Winsor, Kathleen (53 page)

Heydon
nodded his head and bent to his work. For some time he was silent, poring over
an extremely complicated map of the heavens which was spread before him,
pursing his lips and frowning studiously. From time to time he sucked air
through a space between his two front teeth and drummed his fingers on the
table. Barbara sat and watched him, her excitement mounting and her hopes, as
well, for she could not believe that he would give her any really bad news.
Somehow, this would all work out to her satisfaction—as everything had always
done.

"Faith,
madame," he said at last, "you ask me a very difficult
question."

"Why?
Can't you see into the future? I thought that was your business!" She spoke
to him as though he were a glovemaker who had just told her that he would be
unable to get the kind of leather she wanted.

"My
years of study have not been in vain, madame, I assure you. But such a
question— You understand—" He shrugged, spreading his hands, and then made
a gesture as of a knife being run across his throat. "If it should be
known I had made a prognostication in a matter so important—" He glanced
down at his charts again, frowning dubiously, and then he murmured softly, as though
to himself: "It's incredible! I can't believe it—"

Barbara,
in a froth of sudden excitement, sat far forward on the edge of her chair and
her eyes blazed wildly. "What's incredible? What is it? You've got to tell
me!"

He
leaned back, putting his finger-tips lightly together and contemplating the
bony joints. "Ah, madame—it is information of too much importance to be
disposed of so casually. Give me a few days to think it over, I pray you."

"No!
I can't wait! I've got to know now! I'll run mad if I don't! What do you want—?
I'll give you anything! A hundred pound—"

"Have
you a hundred pound with you?"

"Not
with me. I'll send it tomorrow."

He
shook his head. "I'm sorry, madame, but I can no longer do business on
credit. It was that practice which brought me
to the condition you now see.
Perhaps it would be best if you returned tomorrow."

"No!
Not tomorrow! I've got to know
now!
Here—take these ear-rings, and this
necklace, and this ring—they're worth more than a hundred pound any day!"
She took off her jewels swiftly, tossing them across the table to him as though
they were glass baubles bought at a fair or from some street vendor. "Now—
Tell me quick!"

He
gathered up the jewellery and slipped it into his pocket. "According to
the stars, madame, the Queen's child will be born dead."

Barbara
gasped. One hand went to cover her mouth and she sank back into her chair, her
face shocked and unbelieving. But presently there began to creep into her eyes
a look of cunning and of malignant satisfaction.

"Born
dead!" she whispered at last. "Are you sure?"

"If
the stars are sure, madame, I am sure."

"Of
course the stars are sure!" She got up swiftly. "Then he'll come back
to me, won't he?" In her sudden joy and new confidence she spoke
recklessly.

"It
would seem likely, would it not—under the circumstances?" His voice had a
soft purring sound and his face was smiling and subtle.

"Of
course he will! Good-night, Dr. Heydon!" She lifted the hood up over her
head once more as she walked to the door and he followed her, opening it and standing
back to bow her out. The dog came too to see the visitor off. She took one step
down, holding up her skirts so that she would not stumble in the darkness, and
then all at once she glanced back over her shoulder and gave him a dazzling
smile. "I hope the diamonds keep you out of Newgate, Doctor!
That
news
was worth far more than a thousand pound to me!"

He
bowed again, still smiling and nodding his head, and as she got to the landing
and disappeared he closed the door and slowly fastened the bolt. Then he bent
to stroke his dog and the animal went meekly down onto its back, its long
rat-like tail thumping the floor.

"Towser,"
he said, "at least we'll eat for a while."

Barbara,
however, took the Doctor absolutely at his word and from then on the Queen's
health was her greatest concern. She went to her levee every morning, invited
her to supper in her own rooms, bribed some of the pages to bring her immediate
word if the Queen should fall sick—she kept a constant close but secret watch
on everything she did. But Catherine seemed to thrive. She looked healthy and
happy and prettier than she ever had.

"Your
Majesty is not feeling well?" Barbara asked her at last in desperation.
"You look so pale, and tired."

But,
Catherine laughed and answered in her heavy accented English: "Of course
I'm well, my lady! I've never been more well!"

Barbara
began to grow discouraged and even considered demanding the return of her
jewels from Dr. Heydon. And then, in mid-October, sometime in the fifth month
of Catherine's pregnancy, a rumour swept through the Palace corridors: her
Majesty had fallen ill, and had miscarried of the child.

Catherine
lay flat on her back in bed, surrounded on all sides by her maids and
waiting-women. Her eyes were closed tightly to keep back the tears, for she was
desperately sick and afraid. But as she heard Penalva turn and tell one of the
women in a whisper to call the King she looked up swiftly.

"No!"
she cried. "Don't do that! Don't send for him! It's nothing— I'll be
better presently—Wait until Mrs. Tanner comes."

Mrs.
Tanner was the midwife who had been taking care of her Majesty, and the moment
Catherine had begun to feel sick and faint they had sent for her. She arrived a
few minutes later, and as she went toward the bed her cheerful vulgar face
contrived to appear both alarmed and optimistic. Mrs. Tanner resembled nothing
so much as a fish-wife masquerading as a great lady. Her hair was dyed the
fashionable silver-blonde colour that was almost white, her cheeks were so
brightly painted with Spanish paper that they looked like autumn apples, and
her fingers and wrists and neck were loaded with expensive jewellery—tokens of
appreciation from her patients and a convenient and portable form of
advertising.

Catherine
opened her eyes to find the woman bending over her. "Your Majesty is
feeling unwell?"

"I've
been having pains—here—and I feel as though—as though I'm bleeding—" She
looked up at her with the great mournful eyes of a puppy who begs a favour.

Mrs.
Tanner swiftly masked the horrified surprise that came to her face and
immediately began to take off her rings and bracelets. "Will your Majesty
permit me to make an examination?"

Catherine
nodded and Mrs. Tanner gave a signal for the curtains to be pulled about the
bed. Then oiling her hands thoroughly with sweet-butter which an assistant had
brought, she disappeared for several moments behind the curtains. Once there
was a tormented little cry and a soft drawn groan from the Queen, and the face
of every woman there winced with sympathetic pain. Finally Mrs. Tanner parted
the curtains, dipped her right hand into a basin of water, and whispered to
another woman: "Her Majesty has miscarried. Send for the King." A
wave of excited murmurs and significant glances rushed around the room.

A
few minutes later Charles came in on the run and went immediately to Mrs.
Tanner, who was now wiping her hands while two maids sponged blood from the
floor. He had been called from the tennis-court and wore only his open-necked
shirt and
breeches; and his brown face—streaked with sweat— was drawn taut by anxiety.

"What
happened? They told me her Majesty had fallen sick—"

Mrs.
Tanner could not meet his eyes. "Her Majesty has miscarried, Sire."

A
look of horror struck across his face. Swiftly he parted the curtains and knelt
beside her bed, out of sight of the roomful of curious watching eyes.
"Catherine! Catherine, darling!" His voice was urgent, but low, for
she lay with her eyes closed and appeared to be unconscious.

But
at last her lashes lifted slowly and she saw him. For a moment there was
scarcely even recognition on her face, and then the tears came and she turned
her head away with an agonized sob.

"Oh,
Catherine! I'm sorry—I'm so sorry! Have they given you something to ease the
pain?" His face looked tired and as haggard as hers, for above all things
on earth he wanted a legitimate son; but pity made him yearn to protect her.

"It
isn't the pain. I don't care about that. Pain doesn't matter— But, oh, I so
wanted to give you a son!"

"You
will, darling—you will someday. But you mustn't think about that now. Don't
think about anything but getting well."

"Oh,
I don't want to get well! What good am I on earth if I can't do the one thing
I'm put here for? Oh, my dear—" Her voice now sank so low that he had to
lean forward to hear it and she stared up at him, her eyes flooded with
self-reproach. "Suppose it's true what they say—that I'm barren—"

Charles
was shocked and his breath caught sharply. He had not known she had heard that
gossip, though it had been circulated through the Court and even out in the
town from the first month of their marriage, perhaps earlier.

"Oh,
Catherine, my darling—" his long fingers stroked her hair, caressed her
pale moist cheeks. "It isn't true; of course it isn't true. People will
talk maliciously as long as they have tongues in their heads. These accidents
happen so often, but they mean nothing. You must rest now and grow well and
strong—for my sake." He smiled tenderly, and bent his head to kiss her.

"For
your sake?" She looked up at him trustingly, and at last she gave him a
grateful little smile. "You're so kind. You're so good to me. And I
promise—this won't happen the next time."

"Of
course it won't. Now go to sleep, my dear, and rest, and presently you'll be
well again."

He
remained kneeling beside her until her breathing was deep and regular and the
little frown of pain had left her forehead, and then he got up and without a
word walked from the room and back to his own apartments where he went into his
closet alone.

Catherine
was no better the next day and she grew steadily
worse with each day that passed.
They did everything they knew to cure her: They bled her until she was white as
the sheets she lay on. They cut live pigeons in two and tied them to the bare
soles of her feet to draw out the poison. They gave her purgatives and
sneezing-powders, pearls and chloride of gold. Her priests were with her
constantly, groaning and wailing and praying, and at every hour the room was
filled with people. Royalty could neither be born nor die in quiet and privacy.

Hour
after hour Charles sat there beside her, anxiously watching each move that she
made. His grief and devotion amazed them all; but for that one episode
regarding Castlemaine, he had been a kind but by no means adoring husband.

They
were all convinced that she would die, most of them hoped she would, and the
talk was not so much of the dying Queen as of the new one. Whom would he marry
next? For of course he must and would marry, after a decent interval of
mourning.

Frances
Stewart was the bride they had selected. She had some royal blood in her veins,
enough to make such a match possible, she was beautiful—and she was still a
virgin. That, at least, was the opinion of the best-informed, even though his
Majesty had been pursuing her for months, ever since she had come from France
to take a place as one of Queen Catherine's Maids of Honour.

She
was not quite seventeen but rather tall, and slender as a candleflame; she had
about her an air of tranquil poise which could be suddenly broken by a bubbling
merry laugh that gurgled up out of a happy well of youth and confidence. Her
beauty was pure and perfect, flawless as a cut gem, delightful as the sight of
a poplar glistening in the sun.

Charles
had been first attracted by the irresistible lure of beauty, and then,
discovering in her a modest shyness that was to him as incredible as it was
genuine, he began a systematic program of seduction. So far, it had been
unsuccessful. But her fresh youth and naivete appealed to him strongly, sent
him yearning toward the lost years as though in her he could catch again for a
moment something of that perishable and precious charm.