complacency—women she envied
though she knew it was wicked to do so—and men with suave easy manners bowing
over her hand, sweeping off their hats as she appeared, their closed faces
telling her nothing. She was still a little frightened by England, but so much
in love with her husband and so eager to please him that she tried to conceal
her awe and uncertainty and thought that she was succeeding very well.

And
then one evening, while she was being made ready for bed, Lady Suffolk, aunt of
Lady Castlemaine, and the only English attendant thus far appointed, handed the
Queen a sheet of paper with a list of names written upon it. "These are
the persons proposed for your Majesty's attendants," she said. "Will
your Majesty be pleased to sign?"

Catherine,
now in her flowing nightgown of white silk, took it and went to her little
writing-table. She picked up a pen and had bent to write her signature, when
suddenly Penalva's hawknosed face appeared over her shoulder.

"Don't
sign without reading it first, your Majesty!" she whispered.

Catherine
gave her a glance of mild surprise, for she had assumed that if the King had
chosen these ladies to attend her they could not be otherwise than acceptable.
But already her old chaperon was mumbling them over.

"—Mrs.
Price. Mrs. Wells. Mother of the Maids: Bridget Saunderson. Ladies of the
Bedchamber: my Lady Castlemaine—" At the last name her voice became
audible, suddenly sharp and indignant, and her face turned to Catherine's.

It
was the only name which meant anything to her. For before she had sailed her
mother—who had given her so little advice as to how to be happy, either as wife
or queen—had warned her never to allow Lady Castlemaine to so much as come into
her presence. She was, the old Dowager Queen had said, an infamous hussy for
whom the King had shown a deplorable kindness during the days of his
bachelorhood.

"Why!"
said Catherine, horrified. Then quickly she glanced about to catch the cool
eyes of Lady Suffolk upon her, and turned so that only her back was to be seen.
"What shall I do?" she whispered, pretending to study the list.

"Scratch
the creature's name
out,
of course!" With a quick motion she
snatched up the pen which Catherine had dropped, dipped it into the inkwell and
handed it to her. "Scratch it out, your Majesty!"

For
a moment longer Catherine hesitated, her face troubled and hurt, and then
resolutely she crossed her pen over the name with several dark broad strokes,
until it was completely obliterated. She felt that by so doing, she had also
obliterated this menace to her happiness. She turned then and spoke to her
interpreter.