{"id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","serial_id":"570d35ebada6e22ac8d16bef","episode_ids":["5710ed05ada6e22ac9d178f0","5710ed1dada6e22ac9d178f1","5710ed2bada6e22ac9d178f2","5710ed3bada6e22ac9d178f3","5710ed49ada6e22ac9d178f4","5710ed5bada6e22ac9d178f5","5710ed7eada6e22ac9d178f6","5710ed8aada6e22ac9d178f7","5710ed98ada6e22ac9d178f8","5710eda9ada6e22ac9d178f9","5710edbaada6e22ac9d178fa","5710edd6ada6e22ac9d178fb","5710ede5ada6e22ac9d178fc"],"description":"Welcome to Whitehall, where the true history of Catherine of Braganza and her marriage to King Charles II of England is brought to life with all its sensual scandal and political intrigue. Venture back in time to a place where the games of royals affect the lives of all.","subtitle":"","title":"Whitehall","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.issue.20160412","number":"1","featured":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/S-WH-S1-Web-Vert-Text-No-Season-authors-SB-logo-1235x1600-300dpi-original.jpg","cover_wide_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/S-WH-S2-Web-Horz-Text-Full-1600x800-72dpi-original.jpg","gowatchit_id":"","is_free":false,"episodePrice1":199,"episodePrice2":299,"episodePrice3":499,"episodePrice4":599,"episodePrice5":799,"episodePrice6":899,"episodePrice7":1099,"episodePrice8":1299,"episodePrice9":1399,"episodePrice10":1599,"episodePrice11":1699,"episodePrice12":1899,"episodePrice13":1999,"episodePrice14":2199,"episodePrice15":2299,"episodes":[{"id":"5710ed05ada6e22ac9d178f0","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":1,"title":"Embarkations","released_date":"2016-05-18T11:10:35.429+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"England gets a new queen, but will Whitehall prefer a reigning mistress?","byline":"Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman","featured":true,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/WHITEHALL.EP1_875x1200_72dpi.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-05-18","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eMay 1662\u003c/em\u003e\n \u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Infanta Catarina of Braganza rode toward Lisbon Harbor through streets of celebration. Bells rang and pennants snapped in the spring sunshine. What\n looked to be the whole population of the capital lined the streets and hung from the bridges and leaned out the windows, cheering and singing and throwing\n bouquets of wildflowers under the wheels of the coaches to perfume her passage and bid her farewell.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After long negotiation, the English king and his English ships stood with Portugal against the might of Spain. The people were safe from the hardships and\n depredations of war. And it was Catarina who had saved them, by becoming Queen of England.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina sat very straight, her back not touching the gold silk cushions, her gaze on the coachman’s liveried back, her expression (she hoped) dignified.\n Behind the stiff bodice of her gown, her heart beat painfully—from grief, from pride, from excitement, she hardly knew which. The shouts of her people rang\n in her ears: \u003cem\u003eL’Inglês! L’Inglês! Viva o rei da Grã Bretanha! Viva a Infanta!\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her brother, King Alfonso, lounged upon the seat beside her, throwing smiles at the pretty girls waving from tapestry-hung balconies. Despite his neat\n beard and gold-laced hat, he looked very little like a king, she thought, and very much like a boy on the edge of manhood—a mixture of uncertainty and\n braggadocio wrapped in watered silk and jewels. She was going to miss him. To her, he was still the wide-eyed child she’d dandled when she was six, before\n he was struck by the mysterious illness that had robbed him of the use of one arm and his sweet temper, leaving him prone to fits of rage. Even now, at\n eighteen, he was much given to brawling, to sudden extremes of passion, to fast company, to drinking and loose women and . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How your people love you, sister,” he told her now, his own teeth flashing under his narrow mustache. “See how they rejoice in your joy!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On the facing seat, her youngest brother, Dom Pedro, snorted. Even at thirteen, he showed signs of being as ambitious as their mother Queen Luisa, who had\n pushed their father to revolt against the Spanish and declare himself king of an independent Portugal. He was nearly as wild as his older brother, if more\n circumspect in his roistering.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now he said, “They’re rejoicing that the Spanish army retreated as soon as the English warships sailed into Lisbon Harbor. They haven’t seen enough of\n Catarina to know if they love her or not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course they love her,” the king said. “How could they not? She has saved Portugal.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He cast Catarina his charming smile. She pressed her lips tightly together and prayed silently as the nuns had taught her, until the urge to weep had\n passed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A queen does not weep, her mother had murmured as they embraced on the palace steps. A queen holds her head high and does that which God has given her to\n do—her duty. \u003cem\u003eAnd so I do\u003c/em\u003e, Catarina thought, \u003cem\u003eand so I will, with the help of Mary and the blessed saints\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A spray of jacaranda, newly blossomed and smelling of honey and sunlight, landed in the stiff folds of her wide skirt. Did they have jacaranda in England?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Alfonso picked it up and thrust it at her. “Wave to them!” he insisted, much agitated. “Let them see your joy! As your king, I command it!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina took the branch. “All right, dearest. Yes, all right. I will. Watch me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She took a deep breath of jacaranda-scented air. Her head was ringing with the noise, her heart swelling with love. Love for her wayward little brothers.\n Love for the formidable mother who had bid her farewell at the palace, straight-backed and serene, the only sign of what the parting cost her the trembling\n in her lips against Catarina’s forehead as she blessed her. Love for Lisbon, for Portugal, for the father she missed so painfully.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina turned from her brothers and leaned toward the window, letting the sun fall full on her face. She raised the spray of jacaranda and tossed it out\n to the people crowding the route, saw a woman catch it and brandish it, her round face triumphant. The crowd’s cheers swelled; her own name battered her\n ears. She found herself smiling at them through a blur of unqueenly tears, smiling at her people, whom she was about to leave forever.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The procession moved on through the streets, slow and stately as clouds across the sky. As it emerged into yet another crowded, noisy square, Dona Maria de\n Portugal, Condessa de Penalva, adjusted her black silk fan to keep the sun from her eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The coach lurched and the scent of oranges filled the air. Dona Maria clutched her rosary and prayed for patience. Though processions were a necessary part\n of court life, she hated them and avoided them when she could. Dona Maria was notably shortsighted, and public processions meant shouting crowds that made\n her head ache and sights that went by in a brilliant blur. She preferred the shadowy rooms of court and convent, where the days unrolled in a predictable\n round of tasks, meals, walks in the garden, and prayers measured out by the tolling of church bells.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWill there be bells in England?\u003c/em\u003e she wondered. \u003cem\u003eWill there be peace?\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Beside her, her brother Dom Francisco de Mello, Conde de Ponte, ambassador extraordinary to the Court of Charles II of England, nodded and waved\n cheerfully.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Francisco had always liked people and balls and entertainments and light and noise, provided they did not involve gunpowder or swords or angry shouting. He\n had ever been one to conciliate and bargain and flatter, more like a shopkeeper, their father had said, than a scion of a noble house. On this point, if on\n few others, Dona Maria had always secretly agreed with her noble parent. Diplomats might be necessary, but they were not truly manly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You might,” Dona Maria observed acidly, “have the decency to appreciate my sentiments on this occasion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The dark oval of his face turned, shaded by the cloud of plumes affixed to his stiff-brimmed hat. “Dear Maria,” he said with what sounded like genuine\n affection. “How like our poor mother you sound, may she rest with the saints!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria sketched a cross on her black silk bosom. “Amen, though I fear you only mean to tease.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed, sister, you make too much of a little thing,” Dom Francisco said. “The journey will last a fortnight only, if the seas be smooth. And if they are\n not, well, the Lord Admiral is a doughty sailor and has made this voyage before with no loss of life or limb. Why, I myself have endured it half a dozen\n times and you see I have taken no harm.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eExcept\u003c/em\u003e, Dona Maria thought, \u003cem\u003eto acquire a vocabulary of English words you refuse to translate\u003c/em\u003e. She said, “But you have always sailed back again. I sail\n to return no more, leaving home and the graves of our ancestors and my husband behind me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her brother’s plump, cheerful face came into clear focus as he leaned over her wide farthingale to pat her hand. “I do know, sister. I honor you for your\n courage and, above all, for your devotion to our Infanta.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Pleased, but unwilling to show it, Dona Maria took refuge in dignity. “I know my duty, I hope,” she said. “As does the Infanta. It is only,” she continued\n almost in spite of herself, “that we will be surrounded by godless Protestants, who drink ale at breakfast, I think you said, and eat roast beef on feast\n days.” She shook her head. “I fear for our immortal souls, living in such a barbaric land.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The coach rumbled forward a few yards before Dom Francisco answered her. “Not so barbaric, dear sister, except for the climate, which I grant you is\n unspeakable—cold and damp as the worst of winter nearly all the year. But the English are God’s children no less than we. It’s true their manners are more\n free than ours, to be sure. Ladies and gentlemen kiss upon greeting, which I confess I find charming. The king is mad for dancing and sport and\n theater—there are entertainments nearly every night.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria’s heart sank. Entertainments every night! But for little Catarina, the daughter of her heart, she could bear worse torments than glaring torches\n and unfamiliar faces. After all, she would have the familiar faces of the queen’s ladies, her tapestry work, and—most comforting of all—the rituals of her\n faith to sustain her. As would Catarina, if only she were allowed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her gaunt fingers clutched her beads. “When will her highness have a moment to hear the holy office, among all these entertainments?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There will be time.” Dom Francisco’s voice was firm. “It is in the marriage agreement, along with a chapel in each house where she resides, for her use\n and her ladies’. All will be well, sister. I swear to you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Another turn brought the coach into a broad plaza full of light and heat and noise. Dona Maria shaded her eyes with her fan and sighed deeply.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Take heart, Maria,” Dom Francisco said gently. “This is a moment of triumph—for the house of Braganza and for all of Portugal.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And I suppose,” Dona Maria snapped, “that you take all the credit upon yourself?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Teeth flashed in the sunlight as her brother grinned. “It would be no more than my due if I did. Five years I worked on this marriage, five years of sea\n voyages and tasteless food and delicate conversations where nothing was said and all was implied. Five years of waiting for England to come to her senses\n and restore Charles to his rightful throne, and once they did, persuading him that our Infanta would be a richer and more advantageous match than any\n Protestant princess in Europe. Yes, I labored long to bring this day to pass, and this”—his gesture encompassed the trumpets and shouting, the colors and\n the flowers—“pays, and more than pays, for all.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria would not be distracted from her grievance. “Such promises you made him! A dowry of five million gold crusadoes!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The richest dowry ever brought by a princess to England,” her brother said happily.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You must know the queen regent can never pay the half of such a sum, not and keep up the army!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It was she who suggested it,” said Dom Francisco.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And now Dona Maria came to the source of her greatest fear. “But what if King Charles should take offense at the spices and sugar we have sent him instead\n of gold and send the Infanta packing back again?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What if the sun were to set in the east?” Dom Francisco replied. “Do not forget that we have given him the ports of Tangier and Bombay as well, which will\n bring him gold enough once trade is established. Charles is a fair man, Maria. His word, once given, is given forever. Let the Infanta only set foot in\n England, and she’s as good as wed. Why, she’s as good as wed already. Did you not see the letter, writ in his own hand, calling her his wife and queen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had, for Catarina had shown it to her, as was proper, along with a miniature portrait of a long-faced man who looked more like a Spaniard than like any\n Englishman the Condessa de Penalva had seen. Catarina had treated both portrait and letter with reverence, hanging the one around her neck and carrying the\n other next to her breast. Poor child, was she hoping to fall in love with this florid monarch, with his dark curls and his petulant mouth? Did she expect\n him to love her in return, as her father and mother had loved, living and ruling in harmony?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But love, as Dona Maria well knew, was the exception in noble families. She herself had not positively disliked her husband, and had felt great affection\n for her children when they were small. But her duties at court and her service to the Infanta had transformed them all to polite strangers who bowed and\n murmured upon meeting. Now her husband was dead, and all her devotion and her love belonged first to the Blessed Mother and Holy Church, and then to her\n royal mistress, the Infanta Catarina de Braganza. Whom she had brought up to be mild and obedient, and who knew nothing of men and their ways.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Time, that had plodded like a tired horse through the endless ceremonies of dressing and the public farewell, the high mass at the Cathedral of São Jorge,\n and the long, slow procession through the city, seemed to stop, then speed to a canter. The crowd fell away as the royal coach broke from the line and\n entered the pier the king had caused to be built for the occasion.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They rolled briskly through a newly laid garden, and then the coach had stopped and Catherine was alighting from it, half-defeated by trumpets and\n cheering. A moment later she was in the royal barge, sitting between her brothers, gliding over the sparkling water toward the towering bulk of the English\n flagship the \u003cem\u003eRoyal Charles\u003c/em\u003e. A moment of uncertainty as the Lord Admiral himself, the Earl of Sandwich, tall and broad as a peasant, assisted her\n onto the swaying companionway. The shock and noise of the salute of twenty-seven guns, fired in her honor. Alfonso’s exclamations when he saw her cabin,\n furnished all in carved and gilded wood and draped in crimson damask and velvet. The sudden silence as he realized at last that his sister was leaving, and\n that it was unlikely that he would ever see her again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A queen may not weep, but a king may, and did.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A knock at the door heralded Lord Sandwich, who made a reverence and said that it was time for His Majesty and Dom Pedro to return to shore. He knew no\n Portuguese, but his Spanish was good, if hesitant. She wondered, not for the first time, how well her husband spoke Spanish. His written language was\n correct, though a little stiff.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina touched her royal brother’s embroidered sleeve. “I will go up and see you off.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Alfonso, pale and solemn, shook his head. “You must keep to the cabin, among your ladies, sister. Mamãe would say it is not proper for you to show your\n face on deck.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What have you ever cared for what Mamãe would say?” she asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I care now,” he said, and left, taking Dom Pedro with him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina ran to the great gallery window to watch their departure. Realizing that the bulk of the ship blocked her view, she hurried to the door and out\n into the corridor, ignoring the shocked cries of her ladies.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She gained the deck as the royal barge was drawing away from the ship. Her brothers stared up at her from the stern of the barge. Dom Pedro smiled, but the\n king’s face showed signs of a coming storm. “Go below at once!” he shouted. “Your king commands it!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No doubt Your Majesty will wish to pray for the health of His Majesty King Alfonso and the Infante Dom Pedro.” It was Dona Maria, slightly breathless,\n standing at her elbow.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, of course,” Catarina said. But still she lingered, looking with greedy eyes upon the city of Lisbon—the welter of warehouses and boats along the\n quays, the church towers raising their crosses above the tumble of red tile roofs, the Castle of São Jorge on the hill, the flags flying—and the golden\n barge carrying her brothers out of her sight forever. Then she turned and led her duenna back to her cabin.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A little while later, Catarina knelt beside her confessor, Father Patrick, the polished ebony and silver beads of her rosary slipping through her fingers\n to the accompaniment of shouts and the heavy rattle of chain as the anchor was weighed. She clutched the ebony beads tightly, struggling to keep her\n countenance. Portugal depended on her. Her household depended on her. She was a queen now. She would not give way.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The ship rocked and swayed. More shouting, more rattling. Father Patrick’s prayers grew louder and his Irish accent more pronounced.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Sandwich entered hatless, his beard and hair ruffled. “The wind has turned against us, Your Majesty. We cannot leave Lisbon Bay until it shifts\n again.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina closed her eyes briefly, hardly knowing whether her sudden dizziness was relief or disappointment. “It is in the hands of God,” she said, and\n pressed her rosary to her lips.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She sat by the long gallery window, filling her eyes and her soul with the sight of Lisbon Harbor, sewing, praying, listening to her ladies chatter. She\n was sitting down to dinner when she received a note from her mother: “Winds shift without warning. You are England’s now. We will not meet again.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When darkness fell, she watched the water carnival Alfonso had hastily arranged for her entertainment. Enchanted, she sat on the quarterdeck, watching\n rockets and squibs of white and colored fire roar across the dark heavens.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Queens do not weep, at least not where anyone can see them. But when the red damask curtains of her great carved bed were drawn, Catarina shed quiet tears\n of grief and frustration.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Next day, the winds continued contrary. That evening, the king and Dom Pedro rowed out on barges with drunken young nobles and all the court musicians to\n serenade her with viols and guitars. When they played songs composed in honor of her coming marriage, she could not hide her tears, and even the Condessa,\n stern taskmistress as she was, forbore to chide her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On the third morning, the winds relented. As Catarina sat in her silken pavilion, her face toward England, she felt the \u003cem\u003eRoyal Charles\u003c/em\u003e surge\nbeneath her like a spirited horse, bearing her to her husband’s arms. She touched her breast, where she carried his letter next to her heart. \u003cem\u003eMy Lady and Wife\u003c/em\u003e, it began, and although his tone was formal enough to please even her mother’s sense of propriety, he had expressed longing to\n see her beloved person in his kingdoms and signed it \u003cem\u003eThe very faithful husband of Your Majesty, whose hand he kisses\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had done her duty, she thought, and brought desperately needed military succor to her people. What though the king’s countenance was saturnine, heavy\n in repose, and not altogether handsome? Might God not reward her piety with the same happiness her parents had known? And children, of course—healthy sons\n and handsome daughters to secure the throne of England.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A gust of wind blew athwart the ship, snatching the knot of ribbons pinned to her hair and sending it flying over the ship’s rail. Dona Maria cried out in\n real horror and ladies screeched like sea birds. They were astonished when Catarina de Braganza, Infanta of Portugal, began to laugh aloud.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine, reclined naked in a luxuriously rumpled bed, lit by a single candle and a flood of moonlight. Her mass of chestnut\n hair, released from its usual ornate confinement, rioted across the linen bolster; one hand rested on her swelling belly. She was the very picture of\n satiated bliss, an English rose at the height of youthful bloom. Through half-closed eyes, she gazed across the room at the tall man who stood naked at the\n window, looking out at the midnight garden.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His thirty-two years sat lightly on him, though here and there on his moon-silvered skin, a scar gleamed, the kind got in war. His olive complexion,\n courtesy of his Italian grandfather, was far from the English pink-and-white ideal, and his long face, with its wide mouth and curling lips, was generally\n considered imposing but rather ugly. Barbara, however, found his every atom erotic. He was the brilliant Minotaur who did not rend her, dangerous as he\n might be to others. He was the King of England, and he was hers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A church bell began to toll, and then another. Three spaniels, curled up together on the edges of the puddled curtains, woke and began howling. Startled,\n Barbara leaned up on one elbow, but before she could speak, there was a knock at the door.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Be still,” he said to the dogs—who quieted, but came wriggling up to him to be soothed with a stroke and a tug on their ears—and then called out, “Enter!”\n A young page came in, looking as though he’d been rousted from sleep to bring the note he handed over with a little bow, quite unabashed at the nakedness.\n The king read, and nodded at the boy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Tell Lord Clarendon I’ll set off as soon as may be. Now back to bed with you, Ned.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The boy grinned and bowed again, and hurried out, not without a sidelong glance at Barbara, who was sitting bolt upright.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What is it about?” she asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles II looked back at her from the window. “It seems I am about to be married.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They looked at each other as the bells rolled on. She couldn’t read his face. She dropped her gaze and bit her lip. Then she threw back her shoulders and\n cast him a smile brimming with love, valor, and wry humor. The candlelight fell full upon her face; she knew when she was in her light as well as any\n actress might.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, darling,” she said. “I hope you aren’t going to be fanatical about it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A risk, a calculated risk. He might take this moment to turn serious; Barbara never knew when that side of him might emerge. He stared at her, his dark\n eyes widening. Then he tipped his head back with a shouted laugh, and came striding back to her bed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The candle guttered out with a hiss, a puddle of wax with a smoking wick, and Barbara woke curled with her back to Charles. While they had sported, the\n treacherous English weather had sent clouds scudding in to cover the moon, and now the day was dark, with a steady hissing rain. Turning, she saw him\n awake, one arm behind his head, gazing across the room at nothing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She said, “Are the cares of married life oppressing your spirits already?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He laughed shortly under his breath, then sobered. “Can’t help wondering what I’ve let myself in for. A pious little Infanta. Doesn’t even speak English.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So much the better. She’ll bring all that lovely Portuguese gold, and lovely little legitimate heirs—and you won’t even have to talk to her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had meant to make him laugh again. But he reached out and palmed her belly, looking serious.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You know I would legitimize your children if I could. Our children,” he corrected himself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They are legitimate,” Barbara said. “Legitimate little Palmers, with generous royal titles.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It’s both the most and the least I can do. Thank goodness your husband is the complacent sort.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He ought to be; he’s well rewarded.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In fact, though she didn’t want Charles to know it, she worried that Roger’s complacency was growing threadbare. He’d been making discontented noises of\n late, bemoaning her absences and his equivocal position, though he should have known how it would be when he agreed to the arrangement.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the only child of a viscount she might have looked higher for a husband. Sadly, the Villiers family fortunes had fallen during the years of Charles’s\n exile. They’d married her off to Roger—respectable enough, a wealthy lawyer—three years since, briskly if not brilliantly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But Barbara was the beauty of the age, and not one to be satisfied with a dull country estate and a dull bookish husband. Roger should be honored that his\n wife had become the unofficial queen of a glittering court. In fact, he \u003cem\u003ehad\u003c/em\u003e been honored. Scarcely a year ago, the king had made him Baron of\n Limerick and Earl of Castlemaine. It was unfortunate that the title could only be inherited by Barbara’s children. It was rather too obviously Charles’s\n way of looking after his own, and left Roger torn between pride—after all, he was a Royalist, and it was something to be recognized by the king he’d\n championed—and humiliation. Which, to be fair, could not be comfortable.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But Roger’s hurt pride, she reminded herself, was an old worry. This morning, she must confront the more present worry of her lover’s new wife.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She cupped Charles’s hip as he turned to her, ran her thumb along the curve of the bone, smiled sleepily. No wife, she thought, could hold more sway over a\n man’s soul, heart, and bed than a mistress such as she. Surely a rich little foreign Papist was no real threat. And yet . . . there were those bells, quiet\n now, but still ringing in her head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She said, “I daresay a wife will prove no more difficult to manage than a husband. Or a good deal easier, I should think.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles bit the corner of his lip. “I believe she’s exceptionally good-natured. Trained up to be mild and biddable.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Unlike me?” Barbara teased.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, you’re biddable enough for my taste,” he tossed back, “when you’re bid to do what you wanted at the first.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She laughed, a low murmuring sound. Pulling her in closer, he went on talking, his breath warm on her neck. “She’s had a monstrous sheltered life. Raised\n among a pack of nuns, I understand. Never set foot out of Lisbon before. I don’t want to offer her any insult. Or shock her into fits, for that matter.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara shrugged. “Oh, well. Even in pious Portugal I don’t imagine they expect kings to be chaste.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles went still.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Damn. She’d struck a wrong note.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He detached from her under the pretense of sitting up and reaching for the wine. He drank, then set the cup down again and swung his legs over the edge of\n the bed. Curled near the foot, one of his dogs—she refused to learn their names, she would have banned them from her presence if Charles would go anywhere\n without them, the damnable, shedding, barking, slobbering creatures—raised her head. The other two, sleeping on the floor, sat up with a little scrabbling\n of claws and watched Charles attentively, ready to follow him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara reached out and touched his shoulder. “Going so early, my darling?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She’s landed at Portsmouth. I must go.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She let her fingertips slide down his back. All of his scars were in front, of course. He wasn’t a man who hesitated. If he really wanted to go, he’d have\n been up and dressed by now.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She lay back again, letting the bedclothes fall away from her body. “Of course. Of course you must go. Poor thing, the weather off the coast has been vile;\n it must have been a nasty crossing. She’ll be as sick and bedraggled as a little wet . . .” She thought better of saying \u003cem\u003erat\u003c/em\u003e. “Well. I should\n think she’d be glad of a little time. As a woman. To look her best.” \u003cem\u003eSuch as it is\u003c/em\u003e, she thought but didn’t say. According to the Spanish\n ambassador, she was a dark, ugly, dwarfish creature, though he was undoubtedly prejudiced.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And speak of the weather,” she went on, “only listen to the rain! The roads will be dreadful. Mud up to the horses’ knees, I should think. I hate to think\n of you struggling through it all the way to Portsmouth; it will take you days and days. You’ll get there just as soon and far fresher if you wait till it’s\n dry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the word \u003cem\u003ewait\u003c/em\u003e, Charles gave a little shake and sat up straighter, as though resisting temptation. “I know, I know,” she said hastily, “how can\n you wait? You’ll be as restless as a dog who hears the hunting horn, now you know your duty calls you to Portsmouth.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He half turned his head. “Call me a dog, do you?” he said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She heard the humor in his voice, but did not take up the joke. “After all, it’s not as though James weren’t already there to greet her and honor her and\n make her comfortable. And it’s not as though she’d expect you to be at the dock whenever the winds chose to deliver her—you’re the king, not an idler with\n nothing better to do than wait upon women! And . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And?” He turned right back around to look at her, and seeing her yawning, widened his eyes in mock offense.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The yawn turned into a laugh as she raised both arms above her head lazily, showing her breasts to advantage—naked, warm, and ripe. “Forgive me, darling,\n you don’t let a girl get much sleep!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He reached out his hand to her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eAnd\u003c/em\u003e,” she said, playfully capturing his hand in hers, “Tom Killigrew has a new comedy up this afternoon. He’ll be grieved if you miss\n it. Honestly, what are the odds? Why mire yourself on the road when you can ride dry and quick tomorrow? Or the next day?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He growled, “Will you seduce me from my duty, wanton thing?” But she saw the look in his eyes, and knew she’d won. She let her heavy lids lower, and looked\n at him under her lashes with the most tender sincerity.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Never, my dear, never. Even if I could.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And he was back in her arms, his weight pressing her into the bed, and all was well. As he knew from her first pregnancy (with little Anne, safe with her\n nurse), Barbara’s swollen belly was no impediment to love. She kissed him, digging her fingers into his hair and taking advantage of his distraction to\n nudge the spaniel bitch off the bed with one foot.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eI will not let her take him\u003c/em\u003e, she thought as his mouth moved warmly from her lips to her neck.\n \u003cem\u003e\n The little Portuguese may have the title, she may have the rank and place and honors, she may have his marital duty and his royal heirs. But she won’t\n have his love. I swear I will hold that for my own.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A month after setting sail from Lisbon, the \u003cem\u003eRoyal Charles\u003c/em\u003e sailed into the harbor of Portsmouth. The sea, if not exactly calm, seemed still as a\n pond after the long, stormy crossing. The Infanta’s household, weak and weary from seasickness and terror, rose from their cots and helped their mistress\n prepare to greet her royal bridegroom.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the Infanta’s cabin, ladies in wide farthingales bustled about like bees, laying out their mistress’s clothing. The atmosphere was redolent of sickness\n and the scented pastilles burnt in the faint hope of sweetening the air. Catarina sat in the center of the room in her shift and loose gown, her rosary in\n her lap, while her barber dressed her hair over its wire frame and a waiting-woman brightened her sallow cheeks with cochineal. She was still queasy, but\n she was in England, thank God. She was more than ready to see this new country where she would be queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her hair finished, she rose to be dressed. Dona Maria, yellow and tottering, but determined to do her duty, gestured to one of her ladies to bring forward\n the black-and-white Portuguese gown the Infanta had worn to leave Lisbon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What is this?” Catarina exclaimed, astonished. “I had chosen the white silk English gown, with the silver lace!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria’s thin brows rose disapprovingly. “Your Majesty is pleased to jest. That gown is quite unsuitable.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her tone was tight, confident, disapproving. Catarina had heard it all her life, from Mother Superior and the royal nursemaids and from her mother.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Almost she acquiesced, out of habit and affection. And then she lifted her chin. “Since my mother caused this gown to be made, she must have thought it\n suitable. It is an English gown, after all, and I am an English queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There. That caught something of her mother’s tone, she thought. Courteous, a little surprised that she should be forced to say anything so obvious. Dona\n Maria stared at her, then primmed her mouth and lowered her eyes to sign her complete, if reluctant, obedience. It was a look Catarina had never seen\n directed at her, and she was forced to tighten her own lips to keep herself from apologizing. She was a queen now; she could not allow herself to be\n treated like a child, even at the price of defying one who had been a second mother to her, combing her hair and comforting her sorrows and hearing her\n catechism when her queen mother was occupied with state matters.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The tense silence drew out, and then her duenna said, “Her Majesty will wear the white and silver. Though,” she went on stubbornly, “I still cannot think\n it seemly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Later, when Catarina examined herself in the dressing glass, gowned and jeweled as befit a Queen of England, she thought Dona Maria may have had the right\n of it. Her reflection stared back at her, pinched and sallow, thin shoulders and narrow chest uncomfortably at odds with the low neck of the English gown.\n And the stiff, wired wings of hair that so exactly echoed the lines of a farthingale were not suited to loose, billowing skirts.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles would not see her truly, she feared. And she was too uneasy, both in body and in spirit, to see him. It would be a meeting of two dolls, not the\n meeting of minds and souls she had dreamed of as the \u003cem\u003eRoyal Charles\u003c/em\u003e tossed and groaned through stormy seas.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eTime enough for true seeing once we are truly wed. Today is for history. Tomorrow will be for us\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After some time, Lord Sandwich was announced, and her heart quickened, wondering if he heralded the arrival of the king. But as soon as he entered, she\n knew he bore bad news. Their faces were like glass, these English. They were bluff and eager, blundering through the formal measures of her mother’s court\n like mastiffs, well-trained, but with incomplete control of their tails and paws. Just now, he looked like a mastiff standing over the shredded remains of\n a costly pillow.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good morning, Your Majesty. I’m afraid I must tell you—that is—I regret to say it but the fact is, His Majesty—well, the short and the long of it is—the\n king’s not yet here. Delays. Affairs of state, you know. And we were such an unconscionable time at sea—” He broke off, uncertainly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Only the training of the convent and her mother’s court prevented Catarina from betraying her disappointment. “Did you not send a messenger from the Isle\n of Wight?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He hardly will have reached there in the time,” Lord Sandwich said. “The roads are mired, Your Majesty. Rain, you know, mud thick as anything. But it\n won’t be long—say, three more days, or indeed perhaps less, for His Majesty to prepare himself and travel here by coach. But his brother is here, the Duke\n of York, you know—he’s come aboard, and begs you to receive him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina raised her hand. “Thank you, Lord Admiral. Let him approach.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sandwich bowed and disappeared, leaving behind him a shocked silence, which broke into a spate of excited whispers cut short by the Dona Maria’s minatory\n glare. Catarina had time to say a Paternoster and a Credo before the door opened and a troop of impossibly tall gentlemen in cloth of gold doublets poured\n into the cabin.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The tallest of the gentlemen stepped forward, very handsome, with long, light-brown curling hair. He removed his feathered hat and knelt. She stood, took\n his hands to raise him to his feet, and, feeling very bold, presented her face for the kiss her godfather the Conde de Ponte had said the English used in\n greeting. The duke grinned, kissed her hand with a flourish, and began to speak. In English.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catarina had very little English. She and her future husband had at least two languages in common—Spanish and Latin—and her mother had not thought it\n necessary for her to acquire another. She would have her household to speak to, Queen Luisa had said, as well as her godfather and his servants, and Father\n Patrick was an able translator. Privately, Catarina had thought she would like to learn something of her husband’s native tongue, and would have done so\n during the journey, had Father Patrick been well enough to teach her. Still, she understood a few words here and there: “His Majesty,” “wife,” “sister.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To her great relief, Dom de Mello stepped out of the bright throng. “If you will allow me, Your Majesty?” he said to her, then spoke in English to the Duke\n of York, who flushed scarlet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I crave your pardon, madam.” Her new brother-in-law’s Spanish was serviceable, if oddly accented. “I was explaining that my sister Catherine must save her\n first kiss for her husband, His Majesty the King, who is even now in London, awaiting the news of her arrival. For my own part, I welcome you to your\n kingdom, and tender the good wishes of my wife. Lady Anne is in the country just at present, awaiting the birth of her child. Yet I trust we will contrive\n to make you tolerably comfortable.” He smiled under his thin mustache. It was a charming smile. “His Majesty is most anxious that you feel yourself at\n home.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The English name stood out from the surrounding Spanish like a rock in a stream: Catherine. That was who she was now. Catherine, sister to James, Duke of\n York. Wife of the King of England. Catherine. She would not forget.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James was looking at her, his dark eyes anxious. She must respond. “Thank you, my brother,” she said in halting English.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled. “You’re very welcome,” he said, more confident. “You need not feel obliged to adopt our English ways all at once, you know. You’ve brought your\n own cooks, I understand?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine nodded.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good, good.” The Duke’s gaze fell upon the snowy gown. “And if you prefer to wear your native dress, I promise you no one will take it amiss, least of all\n Charles. I’m sure you look charmingly in it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His voice and expression were kind, indulgent. \u003cem\u003eLike a man talking to a stranger’s child\u003c/em\u003e, she thought. For a moment she could not think what to\n say. Her head ached fiercely. “Too kind,” she murmured, and then, more strongly: “Now, will you not be seated? I wish these gentlemen to be made known to\n me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The day after the \u003cem\u003eRoyal Charles\u003c/em\u003e sailed into Portsmouth Harbor, the Duke of York’s household gathered in the forecourt to give the new Queen of\n England a proper English welcome. Fanned down from the front steps in neat rows, men to one side, women to the other, they stood in the bright May\n sunshine, brushing specks from their livery, adjusting caps and sleeves.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the last rank of women, among the other chambermaids, stood young Jenny Martin, atwitter with anticipation. She’d starched her cuffs and pressed her\n apron and tucker. If the queen’s eye should chance to fall upon her, she wanted to be sure that it found her neat and brisk.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny had ambitions. Other chambermaids might be content to spend their lives cleaning night pots and making beds, but not Jenny. Someday, Jenny meant to\n wait upon a great lady, with absolute power over patch box and hot tongs, ribbons and laces. To this end, she studied the mode, and though she was only\n fifteen, had opinions about busks and sleeves and lace collars. She knew how to dress a head and wire a curl so that it wouldn’t droop at the first sign of\n rain.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Trumpets sounded outside the gates and menservants ran to open them. Everybody straightened and put on their best solemn faces as a line of carriages\n rumbled into the forecourt.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nThe first carriage held the duke and a slight, pale girl wrapped up in a velvet cloak—the new Queen of England, Jenny realized with a shock. \u003cem\u003eHow tiny she is!\u003c/em\u003e Jenny thought as the duke handed her ceremoniously out of the carriage. How dark her hair and eyes! And none too steady on her\nfeet, Jenny noticed as she passed, lips pressed tight, clinging to the duke’s arm. \u003cem\u003eWhy\u003c/em\u003e, she thought with sudden pity, \u003cem\u003ethe poor lady’s sick as a parrot\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then duke and queen were inside and the foreign ladies-in-waiting were descending, the wide wings of their old-fashioned farthingales swinging and\n bumping, dark as crows and solemn as deacons. Jenny slipped into the front hall, where the queen was speaking to the duke in—blessed be all the\n saints—Spanish! The duke, clearly dismayed, turned to the lackey by the door.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The queen asks for tea,” he said. “Send someone around the coffeehouses to find if some tea may be procured. Best bring up some small ale first. Well,\n hurry, man!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lackey bustled off, reappearing a few moments later with a silver tankard on a salver. Behind her pillar, Jenny watched the queen take it and sniff it\n gingerly. “And what is this?” she asked in Spanish.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Small ale, Madam, an English drink. Very refreshing,” said the duke.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Doubtfully, the queen took a sip, made a face, then choked and turned an unhealthy yellow that showed crimson spots of cochineal blazing on her cheeks. A\n elderly lady in black swam forward to support her just in time for the poor girl—Her Majesty the Queen, Jenny corrected herself—to spew the ale and\n whatever she’d eaten that morning over the black-and-white checked tile of the hall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a moment of stunned silence, then an uproar of women’s voices gabbling in what must be Portuguese and the duke shouting for a physician and what sounded like smothered laughter from the younger members of the duke’s entourage. Jenny started forward to kneel before the little queen and mop up the\n floor with her own apron.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lady in black cuffed her soundly, only to be reproved by a faint, sweet voice. A moment later, the same voice, in hesitant, oddly accented English,\n said, “Zank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny flushed, ducked her head, wadded up her filthy apron, and flew to the kitchen on the wings of excitement. The queen had thanked her. And the poor\n lady was ill—anyone with half an eye could see that. Trust a sailor to thrust small ale on her when what she needed was Jenny’s mother’s infusion of\n whortleberry leaves and licorice, well-seethed with honey. Surely Cook had the leaves in her store—they were sovereign against cold vomits.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A little time later, Jenny, in a fresh apron and her best lawn tucker, carried a steaming mug to the door of the queen’s apartments. She tapped and entered a scene of considerable upheaval. Open boxes and scattered clothes bore mute witness to a fruitless search, undoubtedly for tea. The flock of black swans\n fluttered and honked anxiously around the queen, who lay shivering in the great, curtained bed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003ePoor mite\u003c/em\u003e, Jenny thought as she approached. They’d managed to get her out of her stained gown, at least, though her hair was still dressed over what looked to be a\n birdcage.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lady who had cuffed Jenny seized her arm. “What are you doing, girl?” she demanded in Spanish.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She clearly did not expect to be understood; her mouth gaped in astonishment when Jenny answered her in the same language. “Your pardon, madoña. It is only\n a little tisane to settle Her Majesty’s stomach.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lady frowned—she had a good face for frowning, narrow and sharp under her headdress. But from the bed, the sweet voice said, “In the names of all the\n saints, godmother, let me drink, before I perish of thirst.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lady seized the cup, sniffed it, tasted, nodded, and handed it to the queen, who drank gratefully before lying back among her pillows with a sigh. The\n large dark eyes glanced up and around, searching. “Where is the girl?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lady gestured impatiently to Jenny, who stepped forward and sank into a deep curtsy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What is your name, child?” the queen asked. “And how does it come that you speak such excellent Spanish?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny swallowed. “My name is Jenny Martin, so please Your Majesty, and my mother is Spanish. My father met her when he fought in the late Spanish wars.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A wan smile. “We have something in common, it seems. My father, too, fought the Spaniards and took a Spanish wife.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Titters from the flock of black swans. The blood rose to Jenny’s face. “If Your Majesty pleases, I will take the gown to be cleaned.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, of course.” The great dark eyes moved to the stern lady, who was scowling. “Give her the gown, Condessa, and a gold piece. Her queen’s gratitude she has already.” She smiled again. “You have a quick wit, Jenny. We will speak again.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She pronounced her name “Zsonna,” in the Portuguese manner, but Jenny understood. Charmed and awed, she rose, snatched up the gown, and fled to the\n laundry, singing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was raining still when Charles swanned into the Theatre Royal with Barbara at his side and a pack of courtiers at his heels. The house was only half\n full, but it rang with the cheerful noise of Londoners milling about the benches in the pit and up in the galleries, chatting, intriguing, flirting. In the gloomy afternoon light filtering through the glass dome overhead, the plain wooden thrust stage had a forlorn, abandoned air, biding its time until the\n actors stepped out upon it and spoke, when all would spring to glorious life: the invariable and inexplicable magic of the theater. It was a magic Charles\n never tired of. Reviving London theater had been one of his first acts upon regaining his throne, and vastly popular.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Just inside the entrance, Charles saw his impresario, Thomas Killigrew, chewing on his moustache. He caught the man’s eye and the shadowed face lit up as\n he bowed in welcome.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thomas!” cried the king. “You’ve something new for us today, I think?” and swept him along with an arm under his, Barbara at his other hand, looking as\n splendid as any queen. Behind him, his followers—lords and ladies, poets and wits—were a comet’s tail of jewels, satins, bright colors and gleaming hair.\n As the house rose and greeted him with noisy cheers, Charles waved his hat and bounded up the steps to the royal box, where he and his friends made\n themselves comfortable, his page pouring and passing wine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The crowd returned to its idle pleasures below and about him, but with a difference, a heightened glow, a giddiness in the air, because their king was\n there.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It would have been unheard of in the old days, he knew. His late father wouldn’t have dreamed of lowering himself to go among the common people. If Charles I wanted to see a play, he sent for players to come to him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles drank from his glass, and lowered it to find Killigrew looking at him anxiously. “Well, Tom? Why all a-gloom?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty,” Killigrew began, giving rather an impression of having planned his speech, “you know me of old. You know that I love but three things in\n this world: my king, my city, and my theater.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why, what of drink and doxies?” Charles interjected with an air of innocent inquiry.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Killigrew gestured loftily. “Common necessities, sir, we may take them as read. Now my king is restored, praise God; our city is recovering, by your grace.\n But my theater is in crisis once more, and this day may doom it or raise it to a glory to rival all the history of the English theater. And all, all is in\n your hands.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What eloquence—you should put it in a play and mend your fortunes that way.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Killigrew ignored this mild sally. “Sir—it is the playhouse!” he said earnestly. “We are already sadly out of date, out of fashion—His Grace the duke’s\ntheater has all the latest and left us standing—we must have a new house, it is a matter of the prestige of the English theater! The prestige of \u003cem\u003eyour\u003c/em\u003e theater, your gift to the people after the long banishment of not only your royal self but of the noblest of arts by that most joyless of\n killjoys, Oliver Cromwell. Does not such a gift—such a matchless gem—merit an equally wondrous setting? Indeed—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To stem the flow of Killigrew’s eloquence, Charles held up his hand, laughing. “My dear fellow, enough! Never fret yourself—come to the palace tomorrow and\n go over it all with Wren.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Killigrew’s fair hair all but stood out from his head. “Wren? Christopher Wren? Your own builder?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I believe he prefers \u003cem\u003earchitect\u003c/em\u003e, but yes. Od’s fish, do you think I haven’t noticed how behind the times the King’s Company has fallen? My\n brother’s theater outshine us? That won’t do. No, you come and explain what you need to Wren. There’s a spot in Drury Lane will do you very well, I\n believe. And we’ll have all the latest in scenery and cunning devices to make them stretch their eyes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The still-soldierly impresario’s chest seemed to expand; he could hardly find words to express his elation. Charles gazed at him benevolently. “Come,\n Thomas. What would I not do for any man who shared my exile?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Killigrew raised his glass to Charles. “Your health, dearest Majesty.” Flushed with his success, he went on, “Speaking of your brother, where is His Grace\n today?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles looked out over the crowd as though an unwelcome thought had come upon him of a sudden. “In Portsmouth.” He shot Killigrew a wry look. “Meeting the\n money for your new playhouse.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara was enjoying the rapid wit of the wild young lords known as the Merry Gang and the Ballers—wild Sedley, rich and haughty Buckingham, quarrelsome\n Dorset, gentle Etheridge the poet—who had invited a few favorite actors to join them for a drink before the play. They would all drink deeper afterward,\n but Charles had made it clear from the first day he reopened the playhouses that his friends were not to become excessively rowdy before or during the\n performance. The king actually liked to hear the plays. He even left his spaniels at home so they would not bark and mar a scene.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara was holding out her own glass to be refilled when she noticed the Lord Chancellor making his ponderous and determined way toward Charles. He was a\n magisterial man beginning to stoop, his hair and little pointed beard going gray now. He had been Charles’s counselor since he was a young prince and had\n stood by him through everything; Charles trusted him completely. Barbara did wonder if he ever might begin to chafe at Clarendon’s domineering airs. But\n perhaps that was wishful thinking.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She stepped away from her friends and deftly intercepted him. Unwillingly enough, he stopped, took her offered hand, and bowed as she said, “Cousin! I am\n surprised to see you here.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How, surprised?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Only that you surely have weighty matters to contend with that should keep you from this scene of frivolity.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His thin lips pursed. “It is true that I do not take joy in watching the court disport itself so frivolously when, as you say, weightier matters face the\n country.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But you don’t begrudge the king his pleasures? He has paid for them, would you not agree?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara watched Clarendon’s narrow eyes glance toward the king, who had turned from Killigrew and was chatting now with that silly child, Frances Stuart. A\n distant relation of some sort, shipped over from Paris by the king’s mother to be a maid of honor to the new queen. She had a sly look of innocence about\n her, like an unblown rose. Barbara thought her insipid.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Uncommonly pretty, the Stuart girl,” said Clarendon. “All that spun-gold hair. You are quite right, to be sure; the king has earned some pleasures.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Well! That was pure cattiness, but it would take more than such an obvious barb to provoke her. She gave Clarendon a disdainful look and he frowned, as if\n annoyed at himself for stooping to bait her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “To be honest, my lady,” he went on, “I had hoped to divert the king’s attention to business, and to his setting off to Portsmouth. I am at a loss to\n understand his delay.” A dark glower gave the lie to his words. “His marriage is a great endeavor, a great event, after all. Much depends on it. We have\n long felt the want of a gracious queen in this land.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed,” Barbara said. Her irritation was becoming difficult to conceal; her fingers itched to slap his great, fat jowls. “Marriage is always a great\n affair, and most especially in princes. We all marveled at your skill in maneuvering your own daughter into marriage with the king’s brother, for example.\n A future queen, if the king were to have no sons. How proud you must be!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There, that should hit the mark. And indeed, the look on Clarendon’s face and the stiffening of his spine were all she could have hoped for.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I think you must know, my lady, that not only had I nothing to do with that union, I would have stopped it if I had had the slightest idea of it.” His\n fleshy cheeks quivered with indignation. “My own daughter secretly marrying the duke, when all the world might think I encouraged it!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh yes, I can imagine your feelings, especially when James thought better of it and attempted to cast her off, despite her being with child. She must be\n an admirable horsewoman, not to have been unseated when he bucked!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon’s color heightened. “What is this insolence? Have you no respect for your own family?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No more respect than you have for me,” Barbara hissed. “Do you think I do not know you counsel the king to throw me off?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do not scruple to admit I do; you are scandalous! Greedy and licentious and likely to bankrupt the nation—those jewels you are wearing would finance\n half a war!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Behind her, the Merry Gang had fallen suspiciously silent. This was getting out of hand. Barbara laughed and playfully tapped the Lord Chancellor’s chest\n with her fan.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Tush, cousin, your passion carries you into gross exaggeration. The king is generous, and rewards his friends. Which I have ever been. I may have no\n wealth of my own, but I am proud to be rich in the king’s regard. As you see, he is not disposed for business today; I suggest you try him on the morrow.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon stepped closer and lowered his voice.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lady, take heed. It is one thing to dally with an unmarried king. But now he is to be wed, I give you warning. I will use all of my influence to see\n Catherine of Braganza is the only queen in England.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara raised her head, and gave him a steely smile. “I wish you joy of your influence. But I think you’ll find the counsel chamber less decisive than the\n bedchamber in such matters, after all.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Their eyes held for a moment, testing, warning. Then Clarendon gave her the briefest and coldest of bows, she nodded, and he withdrew from the field of\n combat. She gestured to the page for more wine. She’d had the final word, but was not at all sure her victory had been as decisive as she could have\n wished. She must oust her cousin from Charles’s affection and trust, if ever the opportunity should present itself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As she turned to rejoin her friends, she bit her lip as she saw Clarendon greeted by Charles and drawn aside for a more private conference.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles had half-listened to Barbara and Clarendon’s sparring even as he gazed at the beautiful Lady Stuart. Chatting with the girl took very little of his\n attention; her wit flickered where it should sparkle, but one couldn’t help but admire her looks. She seemed extraordinarily innocent as well, but knowing\n she’d grown up in the French court, he thought that must be a protective device, an appearance of perfect virtue to ward off unwanted suitors. As a\n novelty, it was rather charming.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles’s attention strayed out over the theater. He noticed an orange girl staring at him and rewarded her with a wink. There was Pepys from the Admiralty\n with his wife—a deferential bow from them both, acknowledged with a nod. Useful man, Pepys; James thought a lot of him. There were the happy people in the\n pit, glad to be idle enough of an afternoon to see a play and the king. He liked their cheers, he liked to be loved as much as any man. But he did\n sometimes wonder whether the same crowds had cheered as loud when his father’s head had been cut off before their eyes. Oh, he’d been told a “great groan”\n had gone up. But then, they \u003cem\u003ewould \u003c/em\u003etell him that.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He knew he was thought cheerful, even frivolous. He went to some pains to give that impression; it was part of this new age, after all, to replace the dour\n Puritan with a merry king. He thought no one, not even James, certainly not Barbara, had any idea how shallow his merriment went. Which was as it should\n be. He’d fought a great war, starting in his beardless youth; he’d been a penniless mercenary, a desperate exile, a poor relation in a foreign court, a\n pawn in other men’s plans until he’d learned to shake off outside influences—though both Barbara and Clarendon cherished illusions on that score. Now he\n was home at last, having resumed his place in the world and avenged his father (modestly enough—no more than a dozen regicides executed, though no man\n would have blamed him for unleashing a bloodbath). He couldn’t complain that even his nearest friends did not guess how a lifetime of longing had left him\n ill-fit to enjoy what he’d regained. It created in him a restlessness that he physicked with near constant activity: riding, dancing, swimming in the\n river, a furious speed of walking and a ferocious style of tennis. And, of course, a great deal of love-making. With the edges of his restlessness blunted,\n he was better able to address the business of being king in this demanding, complicated, fractious age.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Which, whatever the disapproving Clarendon might think, included making a glorious and expensive show of merriment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feeling his Lord Chancellor’s eyes on him, he sighed inwardly and turned. Better let the dear old nuisance have his say. “My Lord Clarendon, I am surprised\n to see you here.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon bowed heavily. “Your Majesty, I am sorry to intrude upon your entertainment, but having found you not at Whitehall, I felt compelled by duty to\n follow where you are.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But you don’t sound at all sorry—in truth you sound downright cross. I heard Barbara flying out at you. You mustn’t take it to heart, you know.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I take nothing to heart but your interests and the interests of the nation, which are one and the same. No, I came not for her sake but on quite another\n business. For I must ask you, Majesty, why you have not set off for Portsmouth as I had thought you intended.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Portsmouth?” Charles said with dangerous lightness. “Why, what’s in Portsmouth?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon scowled, at a loss for words, and Charles went on, “Oh, yes, yes, quite. The queen. But I daresay tomorrow will do. Or the next day.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles watched the vein on Clarendon’s forehead that always stood out when he was vexed throb visibly. “Sir, I must urge you to greater diligence in this\n matter. The Infanta is waiting, an insult to the Portuguese nation would be—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What?” Charles broke in impatiently. “Injurious to our pockets? You do not suggest they would cheat us of her dowry? The greatest ever to come with any\n princess to her needful bridegroom? That would be a disappointment, to be sure.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon hesitated, hearing the sarcasm. “Your Majesty—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But Charles went on, allowing his irritation to show in his voice. “Not her fault, of course, poor thing’s but an instrument in the hands of that mother of\n hers. But they’re in no position to reproach anyone. Scarcely half of it paid, I’m told, and half of that in sugar and spices! What good are sugar and\n spices to me? I do not wish to appear venal, but one cannot build a navy out of sugar and spices. Nor make the kind of showing the people expect. Nor,” he\n said, unable to resist the opportunity to tease, “keep one’s mistresses in outrageous luxury.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon puffed out his cheeks. “Sir, I beg you to consider all the long efforts that have brought the Infanta to our shore. The gold is not yet all paid,\n it is true, but the ports and trade routes will yield great riches in time. And, more, there is the urgent question of children.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles looked to make sure Barbara wasn’t within earshot. “I have children.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His tone was brusque, but Clarendon was not cowed. “Indeed. Which is our assurance that you will soon have \u003cem\u003elegitimate \u003c/em\u003eheirs. With only one brother\n living, the succession cannot be counted secure. There is not a moment to waste. Come, Your Majesty, why this reluctance? You had a hand in choosing her;\n there is no reason to believe you will not like her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I like her already. Tangier and Bombay may have decided the matter, but I’ve seen her portrait. There’s no doubt she’s pretty, and if I have any\n discernment in the reading of character in a face, she is as good a lady as ever breathed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And therefore you are upon the road to Portsmouth as we speak? My eyes deceive me by seeing you disporting in the playhouse instead?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This clumsy attempt at wit made Charles laugh. “Has any monarch in history been harassed and harried as you harry me? Business, Clarendon, I attend to\n business, as you ought to know. I was all morning closeted with Parliament, and I must to them again on the morrow. Months ago I ordered them to prorogue\n sessions for the spring to allow me to get married in all decency, and what in their grateful humble duty do they answer me? ‘Yes, of course, good sir,\n except no, good sir, if it please you or if it please you not!’ I am fighting them tooth and jagged claw just now, and must stay the course.” His tone grew\n suddenly bitter. “That so-called Code with your name on it—it is a rebuke to all I promised at Breda.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon suddenly looked ten years older.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My name is on it, sir, but not all my heart in it. They think to enlist me to their cause, and indeed I believe you go too far in your ideas of tolerance.\n England is, and must be, an Anglican country, unquestioned and undivided. The Dissenters have lost, and they must be made to know it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And what of the Catholics? Are they not to have freedom of conscience?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, sir, aye. But your people have been through much, and memories of past wrongs run deep. We have much to do yet in reestablishing proper order; this\n is no time for new ideas of tolerance and embracing of what-you-will.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is exactly the time for it,” Charles snapped, his temper rising. “But enough, good my lord, enough of that for now. The queen must be patient, and\n there’s an end on it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Yet as he spoke, he wondered at himself. Why \u003cem\u003ewas\u003c/em\u003e he lingering in town, when his bride awaited him? Parliament was still sitting, that was true.\n And yet he could take up the battle again on his return. All that about the muddy roads was true enough, too, but he’d waded through worse in a worse\n cause. And then there was Barbara—he was sure Barbara took great credit for his staying, and she did make it very easy to stay. Still . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am aware . . .” He spoke more softly, quite without realizing, and Clarendon stepped in closer to hear him. “I am conscious of an uneasiness . . . now\n that my marriage is upon me in truth. My mother . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon put a reassuring hand on his monarch’s sleeve. “I understand you, sir. But I promise you, I have made careful inquiries. The Infanta is cut of\n quite another cloth than the queen mother. She is foreign, yes, and a Catholic. But she has nothing of the managing in her nature; she will be content to\n keep her own conscience and let others keep theirs. You need not fear a repeat of the meddling that caused you and your father—and, indeed, the realm—so\n much distress. She is no Henrietta Maria.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles nodded uneasily. It wasn’t Catherine in particular, of course; he hadn’t even met her yet and surely, surely he had reason to think he would like\n her. And still . . . He shrugged. “Well, let that be as it may.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon didn’t take the hint. “So you will go, sir? I will give the order for your coach; you may be there on the morrow, though you must break your\n journey in—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles held up his hand. “My lord, I beg you, let the matter rest. I will go, I will bring the bishop, we shall have all proper ceremony and I will do my\n husbandly duty and supply England with a reassuring army of princes.” He paused and dropped his bantering tone for the warning of a king, not to be\n mistaken or gainsaid. “And I will do it when I choose.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon met his look, understood, and bowed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara saw Clarendon withdraw from Charles’s presence. The Lord Chancellor didn’t look happy, which was all to the good. But then, neither did Charles.\n Damn the meddling old stampcrab for upsetting him! She frowned absently into the pit, wondering how to restore the king’s spirits, when her eye was caught\n by the sight of a slender young man, his long blond hair tumbling down his back, sitting in the farthest, dimmest corner of the pit. He had one arm around\n the waist of an orange girl, and the other on her knee; he did not look to be bargaining for oranges. The girl laughed at something he said, and he laughed\n too, lifting up his head so Barbara could see his face quite clearly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young Earl of Rochester. Perfect.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara touched Charles’s sleeve lightly, and he turned instantly to her. “Darling,” she breathed. “Look who’s here.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles followed her gesture, narrowing his eyes, then widening them in recognition and pleasure. He spoke a word to his page, who went running down the\n stairs and through the pit to bow to Rochester. The young earl sprang to his feet, releasing the orange girl (who went off about her business again),\n and—looking up to the royal box—caught the gaze of the king and made his reverence. Charles smiled, beckoned, and a moment later, Rochester was in the\n royal box, as all the rest made way and watched with interest.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dear boy!” the king greeted him. “Back from your tour of the continent already?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I arrived only today and would have come to you tomorrow—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No matter, no matter, come and do it properly at Whitehall tomorrow if you like, but shall I stand on ceremony with your father’s son? I regret his loss\n immensely.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester looked blank, and then assumed a somber look. Barbara was quite sure the pleasure of coming into the title and what little money the battered\n estate offered more than offset the loss of his father, a man he’d scarce set eyes on since he was a small boy, and who had been, by all reports, an\n unpleasant drunk. Charles, of course, would never hear anything against him: the man had personally helped him escape from England and intrigued tirelessly\n for his return. Pity he had died just two years before he could be rewarded by the sight of his king returned to his rightful throne. But here was the son,\n ready-made to be loved in his stead, and a good deal more apt for it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, well—and here you are,” the king was saying. “You made the most of your travels, I’m sure?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’m sure I tried, sir. A mob of Frenchmen tried to murder me in an opera house but I wasn’t having that. I told them I had an engagement with the greatest\n man alive or dead in England save one and begged them to pardon me at the point of my sword.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara caught her breath. Rochester was recovering quickly from the awe of Charles’s presence—all too quickly. He had ever been a perverse boy. Would he\n ruin his chances in this first meeting?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Save one?” Charles asked, unsure whether to be amused or offended.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester gave him a sidelong look that would have been, in a woman, rank flirtation. “Forgive me, I defy the world to find one who loves Your Majesty more\n than I, but I must speak the truth or I am damned. Could there be a greater man in all the history of our benighted world than one Oliver who died and thus\n removed all obstacles from Your Majesty’s triumphant return?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles stared. Barbara and all the courtiers and ladies held their breaths. And then Charles laughed. “Quite right—if there can be a sort of negative\n greatness. I’ll own it was greatly accommodating of the fellow.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWell done\u003c/em\u003e, \u003cem\u003eRochester\u003c/em\u003e, Barbara thought with relief as everyone laughed along with the king. \u003cem\u003eShould have known you’d bring it off\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles raised his glass to the young earl in an approving gesture. “Yes, come to court tomorrow, my boy; we’ll find you something to do,” he said, then\n turned away to speak to one of the Merry Gang.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester snatched a glass from the page and drank it all down in one fluid pull, lowering it to find himself face to face with Barbara. She smiled and\n offered her hand, murmuring, “Well. You do know how to make an entrance.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The beautiful youth pressed her hand to his lips. “Queen Barb’ry, well met. I would say you are in wondrous good looks, but that would be to tell you what\n you already know.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She withdrew the hand. “Hist, mad thing, do not call me that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What, Barb’ry? I think it suits you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You know that is not what I mean.” She shook her head, half laughing and half cross.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, you mean \u003cem\u003equeen\u003c/em\u003e?” he stressed the word slightly. “An honorary title merely, though perhaps without the honor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara gave him a steady look. Being Rochester’s friend was like walking a tiger: One never knew when the claws would turn one’s way. But Barbara, Lady\n Castlemaine was no man’s prey. “You will not change allegiance, will you, Rochester?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “When the girl from Portugal turns up, do you mean?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He meant to bait her, but she would not be baited. “Remember, dear boy, how much good I can still do you. You may need a friend at court. And I don’t think\n a proper little religious like her will take to you, do you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I thought the king was my friend at court. No, I do take your point; but be assured, my friendship is not and never has been for sale.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The music sounded a fanfare and Barbara turned to Charles again, only to find him once more bending his attention to Lady Stuart. She felt a tiny prickle\n of fear, even while she acknowledged its true source. Frances might or might not be dangerous—though if she proved to be, Barbara could manage her. But the\n approaching queen was another order of threat entirely. Was Barbara not standing on the thinnest ice that ever veiled the winter Thames? Could she not be\n swallowed in the murky water of history, her name forgotten and her bed cold?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The fanfare grew louder. Charles straightened, and reached out for her hand without looking. She put it into his and together they turned to face the stage\n as the chandeliers were lowered to brighten the actors’ faces. Their movement caught the eye of someone in the pit below, who of a sudden shouted, “God\n save the King!” At that, all the audience stood to cheer, a spontaneous salute. Charles shouted back, “England and Saint George!” and a roar of approval\n went up from all the house. And then another voice from somewhere in the pit topped all, crying out, “And God save our Lady Castlemaine!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles smiled down at her. Standing by his side in all her glory, her hand held up in his as his consort, her swollen belly proclaiming his love before\n them all, Barbara felt her apprehension pop like a soap bubble. She was encompassed in the love of the people for this new golden age and its king; she\n shone in its light and dressed in its borrowed radiance, and there was no need for that to ever change.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nThey sat to let the play begin, Charles holding her hand warmly on his be-ribboned knee, and she thought, \u003cem\u003eSuch happiness must be enough, it is enough, and it always will be so\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The day after she set foot on English soil, Catherine of Braganza fell seriously ill.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her indisposition set the duke’s household aflutter. Her attendants ghosted about the corridors in their black clothes, conferring in hushed tones. Her\n trunks of holy relics were unpacked, and the reliquary with a sliver of the True Cross set upon her traveling altar. Her cooks labored over pots of\n sharp-smelling soups, hoping to tempt her appetite. The Duke of York was so concerned, he sent his own physician, who was turned back at the door by the\n dour Condessa de Penalva.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From the fuss, anyone would have thought the queen was at death’s door. But the English servants observed the omens available to those who clean and carry\n and serve and drew their own conclusions.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You can hear her sneezing through the door,” said Nan, who did not like Catholics and found excuses to stay out of the queen’s apartments.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She’s caught a chill,” was Cook’s opinion. “And no wonder, bucking about on the sea for so long with the winter hardly over.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Just as well our Charlie is dragging his feet, then,” sniggered the scullion, and had his ears boxed for insolence by Cook, whose temper was short since\n the queen’s arrival had set everything on its ear. The queen and her attendants had not made themselves popular. They had made a great deal of work for the\n duke’s household, and promised to make more. Her Portuguese cooks had invaded the kitchen and her ladies had infiltrated the laundry, upsetting the\n washerwomen and knocking into the tubs with their wide, swinging farthingales. And now she’d brought sickness into the house. The general opinion, among\n the servants, was that the omens were against her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the days passed, the weather sweetened and the queen’s chill lifted, and still the king did not come. The gossip below stairs grew sly. In the stables,\n the men exchanged lewd jests concerning His Majesty’s fondness for hobbyhorses and how Mistress Babs kept the royal scepter polished. In the kitchen, the\n household servants gathered to exchange complaints.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Such a little dab of a thing!” one of the maids exclaimed, not for the first time.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And her teeth!” Nan plumed herself on her wit, but Jenny thought her merely ill-natured. “Bite into an apple at arm’s length she could, if it were not for\n her nose getting in the way.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She’s an altar set up in her apartment,” said a severe young woman, misnamed Charity. “Statues and relics and all manner of Popish folderols. I saw it\n when I was handing in the breakfast.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’m not surprised she’s not eating,” Nan went on. “Between the stink of the food and the stink of the incense, it’s enough to turn an honest woman’s\n stomach.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The scullion snickered. “It’s because—it’s because we have no human flesh to give her!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny seethed. “Catholics do not eat human flesh any more than you do. And if the king doesn’t object to his queen’s religion, I do not see why you should.\n As for her looks, she’s perfectly lovely to look upon, now she’s recovering, and has a very pretty color!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She paints,” said Charity, shortly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was true. The queen did not seem to consider herself dressed without a coat of pearl powder and smear of cochineal on either cheek, nor did any of her\n ladies. Strange it was, when they dressed so old-fashioned, to see them all painted up like tarts at a fair. Jenny sighed. “Well, she’s a kind,\n sweet-natured lady in any case, and I, for one, pity her. Think to yourself how it would be, to travel so far from home and find your husband not there to\n greet you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The group by the fire exchanged glances, few of them sympathetic. “Of course you like her,” Nan said. “You’re half-foreign yourself, aren’t you? And making\n the most of it, too, taking trays up when it’s not your place and hobnobbing with that Jew perfumer and—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Too angry to speak, Jenny rose up and slapped her, then swept out before anybody could stop her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On the seventh morning after the queen’s landing, a messenger thundered into the forecourt, leapt from his sweating, muddy horse, and demanded to be\n brought before the Duke of York. As the duke was with his barber, he was received by the Earl of Sandwich, who listened to what he had to say, then called\n for his man to rouse the household. It seemed that the king had lain at Guildford the night before and was even now taking horse to ride to Portsmouth. He\n would be there, the messenger said, within these two hours.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine looked very small in the massive bed, with its carved mahogany posts and looped-back hangings of heavy crimson silk. The immense bedchamber was\n at this moment thronged and humming with absolutely everyone in the house who had the slightest excuse to be there. She sat very straight, her back\n scarcely touching the bolster, clad in layers of intricately embroidered white-on-white nightclothes with a delicate white embroidered cap covering her\n hair, which was carefully arranged to look easy and dégagé, and tried not to stare expectantly at the door like a dog who thinks his master is just on the\n other side.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The long-awaited meeting was upon her. Over the past week, she had been anxious for it, then more anxious, then very anxious indeed. Now she was conscious\n of resentment. Though she’d been put off and explained to and mollified, she was perfectly able to do the simple-enough sum: one day for a messenger to\n reach London, two days by carriage from London, perhaps a day between for preparations or affairs of state (but was their wedding not an affair of state?)\n equaled four days. Allow one more day perhaps for bad roads, on account of the rain. That left two days, two days at the very least, of inexplicable delay.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Which equaled . . . exactly what, she could not know. Nothing good. Why had she been left sitting here for a full week, like a forgotten doll? Now that he\n was here, was she meant to forgive the insult and throw herself into his arms?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked down at her hands, folded idly on her lap. The aftermath of her terrible sea journey had taken its toll, and though she had insisted her chill\n was nothing—the merest scratch in her throat, the slightest fatigue, she took no notice of it!—it was strongly represented to her by Dona Maria and her\n ladies that it would be best, at this interesting matrimonial moment, to err on the side of coddling a slight indisposition. Catherine had seen her mother\n receive in her bedchamber thus, doing great business of state and entertaining with perfect equanimity, though it felt an odd way to meet a husband for the\n first time. At least it solved the question of what to wear.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A footstep in the hall, and every head in the room jerked up. It was only a servant, bringing more wine. Everyone subsided, went back to their\n conversations, like doves shaking out their feathers and resuming their roosts. Catherine stirred abruptly, pushed back the bedclothes, half tucked her\n legs under her as though about to rise. All heads turned to look, and Dona Maria, who had been sitting by the bed, said, “Catarina, compose yourself, what\n would you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What would I?” Catherine said. “I hardly know! Waiting is terrible; I want to be doing something.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria descended on her in a rustling of skirts, tsking and patting her back into place, resettling the heavy comforter over her legs, tidying her\n already tidy cap. Catherine let her. What else could she do? She had waited for years to learn her fate, then waited again through months of negotiations\n and weeks upon the \u003cem\u003eRoyal Charles\u003c/em\u003e as the winds opposed her. Now she waited and waited to meet the man—probably a dreadful monster of a wicked\n bridegroom, despite everyone’s reassurances!—with whom she must be yoked for all her life, and who—to judge by his lamentable lack of haste to come to\n her—was reluctant even to lay eyes on her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But before she could sort out whether she was more afraid of meeting a monster or of the monster not caring to meet her, she heard a great noise in the\n hall, a tramping of boots, dogs barking, and men’s voices calling out, a confusion of voices. Dona Maria stepped aside and back; all the company seemed to\n ebb away like a tide, as through the door he came, a throng of courtiers following at his heels, along with some half a dozen excited spaniels. Beside his\n royal brother, tall, handsome, princely James seemed less than he had been: less tall, less impressive—an affable hound next to a lion.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lion himself was amazingly tall, with a straight figure and a great fall of dark curling hair. But exactly what he looked like seemed less material\n than the force of his personality. Catherine felt it instantly, doubled as his gaze fell upon her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king’s expression of amusement at whatever James had been saying as they entered shifted to a look so private Catherine forgot the attendants crowding\n the chamber. He crossed to her bedside and made a leg, as she bowed as best she could from her pillows. Straightening, he looked down into her eyes. “Well,\n my dearest wife, here you are at last.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCatherine gaped up at him. How had she ever thought him unhandsome? He smiled, amused. \u003cem\u003eFor the love of all the saints, Catarina\u003c/em\u003e, she thought. \u003cem\u003eCollect your wits!\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She cleared her throat. “And here you are, husband, at very long last.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, yes.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Do forgive my quite unforgivable delay. My time is never my own, you know, affairs of state—and so on.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His spoken Spanish was much better than his written. “Oh, yes, of course. I understand,” she assured him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They tell me you are unwell? It could not be too serious, to leave you in such beauty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I . . . Oh, I . . . I thank you, it is nothing, nothing in the least . . .” His look of tender concern had sent an absurd thrill right through her. She\n took a slow breath to steady herself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “In any case, I have a small offering of atonement for my lamentable delay, if you will be gracious enough to accept it.” He turned away to take something\n from one of his gentlemen. When he turned back, he was holding out to her, in his big gloved hand, a small brown-and-white spotted puppy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine couldn’t help herself—she inhaled sharply and exhaled an enchanted “Ah!” She reached out both her hands, and gathered the little creature up.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, how sweet,” she said, cradling the soft, wiggling bundle to her cheek. “What is its name?”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have left it for you to name her. It was a bit of luck, my favorite bitch whelping just at the right time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine looked from the dog’s melting dark eyes up into Charles’s. The room was still full of people, watching them as though they were upon a stage, but\n none of them mattered save one. “Shall I call her Esperanza?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles smiled and sat close by her on the edge of the bed. He put both his hands around hers, and they sat with the little dog between them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hope?” he said. “A lovely name. But why not Feliciana? I am sure we are to be very happy, you and I.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And at that moment, Catherine believed it too.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n","description":"\u003cp\u003e\nWinds of change carry a young Portuguese princess towards her destiny as the sun rises on Whitehall. Sheltered but curious, Catherine of Braganza arrives in her new English home full of eager excitement, but what this pious foreigner’s arrival will mean for the Merry Monarch she is to wed – and the mistress who holds his heart – is what everyone is talking about. \n\nThis episode is brought to you by Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman, who know every embarkation is an adventure about to happen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriters: Liz Duffy Adams \u0026 Delia Sherman\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.47","slug":"whitehall-1","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP1.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/1whitehallserialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/1whitehallserialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/1whitehallserialbox.pdf","share_url":"https://www.serialbox.com/episodes/whitehall-1","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ed1dada6e22ac9d178f1","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":2,"title":"Skilled Artifice","released_date":"2016-05-25T12:01:28.657+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"Weddings, baptisms, and a birth. ","byline":"Mary Robinette Kowal","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall2.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-05-25","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eMay 1662\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003ePortsmouth\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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\n tiring. At his side, James kept his silence, which Charles appreciated. Trust James to read a situation correctly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n confinement.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n the ceremony longer than he ought.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James cleared his throat. “Lord Aubigny seems none too happy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n to him, would you, James?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n to the stairs, nearly tripping as Babette and Bacchus dashed past him. Rogue waited, panting on the grass by Charles.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles gave him a final pat. “Shall we, little man?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n Keeping a placid expression, Charles followed his dogs up the steps to where the two men waited.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Aubigny swept into a low bow. “Your Majesty, a word, if I might?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n more than a week ago and, having presented him only half her dowry, could not possibly have the effrontery to ask \u003cem\u003ehim\u003c/em\u003e for money. “I do not want to\n keep my queen waiting, so will grant you one. Mind you, one word only.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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,\n “Catholic.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n steps to the end of his father’s reign. “You have my attention. Pray, feel free to use more words to elaborate.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Leaning closer, Aubigny murmured, “Your bride . . . She has requested a Catholic ceremony.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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\n for it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n is also done by a Catholic ceremony.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah.” Charles narrowed his eyes at the man. “And presumably you have discussed this with her at some length.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Aubigny swallowed. “Indeed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He glanced to James. “Some warning might have been appropriate.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What, would you have hurried the faster from your mistress’s side? You left her to wait a full week.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A week in which you might have discovered many things about my bride.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James spread his hands, shaking his head. “As far as I knew she was aware that she was marrying an Anglican king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n surrounded by only her Portuguese contingent. I had rather hoped that would lessen their influence on her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n contrived to help her understand the situation without troubling you. She is a good and tractable creature—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Except on the subject of her vows.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “One could consider holding to her previous vows as a sign of an obedient nature.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Or as a sign that she holds old loyalties higher than England’s own best interests.” Charles lifted his chin and studied Aubigny.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Aubigny flushed. “I assure you, sire, my first loyalty is to England and to you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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,\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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.\n The creature squirmed, rolling over to present her belly to Bacchus, and Catherine laughed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles had never seen a more beautiful picture.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n in front of Catherine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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,\n Catherine made as if to rise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n Feliciana?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n think it was appropriate, but I could not let her cry so.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n duties of the king require them.” He sighed and peered up at her. “My dear . . . I do not wish to make you cry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do not doubt that.” She turned her attention back to Feliciana. “And yet, I must wonder why you are concerned that you will.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.\n That you will not, in fact, consider yourself wed without it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes. I do. But not at the expense of the Anglican ceremony, I assure you. I merely wished to add the Catholic service.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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 . . .\n The short of it is that the English people blame Catholicism for my father’s failures.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n secret?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Behind him, Lord Aubigny cleared his throat. “If I might offer a possible solution, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Since the alternatives are less than agreeable, yes, by all means.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There is a provision in the Catholic church for a lay wedding. I am qualified to perform it, and I am not a priest . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n would soothe Catherine’s heart, then there was no true reason to decline beyond worn fears that lingered from his time in exile.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n needed any effort to lift her to her feet. “My lady, would you do me the honor of wedding me twice?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A small dimple formed at the corner of Catherine’s mouth. “I would, my lord.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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.\n 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\n 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\n would not be appropriate for a wedding.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n mattered to her had happened earlier. She was married to Charles in the eyes of God and Holy Mother Church.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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,\n and she kept fidgeting with them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then Charles entered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n Charles paused, his gaze resting on her, and Catherine’s skin warmed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled and the warmth spread to Catherine’s middle. Dear Heavenly Father, she was married to this man.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n wife.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine tilted her face up. The cloth of her veil brushed against her lips, tickling as she spoke. “Good afternoon, husband.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His dark eyes twinkled as he offered her his hand. “Shall we sit?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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\n Charles’s lap.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n fuss, he settled on the carpet between them. His little body made a spot of warmth against Catherine’s foot.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n bow, the courtier backed away from the throne and crossed behind the rail. He raised a hand, nodding to the footmen beside the doors.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n on the knots. So many people.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles cleared his throat. “Do you see the man with a mustache in the red doublet with slashed sleeves?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine bent her head at yet another reminder of how little she had been out in the world. “I have never been.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n you. Blond curls. Charming smile. Dressed in blue brocade. There—do you see him?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n those near to him laugh.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Who is he?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n about to begin.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n impressive, but Catherine did not know what it might be.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n stared boldly at Catherine. No—not at Catherine herself, but at her dress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n surely receive a letter from Mamãe expressing disappointment. What she would give for someone who answered to her and not to her mother.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n 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\n 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\n unfurled a roll of paper and began to read.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He had spoken a half-dozen words before Catherine realized that she could understand him. A knot in her chest relaxed a little.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n sanctity.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n witness with the contract.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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,\n 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\n offered Catherine his hand. “Well, my dear, this is the last bit to suffer through.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She placed her hand in his. “You make marriage sound like torture.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His mouth opened with a smirk and then he stopped, gaze sobering again. “I hope you will not find it so.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n English and, save for their names, Catherine comprehended nothing. Charles retained her hand, giving her some comfort.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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,\n scrambling for what she was supposed to say.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles gave her hand another gentle squeeze. Beyond the rail, the spectators shifted, murmuring among themselves. She must give some answer. Catherine\n nodded, desperately hoping the words would come to her mind, but it remained resolutely blank. The bishop merely waited, staring at her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n tried to find her way out of the morass.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles spoke in a mild tone to the bishop.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n required.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n finished speaking, the crowd burst into cheers and applause.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At last, in the eyes of England, they were married.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n at her. Her husband. “Poor thing. You are terrified, are you not?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Only overwhelmed with emotion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, Queen Catherine . . .” He leaned down a little closer. “Let us go somewhere private, hmm?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine clutched his hand. “Wait—please.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Raising his brow, Charles regarded her. “Ah . . . I did not mean to frighten you more.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dom de Mello approached and bowed. “Your Majesties. May I be of assistance?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Shoulders sagging with relief, Catherine turned to him and lapsed back into Portuguese. “Would you be so kind as to translate for me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “With gladness.” He turned to Charles and spoke to him in English, gesturing to Catherine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n we . . . ?” She switched back to Spanish so she could appeal directly to Charles. “May we share this tradition with our guests?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n order, her duenna was brought out with a pair of gilt scissors to do the honors of cutting the knots from the dress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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,\n 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\n 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\n accept her as their queen with the same willingness that they took the ribbons.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n of the frame for a decrease in privacy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And, in some ways, for a husband.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n dampness between her legs simply from the heat. The door closed on the hall and she let out a sigh of relief.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Beautiful! You are beautiful today,” Dona Maria cooed at her. “It seems almost a shame to let your hair down, Infanta.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk, one of her English ladies, swished through the room with her skirts swaying gracefully. In Spanish, she said, “She is queen now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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,\n Your Majesty, and we shall prepare you for your wedding night.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n not included the terms surrounding a woman’s cycle, so she switched to Portuguese to request the linen rags. “\u003cem\u003ePaninhos de linho\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Flushing, Catherine cleared her throat. “I believe . . . \u003cem\u003eestou chovendo\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk stared at her for a moment, delicate brows drawn together in confusion at the idiom.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine translated the Portuguese idiom as best she could. “I’m raining.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n delicate cotton gown. “I see. It is a shame the king will not be able to . . . attend you tonight.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine’s flush burned brighter, and yet she was also deeply, deeply relieved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles raised his glass and laughed with the others at whatever Rochester had said. Probably something witty and, judging by the glances cast toward\n 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\n pleasant, and then to have to go through two wedding ceremonies in a single day . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n so loud. Rogue, at least, had no shame about falling asleep wherever he wished. Catherine must be just as exhausted as he.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n best by her to make it as pleasant as possible. He had surely given her ladies enough time to make her ready by now.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n to stop them. “Gentlemen. You must make merry in my absence.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What, my lord, have you not made marry enough?” Rochester lifted his glass.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed no, I have never made marry before. But I do have a merry maid awaiting.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She might be a maid, but there’s nothing merry about her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles tilted his head and stared at the young man. “I think I did not hear you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester swallowed. “My lord. That is, she seems quite pious.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n displeasure. “And now . . . gentlemen. I take myself off to teach her to . . . make merry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n pleasure of other courts and survived only on their charm.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n Suffolk.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He put out a hand to steady her and she used the movement to sink into a deep curtsy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n cocked his head, chest suddenly tight. Lady Suffolk was one of Barbara’s favorites. “Is there word?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n you tonight.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles barked a laugh. “Cannot attend? This bodes ill for our relations.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Her Majesty would be happy to receive you, only she is having . . . a womanly complaint.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n wish her to feel neglected. Have the cook send up some supper, and we shall dine together. Quietly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And, if he was very lucky, he might be able to fall asleep.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eHampton Court Palace\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Outside the windows of Catherine’s rooms, the bagpipers played jaunty tunes as everyone continued to celebrate their arrival at Hampton Court. Catherine\n 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\n been in Portsmouth, she had grown more comfortable with the abundance of skirts surrounding her. “She seems keen enough, I think.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n forehead. “If you will pardon me, I have some matters I need to attend to.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n beyond her dowry. “Of course. I shall see to getting us settled in.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n had stopped raining, she had expected the consummation. Until it happened, he could still have the marriage annulled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n between their nations. Time alone with Charles would be rare, for as king, even his sleep had attendants.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n English ladies in their bright colors had joined her entourage. The ladies of both courts busied themselves directing maids in the unpacking, so despite\n her soothing words to Charles, there was little for Catherine to do.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n little dear and tugged at the glove.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feliciana wagged her tail and dug her paws in, thinking it a game.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.\n Catherine shook her head. “Silly, silly thing.” She was at least as silly as the puppy if a single meeting concerned her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Around her, ladies talked amongst themselves in a flurry of languages. The English ladies spoke to each other in English, the Portuguese ladies in\n 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\n talking intently.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “. . . Castlemaine is with child, I hear.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am certain that is where he has gone—a ‘meeting,’ if you will.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What? Here? When her—” The voice cut off and Catherine glanced up, finding Dona Emelia with a betraying flush on her countenance.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine stood, lifting Feliciana along with her glove. She walked over to the ladies. “Where did you say the king had gone?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh . . . I am certain I do not know. Did he not speak of a meeting?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes.” She tilted her head and regarded her Portuguese lady. “With Lady Castlemaine, you said?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I—” Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, madam. So Lady Suffolk told me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And what can you tell me of Lady Castlemaine?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n hand, held low as if Catherine might not notice it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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\n than to Charles. She would get no useful information there.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a great rustle of silk, Dona Maria arrived and made a perfunctory curtsy. “How is Your Majesty finding your apartments?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n room. “Have you a thought as to where we should put Feliciana’s bed?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am not a child, Dona Maria. I am aware that my husband has a mistress.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty, it is beneath your notice.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n frowned with concentration. “There was a young woman in Portsmouth—Jenny. She made an herbal brew for me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I recall.” Dona Maria’s mouth twisted with a little distaste.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Pray, send for her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria’s brows rose sharply, cracking the fine lacquer on her forehead. “Is Your Majesty unwell?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am quite well, thank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then what need have you for a common waiting woman?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n “I was not aware I was required to justify my choices to you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n It shall be done.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n was kissing now.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n been receiving regular and alarming reports that Charles was demonstratively fond of the woman. Barbara could take no chances with the king’s affections.\n 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\n of pleasing a king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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 . . .\n exertion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At that, Charles chuckled, but still slid away on the bench. “This is not, perhaps, the best time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well . . . darling.” He tugged at the lace around his neck. “I was just married and—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n London to be with you. After I endured mockery. After this!” She slapped her hands against her stomach.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You do understand our situations are quite different.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes. Of course! I am a mere woman. You are my king. \u003cem\u003eJus primae noctis\u003c/em\u003e makes my duty to you abundantly clear.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh please. That has never been—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I know my histories.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He sighed and studied the ceiling for a moment. “Barbara, my dear, you know my feelings for you are strong.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do I? I hope you do not think me such a fool as that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He faltered, as she had expected. “What do you mean?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n latest baby. “Were it not for his willingness to take credit for your bastards, you would never tryst so frequently with me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If you had not already been married, I—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n have afforded the dowry to buy you as Queen Luisa did for the Portuguese woman.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Her name is Catherine. She is my queen. I would thank you to show her a little respect.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara straightened her spine and gathered her skirts. “Respect? Perhaps I shall, then.” She turned and strode toward the door, trying not to waddle.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Where are you— Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Charles hurried across the room and caught her by the arm. “Where are you going?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “To see the queen and honor her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His eyes rested incredulously on her belly and Barbara knew she had won. “That would not be a good choice in your condition.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you think she would disapprove if I laid my whelp on her doorstep?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Be reasonable, I beg, though—” His jaws clamped shut suddenly. “Please, please be reasonable.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n shoulders. “What would be reasonable, in your eyes, sir?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n allowed to express my disquietude. Not even here. Not even in private with you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n Barbara kept her face covered, waiting to hear what he would say.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n would become friends.” He stroked her hair. “What can I do to make it easier for you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n of lace. “May I . . . May I be a Lady of the Bedchamber?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He gave her a smile, leaning forward to kiss her cheeks. “What, not a duchess?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n 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\n 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\n the queen’s bed. Would you not like us both in your bed?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n is the queen’s decision. Hush—” He put a finger to her lips. “You know it is.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n Lady of the Bedchamber . . . it was the queen’s decision, but even the queen was ruled by the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n fell in a melodious line. “\u003cem\u003eBenedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n interest in actually meeting her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n the same.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The priest joined his hands together and faced them to end the mass. “\u003cem\u003eIte, missa est\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eDeo gratias\u003c/em\u003e.” She gave thanks to God in earnest for this small respite in her day.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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,\n 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\n since they had arrived at Hampton Court, she had spent wonderful days with him, laughing and strolling the lawn, but not yet a night.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Is something the matter, my child?” Father Patrick paused on his way to the door.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\nby 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 \u003cem\u003eknow\u003c/em\u003e 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\n moments longer for contemplation.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria cleared her throat. “Your Majesty—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n marriage. The Lord’s chapel was not the correct place for such a conversation, but when else could she have it?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n 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\n arrangements.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Jenny . . . Stay a moment, if you would.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The girl stopped, eyes wide, even as they remained turned down. The flowers trembled a little. “Yes, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.\n “There is another service you might do for me, if you would not mind.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am yours to command.” Her head remained bowed, fingers pressing against the bowl so hard the nails turned white.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n the awkwardness of the subject would be extreme in either case. “What can you tell me of my husband’s mistress?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The girl’s cheeks flushed. “Which facts are you interested in, Your Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n advise you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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,\n examining the wing of the dove embroidered there.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But you do hear things, do you not? Let us say that I should very much like to know what you have heard.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n the king, apparently . . . The servants can hear them even through the walls.” Jenny shifted her weight, still studying the floor. It was not fair,\n 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\n 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,\n then she collapses weeping. The king cannot stand to see her cry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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,\n 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\n tucked it into the girl’s apron as a token of thanks. “You may go.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n Charles to herself, despite his interest in his mistress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All that was required was for Catherine to seduce her own husband. She prayed to God that she could.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n stopped in the hallway to look back at Charles with a small whine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n and his new son. Charles knocked twice on the door, out of courtesy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Enter,” Catherine called.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n save for tapers lit around the bed. There, clad only in a gown of Brussels lace, stood his bride.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n allure. She raised her chin bravely and smiled at him. “Husband . . . will you come to bed?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As his answer, Charles shut the door to the hall and smiled back at his wife.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n Barbara so readily in Charles’s affections. She might wear the crown, but Barbara ruled the court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her husband had arrived at Hampton Court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Putting on a smile, Barbara went to him. “Darling! What a pleasant surprise.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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,\n I was not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara let her pretense of welcome drop and sighed. “Really, Roger. The terms of our marriage have been made clear enough.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n truth clear enough.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If your ambition had matched your pride, then perhaps I would not have needed to secure a title for you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, do not pretend that you are whoring for my benefit.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then do not pretend as if you do not enjoy the estate the king bestowed upon you for my ‘whoring.’”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am the laughingstock of the court.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n wealth we have been given.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n with rage, his face screwing into a red knot. For all of Roger’s anger, he cradled the infant with care.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What are you doing?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara pulled her dressing gown closer and hurried after him. “That is not our agreement with the king!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Roger—” Barbara followed him into the hall, with the wet nurse close behind. “Where are you going?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n dishabille. He gave her a mocking bow. “My Lady Castlemaine, will you entertain us all as you do the king?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Watch your tongue, Rochester.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I always watch my tongue; it is an organ with many uses.” He licked his lips. “Should you like to watch it as well?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n with little Charles in such a mood. Barbara turned to the wet nurse. “Go and find the king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young woman’s eyes widened. “My lady—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n 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\n closed behind her. “Are you not still in your confinement?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n after him. Barbara reached the door, intent on flinging it open, but it was locked. She shook it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Roger!” She pounded on the oak panels. “Roger, let me in!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n for me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n weight, furious energy making her restless.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n fit the key to the lock. It turned easily, and she flung the door open, Lady Suffolk trailing in behind her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nAt 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, \u003cem\u003eego te baptizo in nomine\u003c/em\u003e . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her stomach churned. “No!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The priest—Father Patrick, that was his name—glanced up, eyes widening, but his grip on the silver ewer did not falter. “\u003cem\u003ePatris\u003c/em\u003e . . .” More water\n dribbled out to splash on Charles’s head. “. . \u003cem\u003e. et Filii et Spiritus Sancti\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n close to her, retreating from the men toward Lady Suffolk.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Roger was smirking at her and held up his hands in pacification. “It is done. My son is a Catholic now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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!\n You had no right!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You wanted me to raise the children as my own. So, madam, I have every right.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He is the king’s son!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n word is law. If you do not wish to be subject to it, then I suggest you leave my house.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, you are correct. Your choice was made clear when you left my home to have your confinement \u003cem\u003ehere\u003c/em\u003e. You could not even grant me the courtesy of\n 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\n to my estate.” He spun, riding cloak flaring and scattering dust about the room.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Roger!” Barbara hurried after him. “Roger! You are not considering the matter clearly, you stupid—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Daughter, your son has been baptized.” Father Patrick’s Irish accent rendered his patronizing speech absurd. “Would you not care to—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n dog. And if you ever come near my child again, so help me, I will have the king see you drawn and quartered.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n Portuguese woman walk arm in arm, laughing within a flurry of spaniels.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n If she did not have her husband, or the king, what was she to do?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Heavy red curtains, embroidered with silver thread, draped the walls and made a vivid backdrop for the Portuguese attendants. Their somber farthingales\n 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\n 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,\n paced around the middle of the room.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n strangely worse.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny dropped into a low curtsy and waited to be addressed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You may rise.” The queen beckoned her closer. “I should like to make use of you to translate, if you would be so kind.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, Your Majesty.” Jenny hurried closer, keeping her eyes fixed on the rich rug beneath her slippers. \u003cem\u003eTranslate?\u003c/em\u003e But surely the queen had\n translators aplenty.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk made a \u003cem\u003etsk\u003c/em\u003eing sound, apparently of the same opinion. “If I will not suffice, then would not the honorable Lord Aubigny be a more\n appropriate choice?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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,\n I hope you might help me bridge the gaps in understanding. But . . . I shall require you to look up, I am afraid.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n Jenny raised her eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am well versed in the latest fashions and shall be happy to assist.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n clothes for our entry into the city. Will you please listen and correct any mistakes my ladies make as we converse?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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\n was that the queen’s Portuguese attendants did not understand English taste.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was an unspoken mark of favor. With God’s will, it would lead to a better appointment than a simple chambermaid.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n let go of the material and waved it away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\nput her in mind of an Arab. Given the current fascination with Persian fashion, it was hardly surprising that the tailor would employ him. What \u003cem\u003ewas\u003c/em\u003e 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\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why don’t you ask Her Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n more efficient.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I would never presume to speak for Her Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah . . . but I did not ask you to speak for her, did I? I merely asked for your opinion about her opinion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny narrowed her eyes at him. “It is much the same thing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not even a guess?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She compressed her lips, not completely masking her smile, and faced the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The color is attractive.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you leave me alone if I do?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Absolutely not.” The laughter rose to the surface of his voice.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Impertinent man.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n comes from a shell which is only found in Greece and was used to dye the robes of Caesar.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nAlmost 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 “ \u003cem\u003eoh\u003c/em\u003e” escaped her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you think she would like it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My name is Thomas Hammett, but you may call me Thom.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n how handsome he was, no man was worth losing her place over. “I will call you Mr. Hammett or Troublemaker, as I see fit.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eLondon\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n indication, he had eyes only for her. And by the veritable drool on his chin, she had lost none of her powers over men.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And let the queen see the boy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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.\n The two barges merely had actors playing the king and queen as a part of the celebrations.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n response, as if they were alone and civil. Roger snorted and paced along the wall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara turned from him to the nurse. “Give me Charles.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a hasty curtsy, the woman handed the infant to her. Barbara tickled him under the chin and he made a pleased gurgle.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And how do you do, my fine young man?” She walked with him along the wall, bouncing him gently in her arms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Roger returned the way he had come, passing her upon the wall. His gaze stayed fixed ahead and he smiled cordially at the nurse.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n is coming soon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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\n him up, his head supported by his swaddling bands, as she searched for the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n 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!\n 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\n his father sail past without a glance towards her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Behind her, Roger laughed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n created silver curtains across the courtyard as if the entirety of England was their bedchamber.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n snuggled against him and sighed. Her own hand rose to run through the hair on his chest, sending pleasant shivers through his torso.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n need your help.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With another little sigh, she trailed her fingers up his chest to the line of his jaw. “Roger will not take me back.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n Palmer to overlook. “He needs only some time to calm down.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No . . .” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “No, he means it this time. I am utterly cast out, and—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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 .\n . . 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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But I cannot be your mistress!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You . . . but, dearest, you already are.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n woman.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I can certainly attest that I understand nothing of women.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do not mock me!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Because my husband has left me!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Surely it makes things easier.” Though, in truth, Charles would never have pursued an unmarried woman, for fear of ruining her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n invite me into their home unless you are there, and then they will only suffer my presence.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Barbara, it is not as if our affair is a secret.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n be at court.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n 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\n should you like?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have already told you! Make me a Lady of the Bedchamber.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A cold spike buried itself in Charles’s spine. He pulled away from her. “That is a very bad idea.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is the last I question.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh! You find me objectionable now, do you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He ran his hands up her arms to cradle her face. “It should be clear I do not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n because my association with you has sullied my reputation. Even you know it, if you will not admit it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are you not the most celebrated lady in my court?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n your mistress, would you have any objections to making me a Lady of the Bedchamber?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have told you that is the decision of the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n 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\n celebrated lady in your court’ I should be an ornament for the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “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\n of it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCatarina de Braganza, Infanta of Portugal, devout, gentle, brought up in a convent, sailed to England to marry King Charles II. The political union of a Catholic foreigner to the head of the Anglican Church is disapproved of by many, but most of all by the king’s heavily-pregnant mistress Barbara Palmer, the Countess of Castlemaine. Charles demonstrated his loyalty to his lover – and offended his bride – by arriving days late to greet “Catherine,” but managed to charm his future queen nevertheless.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003eJames\u003c/strong\u003e: Duke of York and brother to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Mary Robinette Kowal\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.48","slug":"whitehall-2","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP2.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall2serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall2serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall2serialbox.pdf","share_url":"https://www.serialbox.com/episodes/whitehall-2","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ed2bada6e22ac9d178f2","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":3,"title":"On His Blindness","released_date":"2016-06-01T11:57:03.807+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"A king and queen at war. ","byline":"Barbara Samuel","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall3.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-06-01","body":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eJune 1662\u003c/em\u003e\n\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine and her ladies clustered in small knots around her privy chamber on a fine Thursday afternoon. Some plucked gold threads from worn-out garments\n for use in other work, while others bent over a tapestry frame, their needles building a bright scene of a stag hunt. \u003cem\u003eBeautiful and gruesome\u003c/em\u003e, Catherine thought.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She preferred her own project. A few days before, she had been abroad in the park with Charles, and she had taken along her sketchbook and chalks to\n capture the woodland plants and birds that were unfamiliar to her. Ordinarily, Charles was a vigorous walker, but on that morning, he’d slowed his pace to\n allow her an opportunity to sketch whatever caught her eye, and kindly took the time to name each one, spelling out the words in English, which she\n carefully wrote beneath the sketches.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This afternoon, she transferred her sketches to a length of linen, adding detail to bird wings and branches. Next to her, the Lady Suffolk’s fingers flew\n over her embroidery, and the helpful young maid Jenny repaired the lace on the sleeve of a gown. As Catherine transferred the drawings of birds to her\n fabric, she asked Lady Suffolk to repeat the words she had written.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Robin,” the lady said of a plump bird with a rosy wash over its neck, and Catherine repeated it.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Chaffinch, blackcap.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “This one?” Catherine said in English, pointing to a round little bird with a blue head and white cheeks.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Blue tit,” Lady Suffolk said, and Catherine repeated it, taking pleasure in the crisp sounds.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk laughed, and Catherine frowned. “I do wrong?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no. I beg your deepest pardon, Your Majesty!” The lady waved her hands and said something to Jenny.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She only asks that I warn you, Your Majesty. \u003cem\u003eTit\u003c/em\u003e is another word for \u003cem\u003eel pecho\u003c/em\u003e.” She patted her breast.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nice word? Or no?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine laughed merrily, realizing why Charles had delighted in her repetition of the word. Scoundrel!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk pointed at the sketches. “You have a fine hand,”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sank you,” Catherine said in English. Lady Suffolk smiled at her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young page Samuel entered and, bowing deeply, presented a rolled parchment. Catherine put aside her handwork and glanced at it.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “These are the names proposed for Your Majesty’s Ladies of the Bedchamber,” Lady Suffolk said.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah.” Catherine, eager to have more English ladies in her personal household, had been awaiting this list. She scanned it, recognizing few of the names.\n Except one.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There, written in a plain, fine hand, was Barbara Palmer, the Lady Castlemaine. Her husband’s mistress. Whom Catherine had strategically and methodically\n refused to acknowledge in name or at court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A prickling of blackness edged around her vision, and she took in a breath to calm herself. She had gained a reputation for her even temper, but in truth\n she sometimes suffered from a surfeit of strong reactions—high and low, admirable and not—and under such influence, had been prone to fits of fainting. The nuns had trained her how to hide her emotions, but she’d never learned how to avoid \u003cem\u003efeeling\u003c/em\u003e them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As she held the list for the suggested Ladies of the Bedchamber, Catherine’s fingers trembled. Her ears roared, drowning the sound of the Italian musician\n bowing his viola da gamba along with Lady Chesterfield’s harp and the chatter of the ladies bent over their needlework.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Before her stood the young page, luminous eyes wide. Again the edges of her vision blackened, and she forced herself to focus on the golden, late afternoon\n sunlight that fell in bars to the floor. Again she took a breath. The threatening fit eased.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a strong, sharp gesture, she struck the loathed name from the list.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The other names on the list blurred and she cast it from her. “Take it away,” she said in a voice that held no hint of her fury. “Relay to my husband that\n I will not tolerate the Lady Castlemaine in my bedchamber.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty, perhaps it would be wise to listen to the king’s suggestion,” offered Lady Suffolk, her hand settling over Catherine’s forearm. “He has his\n reasons, I believe.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will not.” She waved the page off and he scurried away. Catherine stared after him, unseeing, imagining Charles curled with his mistress, tenderly\n tucking her hair behind her ear, as he had tucked hers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eA wise wife is wary of mistresses\u003c/em\u003e, her mother had warned. \u003cem\u003eA queen does not weep. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To hide her strong emotion, she strode toward the window, her skirts swirling with the fury of her steps. Her heels made sharp commentary against the\n floor. Behind her, Feliciana hurried along, all floppy ears and tufted paws.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Weaving her fingers together tightly over her roiling gut, she strove for a calm countenance and stood in the warm sunlight. It fell on her throat and\n shoulders, gentle as a kiss. Below was the knot garden, a placid scene, blooming now with airy white flowers and an edging of English lavender, a sweetly\n scented flower her perfumer, Dom Abravanel, had offered her only this morning. “Much deeper scent than the Mediterranean version,” he said. “It will lend\n marvelous top notes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had tucked the frond into her bodice and reached for it now, pinching the row of tiny blossoms between her fingers to release the calming scent.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n How she longed for home! The vivid colors and scents of Lisbon, the hot sunlight and bright birds; the scent of the sea in the wind! She longed for her\n mother, who would know just how to sort the tangled threads of a queen’s life at court. \u003cem\u003eMamãe! \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty,” said Lady Suffolk. Jenny stood at her side and curtsied deeply, eyes on the floor.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine held her chin high. She tended toward liking Lady Suffolk, with her calm manner and smooth, low voice. Just now, she offered Catherine a cup of\n water, a silent and welcome gesture of understanding. Catherine accepted it, and drank deeply. The only virtue it held was its cooling nature. Otherwise,\n the water tasted of catfish and piss, tainted with all of London’s refuse. She ached for the water of Lisbon, fresh and clean. She wished, desperately and\n with sudden, acute longing, to be home. Away from these challenges and torments.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But to this she had been born. With a wince, she swallowed, then gave the cup to Jenny.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You must not enrage your husband,” Lady Suffolk said “He was fond of Lady Castlemaine, but we have all seen that he has been devoted to you these many\n weeks.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Heat stung the back of Catherine’s throat. She said, “Devotion would show finer action than this.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk nodded, fingering the garnets and pearls laced around her throat. Quietly, she said, “He is a man of great appetites, madam.” Her cheeks\n showed a pale red blush, and she could not meet the queen’s eye, but continued, her tone low and urgent at once. “The Lady Castlemaine has late been\n separated from her husband, and relies on the king’s goodwill. She is very popular at court. It would show you the better woman to allow this one\n goodness.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps if a woman wishes honor, she should conduct herself in an honorable manner,” Catherine returned sharply.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “His Majesty will be angry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine made a noise of impatience. “And what of his fear of enraging me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk lowered her voice. “What husband ever fears enraging his wife? I speak in good faith, madam. The king’s mother ever overshadows his thinking\n on the subject of women. She is shrewish and overly religious and—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Enough!” Around the base of Catherine’s skull rose a buzzing fury that spread upward and downward, filling her head with the noise of ten thousand\n hornets. They blurred her vision, squeezed her distressed heart into her ribs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Everyone thought her small and demure and weak as a mouse. \u003cem\u003eOverly religious\u003c/em\u003e, no doubt, boring in her devotion. She glanced toward the sliver of\n the True Cross, the lock of St. Catherine’s hair, each in its own gilded coffin, things that had brought her such comfort in the past. Her throat closed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A Portuguese proverb wound through her mind: “The mistress is queen, the wife is the slave.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eNo\u003c/em\u003e. If it came to it, she would sail home rather than face such humiliation.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What king would want a mouse for a wife? Her own mother was a strong woman, whose husband had loved and respected her for it. It was not easy for Catherine\n to stand up for herself, but how could she expect others to respect her if she did not?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They had misread her, all of them. Was she not a princess of Portugal, the daughter of a powerful queen?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will not have that woman attend me. Nor even acknowledge her.” She cast a quelling eye on her retinue. One by one, she stared them down, the ladies and\n the servants, English and Portuguese.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Countess of Buckingham was last, an English beauty with dark curls who met her gaze unwaveringly—mockingly?—until Catherine bored the full heat of her\n fury into the lady’s face. She flushed and turned her head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine lifted her chin. “I will not have her. No matter what the king may say.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As she turned her back on them, looking outside at the members of the court strolling through the gardens in the fine day, she untwisted her fingers and\n took a breath to cool her humors. Lavender filled her head, but it could not ease the thin ribbons of wounded pride and terrible disappointment that ran\n through her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Leave me,” she cried to her attendants.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria lingered. “Alteza, you must stand your ground. Men ever have their ways and we have our own.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine thought of Charles’s breath on her shoulder, his chuckle of delight when she cried out softly under his ministrations. She had not thought to\n love her husband, but had welcomed the emotion as a blessing. Not all queens were so sweetly situated.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Perhaps it was more trouble to love than not. Perhaps she was already made a fool.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet, still she was queen. The crown carried a measure of dignity on its own merit. She needed only learn how to be more lion than mouse.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you, Dona Maria. Now I wish to be alone.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When all had left, she held her pup close; Feliciana’s fur smelled sweet and clean. The dog licked her chin gently, as if to reassure her. Catherine kissed\n her in return, wishing that she could be the girl she’d been before, content with her prayer and embroidery and the company of other women, and the simple\n pleasures of the convent.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and inhaled the scent of lavender, the national flower of her home. How she missed it!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny scurried down the stairs, a pair of gowns cradled in her arms like children. The scene in the queen’s chambers thrilled and worried her, and she\n could not wait to spill the tale.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the secondary wardrobe, she dropped the gowns on a wide, clean table near the irons. A long window allowed filtered sunlight into the space, lending\n illumination by which to mend a torn hem or sew a button. Her friend Mavis, a buxom and red-cheeked girl who’d made her way on her own from Cranbooktown to\n escape a brutal husband, sat in the best pool of light, a needle flashing quickly in and out through a seam. As Jenny entered, she tossed a lock of hair\n from her eyes. “Lady Horace tears a seam near every day.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A strong lady,” Jenny said, “and not graceful.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye,” Mavis laughed, moving her head like a horse, galloping.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny, fair bursting with her news, moved to the open door and peered out in case of eavesdroppers. The hall was empty of all but a shaft of dust motes.\n She rushed back to sit close to Mavis.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, you should have seen it!” she confided in a low voice. “The queen refuses to have Lady Castlemaine as a Lady of the Bedchamber!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis opened her eyes and mouth. A lock of dark hair was stuck to her damp cheek. “She did not!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I swear it.” Jenny leaned closer. “A page brought the list for the queen to pin the names, and she took one look at it and struck her name right off!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oooh! When Lady Castlemaine hears, there’ll be no calming her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny nodded. She had not long been at Whitehall, but it did not take much time to understand the forces at play here—a king and his popular mistress and\n his less popular, foreign wife. She smoothed a fold from a rose silk gown, thinking of the frank words exchanged between the queen and Lady Suffolk. All\n knew the power the Lady Castlemaine wielded over the king, and in truth, Jenny found it near impossible not to gape when Barbara appeared. Jenny had\n glimpsed her on the lawn, and on her way to court, bustling and always swarmed by petitioners. Everything about Barbara glowed as if freshly polished—her hair and satin skin, her prodigious, soft bosom, her striking jeweled eyes, set at such a long angle that she seemed to seduce even when she only picked up\n a cup of ale.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet, how determined the queen had looked! The servants all knew that most of the ladies spent their time currying favor with Lady Castlemaine, because\n after all, who held the king’s ear? His new little wife or the powerful and seductive mistress who’d ruled the court for nearly three years? “Her Majesty\n was fierce. Queenly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis tied a knot in her thread and stood, rubbing her lower back as she straightened. “Hope it don’t turn upside down on her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny shook out the gowns. “Her Majesty is clever.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Which a man always wants more than titties, eh?” Mavis gave a ribald lift to her breasts. “And don’t think for the blink of any eye that Lady Castlemaine\n is stupid.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No.” Jenny had to admit that much was true. Her stomach growled. “Is there pasty for supper?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Barley soup.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They both sighed sadly. “I miss me mum’s fish pie,” Mavis said. “Ever so golden.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The words conjured up a picture of Jenny’s table at home, the\u003cem\u003e olla podrida\u003c/em\u003e, a Spanish meat stew made with roasted pork and lentils and the spices of her mother’s youth. Her stomach growled again, and she punched her friend playfully. “No more talk of food!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles sat at a long table with his brother James and Clarendon, cups of ale and books of accounting between them. In his maroon velvet coat, with light\n brown curls falling down his back, James was the perfect foil to his dark brother in his bright blue silk. The pair of them had always cut a wide swath\n through the wenches. Now both, he thought with a start, were married men, taking up their places as pillars of the country.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They’d fought well for it, and that was the matter under advisement now. The bloody Dutch were prowling and posturing, thumbing their noses at England.\n Charles did not want war. The cost was too high—in pounds, in supplies, in ships. And lives.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But the Dutch eyed English ports in the east and in Africa with a greedy eye. He growled at the map. “I’d keep us out of war, but if they suspect our navy\n is weak, they’ll attack. We haven’t the funds to build more ships, not yet.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If the Portuguese had sent what they promised, there’d be navy enough.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Better to manage what is than dream of what is not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James shook his head. “The cost of no action is too high. We must make some show here.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles leaned on the table, glaring at the paperwork scattered across the scarred wooden surface, calculating. “Twenty ships, then.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Impossible,” cut in Clarendon. “The coffers of the treasury are nearly empty, sire, and your people are complaining that grass grows in the streets while\n your heedless mistress accrues enormous gambling debts and attends the theater in thousands of pounds of jewels.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles ignored the dig, true as it might be. He’d only just again paid Barbara’s gaming losses to the tune of more than twenty-five thousand pounds. He’d chided her, ordered her to rein in her spending. He knew the people of England deserved better, but Barbara had been his comfort, his delight, his weakness for years.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Just as when he’d taken her to task over her gambling and she’d appeared in ropes of emeralds—and nothing else—and his will, or rather that leader of his\n nether life, had been unable to resist. He’d known many a woman, but she held him in sway as if he were bewitched. Each time he thought to cast off her\n claims and the trouble she stirred, he again fell to her clever twist of mind, her swaying hips, the sideways cut of a violet eye. And her appetites knew\n no bounds. She was as voracious as he was himself, an admirable quality in a woman.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Bringing his attention back to the matter at hand, he tapped the table with his index finger and thumb, back and forth, as if he could sound out a\n solution. “Can we fit four ships, brother?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps,” James said. “But perhaps all that is needed to forestall them for the nonce is to appear as if we are readying for war.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles nodded. Waited as James traced the edge of the table, staring at the maps. “We can tar twenty ships, set the men to repairing sails and cleaning\n cannons. The bustle will convince spies that we mean to outfit a fleet.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good.” Charles turned his lips downward in consideration, smoothed the hairs of his mustache. “That will perhaps buy us time to sell the commodities the\n Portuguese sent.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James said, gathering the papers, “I shall give the orders.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Bring me news as it arrives,” Charles said, and turned to Clarendon. “Why the dour face, old friend? More than your old complaint about your wicked cousin\n Barbara, surely.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indirectly, Your Majesty, the Lady Castlemaine has her fingers in this matter, too.” His hands tucked behind his back, he said, “The queen has struck Lady Castlemaine off the list of her Ladies of the Bedchamber.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Struck her off? What?” Charles straightened, kicking one leg in front of his body, one hand on his hip. He peered at Clarendon as if to make sense of a\n gibberish alphabet. “What does she say?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That she will not have her, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I see.” Charles paused, riffling through the scattered papers, considering his delicate, birdlike queen. Ferocity of this measure seemed out of character.\n “Well, I shall see to this myself. She’s a biddable creature and will do as I ask.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As you wish.” Clarendon bowed but could not entirely hide the twist of distaste on his lips.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles shrugged it away. Clarendon could not see reason where Barbara was concerned. And it was one more thing he did not wish to discuss today. Whistling\n the dogs to attention, he said, “I’ll see to it now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A tumble of spaniels spilled down the passageway, nails clicking exuberantly on the floor as Charles strode toward Catherine’s rooms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The dogs announced his arrival, yipping and barking to be allowed entry, and the door opened to him before he could scratch. Dona Maria admitted him, her\n curtsying doing little to hide her pinched mouth. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, eyes downcast.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine stood near the mullioned window that overlooked the gardens. She wore a watery green frock that left her delicate shoulders bare, revealing the\n long graceful neck. He smiled, thinking of the sweet scent he would find there beneath her ear. Thinking to soften her with a kiss or two, he moved toward\n her. His valiant old Rogue dove under her skirts, looking for Feliciana, but the spaniel’s antics did not make her smile as they ordinarily did. She did\n not speak, but only gave the king a scathing look with her dark, deep eyes, and then turned her head away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles scowled, noting the glance two of her women exchanged, the slight, smug smile on Lady Buckingham’s lips. “Leave us,” he said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her women slipped out, the only sound their skirts and sleeves rustling. Charles stood in silence for a long moment, waiting for her to turn to him, to\n face him, and she rigidly kept her back to him. Rogue snuffled a trail across the edge of the woven rug that lay on the floor, his ears dragging the\n ground.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles so hated a woman to be wounded. He had not thought how hard she would take this. Gently, he took her fingers and raised them to his lips. “Come\n now, little Cat,” he said, kissing each knuckle in turn. “Surely this is a matter of no importance.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She made a choked noise. “Only if women are not a matter of importance to you, Your Majesty, could you utter those words.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “To the contrary,” he cried, “your well-being and happiness are more important to me than even the highest matters of state, dear love.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She made a low noise of dismissal, but did not take her hand away. He pressed her hand to his chest. “Come now, look at me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a long moment, she did not. Light glossed her dark hair, washed over her clear pale skin, and swooped over the delicate line of her collarbone. How she\n liked to be kissed there! He wanted to touch it, draw his finger down that line, but restrained himself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For so pious a young woman, she had proved to be a willing student to his gentle teachings, and he’d found that more pleasing than he’d ever\n imagined—something so singularly private, a thing only he saw—his reserved wife made soft with lovemaking. “Come now, my little Cat,” he coaxed, stepping\n closer. “Let us find some answer to this problem, hmm?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She did not move, but let him put his palms on the skin of her shoulders. He continued, “It is only political, this business. One must do what one must\n do.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I cannot bear it,” she whispered. He took advantage of the angle of her head to press a kiss to her nape, where the skin smelled of sunlight and fresh\n breezes. “It is a position of great intimacy. She will know more than—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It will not matter.” Her body softened ever so slightly and he urged her to lean against his chest. For a single moment, she rested there. “She is\n nothing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a cry, she pushed away from him, flinging his hands off, moving so quickly that Rogue and Feliciana scurried out from under her skirts with a little\n yelp. “With all due honor, sire, that is not true. Do you take me for a fool?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Be mindful!” Charles said, rescuing the dogs. He rubbed Rogue’s head, murmuring soft reassurances, and pushed the puppy into Catherine’s arms. She took\n Feliciana and curled her small body against her neck, murmuring to her in Portuguese.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nThen she raised her head, and one dark brow. “One could say the same to you—be mindful, sire.” A red flush made her cheeks glow. “Can you not be mindful of \u003cem\u003emy\u003c/em\u003e desires, of \u003cem\u003emy\u003c/em\u003e wishes?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He caught her face in his hands. “But she is nothing, sweet Cat. \u003cem\u003eYou\u003c/em\u003e are my wife.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She means to humiliate me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He frowned, not entirely certain there was no truth in the words. But even Barbara would not dare. “No, no,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her\n forehead. Her lids fell ever so slightly, and he bent in, capturing her mouth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a small noise she kissed him back, the pup between them wiggling. Charles smiled, lifting his head to stroke her hair. “There, there, love. All will be well. You’ll see.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will I? Will you drop this suit, then? Give me the peace of mind I ask?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He scowled, scuffed a heel against the floor in exasperation. “I cannot! It is I who have ruined her reputation, and what sort of man would I be if I cast\n her out without position?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Give her some other position, then. Surely there is something.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “None of such high regard.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you think I have not heard of your great regard for her, sire?” Her bosom moved above the gown, showing her agitation. “That I have not been informed\n of her status?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He stroked her arms, considering how to counter. “You are queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And she is your mistress.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He flinched slightly at the word on her lips, and perhaps seeing that she had found her mark, she pushed his hands off her. “Does your mistress deserve\n more regard than your wife? Can you not see how you wrong me in this?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the film of tears over the pleasing depth of her eyes, he spied the pain beneath her fury. He reached for her, taking her hand. “Sweet lady—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She stepped backward, as if steeling herself. Clasping her hands tightly before her, she said with an edge of roughness, “Do not think to woo me with\n words, sir.” She shook herself, and her voice grew stronger. “By your actions alone you may show your devotion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My action is that I am your king. You will do as I bid.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment, she lowered her head, hands tight at her ribs. A pinch of regret pierced his chest. This was not an easy world for her, and thus far, she’d\n managed all with dignity. Perhaps he—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then she raised her chin. Her answer was her level gaze, shimmery, but not a single tear fell. For a moment, he wavered. She had done no wrong here. “I\n will do as I must.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n No. She tested him in this, and he would reign, not she.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a whistle for the dogs, he left her. The dogs scurried behind him. After ten paces, he realized Rogue had not joined the pack. He was forced to\n return, open the door, and call for the little traitor.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Across the room, Catherine did not turn. He slammed the door behind himself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The day passed, and Catherine heard no more from the king. Neither did he come to her bed—she slept alone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the cold, dark morning, Catherine huddled in her shawl, her misery echoed by the damp dreariness of the English summer. At home, June burst in\n explosions of bright flowers, and cascades of strong yellow light that made this thin milky morning seem a thing apart, not sunlight at all.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Oh, she was so homesick! Sitting near the fire at her writing desk, she dipped her quill and began to write.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eDearest Mamãe, \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e\n Thank you for your last letter and all the news of yourself and my brothers. Your words of encouragement buoy me when I fear I shall never learn to be\n the queen you are, the queen you have trained me to be. And then a letter arrives with your solid, sensible words and I remember that I am, after all,\n your daughter. It will take all I have, but I mean to make you proud of me.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e\n This morning, I come with a heavy heart to ask your advice on a matter concerning the king’s mistress. I have not acknowledged her at court, as you\n advised, and it has kept the peace between us till now, but she has made a new move, and I am ill-equipped to counter. She has asked to be named as a\n Lady of the Bedchamber, which is reserved for ladies of high standing at the court. It is said she is desperate to gain footing here, for her husband\n has not taken well the news of her new bastard. I am just as determined that I shall not be forced to acknowledge her. It seems the wise choice, as she\n has long been called queen before me. To assert my position, hers must be denied.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet, His Majesty is quite angry with me, insisting that I accept the lady’s appointment for political reasons, to create harmony and peace in the\n court. I fear I am ill-used in this, that she will triumph if I acknowledge her.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e\n Mamãe, tell me. Am I too stubborn? What words of wisdom have you? I have asked myself what you would do under similar circumstances, but it is\n impossible to imagine my father in any condition except entirely devoted to you. If I think of my brother it is the opposite—he takes no woman to\n heart, so all are playthings. Neither is a help to me in this circumstance.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eI am not so naïve as to believe a king will not take mistresses, but am I so wrong in believing it should be left to me which to acknowledge? \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e\n But now I will don my summer cloak—a cloak, even in summer!—and cover my hair and walk about the gardens like a queen who has an easy conscience. I\n await your advice and send my love to all.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAs ever, your devoted daughter, \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eCatarina \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After a fine start to the day, rain had driven the party at Whitehall inside. Barbara did not mind the retreat—though she would be loath to show it, she\n had not yet fully recovered from the birth of her hearty son. It took far more stamina to chatter and walk than to be charming and hale while sitting in\n the flattering soft light of a fire. She ordered tables to be set up in the solar and called for cribbage and backgammon boards to be brought out, along\n with small refreshments. “Ale and cakes?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Fine, fine,” Barbara said, distracted by the figure of Rochester pausing in the entryway, as if to pose. Gray light fell on him from the narrow windows,\n limning his fine cheekbone and brow, his ripe mouth. When his gaze fell on her—lingering and exaggerated, the rake—she waggled a couple of fingers and he\n crossed the room in his languid way.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She watched his progress, smiling slightly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He bent over her hand. “Lady Castlemaine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Rochester.” She gestured toward a small table. “Will you play?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Gladly.” He removed his hat and settled it to one side, showing off his golden hair, which shone in the firelight. He, too, knew how to position himself\n to best advantage.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As Barbara stacked the disks onto their arrows, she cocked her head. “You’re fair bursting, dear friend. Out with it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You’ve not heard the news, then?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Depends on what you bring.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He leaned in, eyes glittering. “Our fair queen struck your name from the list of the Ladies of the Bedchamber.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A silver prick of dismay pierced her, though she masked it with a smile. “Pray, how on earth did you come by this knowledge before I did?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have ears all about.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Where, I demand it!” She patted him playfully with her fingers. “Tell me your source.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He laughed, the sound resonant and free. Truly, he was one of Barbara’s favorites. Witty and beautiful, only a little younger than she. Their lives had\n taken similar paths, as well, in some ways—his beauty was ill-supported by fortune, forcing him to dance for his supper. “A stablehand whispered the news\n to my man, who then carried it to me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara tossed out a pair of dice. “A stablehand! How interesting. The wren appears to have shown new feathers.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Bold feathers, those. More the feathers of a peacock.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She scowled. He picked up one die and Barbara the other, and they tossed them side by side. Hers landed on a two, his a six.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With just the right note of lightness, Barbara said, “I hope that is no omen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, no. Your fortunes are secure, dear lady.” He reached for his die and tipped it till it showed a one. “You see?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara flashed him a grateful smile. Deliberately, she touched his hand as she picked up the dice. His gaze dropped to the broad expanse of her white\n bosom as she leaned. “What possessed her to take so bold a stance, I wonder?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They say she has fallen in love with her king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do they, now?” Barbara spilled the dice and watched them tumble to a stop. Six and three.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “See how your fortunes change!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You must be good luck, dear Rochester.” She moved the pieces, blocking the entrance to his harbor, and passed him the dice cup. “A woman in love is a\n vulnerable creature.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mmmm.” He rolled, a simple one and four. “Unlike a certain lady who is known for her temper.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara shrugged. She had learned long ago that men loved exuberance and a witty mind. They would tolerate passionate outbursts from a beautiful woman, but\n not from one who wasn’t. In that, the queen was at a disadvantage, for while she was not the disfigured, sickly troll the Spanish ambassador had painted\n her, no one would ever call her a beauty.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Still, Charles seemed overly fond at times, taking his duty to get a child on the queen far too seriously. The whole of June had passed, and he had only\n come to supper or to visit his new son, then scurried back to Catherine’s bed. Of course, his obligation was to procure an heir, but Barbara worried that\n her sway over the king had weakened during her confinement. She’d only just lately found her full vigorous desire.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was her turn—she rolled. A pair of fives tumbled out, and she laughed. A good omen, then. Still, she nudged it along. “I hope he will remember how much\n I have forgone for him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’m sure he will not forget, my lady.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After a lunch of meat pie and wine, Charles gestured to Buckingham to walk off the heaviness. “Come, my botanist says he’s something to show me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles knew that Buckingham did not care for constitutionals, but to his mind, Buckingham needed a bit more vigorous activity than wenching and drink. He\n noted the sigh before Buckingham answered, “Of course, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They strode out with a passel of eager spaniels—True sticking close—into the dim day, clouds holding pearlescent hues, a bare mist wetting the lawn and\n their faces. Charles breathed in the air, smelling the river and grass, and the natural scents eased his tensions somewhat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The impasse between his queen and his mistress continued. Charles had not returned to Catherine, passing her at court with a simple nod. She maintained a\n stony silence, refusing to listen to reason. It vexed him. He’d tried to tempt her with a relic of St. Sebastian, a coffin filled with wildly expensive\n saffron, a length of fine white silk.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She refused to bend even a little.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He pondered what else he might tease her with—a sweet or a cake, perhaps? But the blessed Portuguese cooks only brought out the queen’s mysterious dishes,\n nothing Charles knew or recognized.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How can my queen so hate our food?” he mused to Buckingham, a fleshy man and said to be the richest subject in the kingdom. “She delights in the strangest\n flavors, from India and the east.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham wiped dampness from his face, setting a ring on his pinky finger winking with the light. “She’ll come around, sire, surely.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I hold no trust in that, Buckingham.” He narrowed his eyes at the feathery trees on the horizon. Today, more news of the Dutch, more news of complaints\n over the state of the city—which was not his doing, it must be said, as he’d been exiled while Cromwell let London fall half into ruin—and Barbara had\n indulged one of her infamous furies. She’d flung shoes and sent vases crashing, her hair loose, eyes flashing, voice roaring. She would not be denied her wish. It had given him a headache.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In between, she offered her succulent favors and he never knew from one moment to the next what it would be—fury or delight?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Women would be women, advised his courtiers, all of whom had one thing or another to gain, most by continuing in their long alliance with Barbara, who had\n the advantage of knowing them all well.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eBah!\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Enough of it. All of it. He made his way to an orangery that had only recently been completed. Charles had seen the structures on the Continent and had\n ordered one erected upon his return. It was now the realm of a young botanist who not only cultivated the usual fruits—oranges and peaches—but conducted\n experiments with many other plants.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Science gave him near the same ease as his long walks, and his curious mind was deeply engaged by the possibilities arriving with ships from the east and\n the new world, exotic plants and trees, shrubs and flowers. So much potential! But which ones would prove a boon, and which nothing at all? It gave him\n pleasure to contemplate the idea.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He ducked into the glass-fronted building, whistling softly. The spaniels, sadly, waited outside, for although he could do as he wished, the botanist had\n stutteringly, humbly, but urgently begged that the dogs be kept out to avoid sullying the experiments. Charles had acquiesced in the name of science.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Smell that,” he said to Buckingham, slapping the back of his hand against the man’s belly. “Life!” He inhaled deeply of the humus and earth and moistness.\n Somewhere, water dripped into a pool or puddle, and birds twittered against the rafters.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hallo!” Charles called out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jacob Winthrop, that same young botanist who’d forbidden the dogs, emerged from behind a wall of greenery, blinking. When he saw it was the king, he bowed\n hurriedly. “Your Majesty! We don’t—I have not been warned—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Never mind, never mind,” Charles said, gesturing the youth to a standing position. “I’ve come on a whim, to see what you might be up to.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, er, right this way, sire.” Winthrop’s dark hair was tied back from his face, wisps falling loose as he led them down a damp aisle to a pond. “I\n think you’ll be pleased with this.” He stepped aside and gestured with pride toward a line of small trees growing against the brick wall. At intervals,\n small dark knobs of fruit peeked out from the leaves.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are those figs?” Charles cried out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Winthrop clasped his hands behind his back. “They are, Your Majesty. It is said you have a great fondness for them, and I took it upon myself to see if we\n might coax this vine to grow here.” He reached out and plucked a fig, offering the elegant purple teardrop to Charles. “It overwintered perfectly, and\n I—er—we believe it should be a staple. We might even be able to grow them on southern-facing walls.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles bit into the fat, juicy fig, tiny seeds spilling over his tongue. “I’ll be damned. Good work, Winthrop.” Gulping the last of the fig, he said,\n “Gather a few for the queen and have them sent to her in my name.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now show me what else you’ve been up to,” Charles said. “I’ve been hearing word of glass houses in France. Have you heard such a thing?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have, sire,” he said. “But how could it be finer than what we have here?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well said.” Buckingham leaned in to examine the figs. “Remarkable!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come, I will show you what else I am doing,” Winthrop said. “I’ve been in correspondence with a friend at the Physic Oxford Garden. I hope you will be\n pleased to see how we are expanding the gardens at Whitehall.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Carry on, lad,” the king said, and cheerfully followed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine veiled herself for mass, the one portion of her day that would give her relief from the gossip of the court. The litany of prayers, the familiar\n Latin, the homilies, the scent of incense—all blended to create a perfect cocoon into which she could retreat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Accompanied by a quartet of her ladies and a pair of servants, she made her way to the gilded chapel, down a wide staircase from the main hall of the\n palace. Overhead, rain tapped an unceasing song.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n So it was with surprise that Catherine saw a woman and her retinue waiting at the foot of the staircase. She wore a deep yellow gown embroidered richly\n with flowers and tiny birds. The wide white sleeves of her shift fell to wrists adorned with silver bracelets, and wound round her neck were strands of\n lapis beads, which set off the extraordinary quality of her white skin. By her carriage, Catherine assumed she was a woman of substance.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the woman curtsied deeply, Lady Chesterfield said, “Your Majesty, may I present Anne, the Duchess of York?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As Anne reached for Catherine’s hand to kiss it, Catherine drew her into her arms. “Sister,” she said in English, kissing Anne’s cheek. In Spanish, with a\n glance toward Lady Chesterfield, she added, “I have longed to make your acquaintance.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Forgive my delay,” Anne said in Spanish, “and my poor Spanish.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps between us we shall make one language,” Catherine said, and Anne smiled.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “May I accompany you to Mass today?”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, yes,” Catherine said in English. “Please, sister.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine took her hand. The chapel was cool and dim, the light poor on so rainy a Tuesday. Only a few benches were provided, but it was enough for the\n scattered handful of parishioners gathered to hear the liturgy. The two women settled side by side, their voluminous skirts soughing together, and for the\n first time in many days, Catherine took a deep breath. Anne smelled of gillyflowers, and her hand was smooth and soft. She was no great beauty, but humor\n lived at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were a fine, clear gray.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Winding her rosary beads—carved intricately of rosewood, the decades marked with silver—around her wrist, Catherine released the struggle of the moment and\n rested her gaze on the kindly face of the Madonna. In this world, she understood the rules. She knew how to proceed and was not tripped at every turn by\n some new twist of social protocol or the language she could not understand.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne leaned close. “How do you fare, madam?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The tone of her voice made it clear that her new sister was not inquiring about her health. “Does all the world know of my husband’s demand?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do not know about the world, but all at court tell the tale.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine pressed her hand into Anne’s, shaking her head. “Allow me this time of comfort, sister,” she murmured.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The priest entered and began to chant the familiar Latin phrases. Although she tried to be devout and focus her attention, Catherine’s thoughts wandered\n back over and over to the moments in her chambers when Charles had come to her, first so coaxing and friendly, his touch and warm voice reminding her of\n what she had come to expect from him. A husband who indulged high regard for his wife, a lover who wished to please her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But that silky voice reminded her, too, that he spoke thus to another, that he’d gotten two children on that very mistress, when Catherine showed no sign\n of pregnancy herself. Three times her flower had arrived unimpeded. Three times, her hopes for a quickening had been shattered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now Charles was vexed, and did not come to her. But Catherine could not bear to lose this skirmish, to allow the Lady Castlemaine, tucked away in her\n apartments at Whitehall, to rise triumphant from this first, crucial battle between them. Catherine had never even glimpsed the woman, and intended to keep\n it so for as long as she was able. If Catherine did not acknowledge her, the queen maintained the upper hand.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Father Patrick murmured the Mass, and she rubbed her beads between her fingers. The wood released its subtle scent, and the silver beads rolled over her\npalm. She peered up at the Mother’s face, seeking assistance. \u003cem\u003eHoly Mary, Mother of God\u003c/em\u003e, she recited in her mind. \u003cem\u003eHoly art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb . . . \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After Mass, Anne walked with her. They left the dark hallway and climbed the stairs, emerging into the bright day through a pair of heavy doors propped\n open to catch the breezes from the river.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne looped her elbow through Catherine’s as they made their way along the garden paths, their sleeves tumbling together in a tangle of lace and silk. “I\n find such comfort in the celebration of the Mass,” Anne said, letting go of a breath. “I am grateful that I may share our faith with you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine squeezed her hand. “Your Spanish is quite good.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good enough?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, yes,” she answered in English. They walked in harmony, slippers poking out beneath the hems of their skirts. “Mass is wicked here, no?” she continued\n in Spanish. “I find it bewildering.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Catholics have been punished here for a long time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have heard the muttering of those who despise Catholics now.” Catherine raised her head. “The English did not want a Catholic queen.” One brow rose.\n “Only her gold.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne laughed. “You may trust in me, madam. Ours is the true faith, and it has survived more than this.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “May I speak plainly, madam?” Anne asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I cannot promise to be biddable, but I grant you leave to speak plainly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have known your husband a very long time. My father, Lord Clarendon, has been his advisor and counselor these many years.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lord Clarendon is your father? He must be pleased at your marriage.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, no,” Anne said with a wry laugh. “He wished for a much better marriage for James than his own lowly daughter. Some have accused my father of ambition,\n but he was furious with me for the marriage.”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then why did he not prevent it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne bent her a head in a slight, abashed nod. “Perhaps a foolish young woman let herself be led astray and found herself expecting a child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Shocked, Catherine halted. “Oh.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Is our friendship stillborn, Your Majesty?” She gave a sad smile. “I only tell you the story so that I might tell you the rest—it was your husband who\n insisted upon the marriage, despite the outcry about my comparatively low birth. James had promised, you see, and the king ordered him to make good on his\n promise.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine nodded. “I see. Did you mind?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No. I love my husband, and despite his momentary lapse, he loves me in return. In this court, we are rare enough.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Bowing her head to hide her expression, Catherine bit back her sense of sorrow and anger. Why could they not find such joy together, she and Charles?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The king is famous for his fairness, madam. And notorious for his libertine ways.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They strolled over thick grass planted in a passageway, then through clipped hedges toward the herb garden. At points amid the shrubbery, roses had been\n added. The spicy scent filled the warm air, and their lush heads nodded as if in collusion with the women. “Yes. So I have heard.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “His life was not easy in exile, and deprivation often leads to later excess. It will be no simple matter to mold him, to bend him to your wishes, and you\n do not wish to vex him so thoroughly that you cannot sway him at all.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine glanced up at her, listening.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Lady Castlemaine rules him just now, though she will not always. Youth fades.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As will mine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But you are queen, and not subject to being dismissed when a new beauty arrives at court.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The idea of yet another beauty was too painful to contemplate. Catherine set her jaw. “She may rule my husband. But she will not rule me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I see.” Anne considered. “Well, then. Perhaps I can be of some help.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was well known that Charles took the dogs out for a ramble around the parklands of the grounds most days. On this damp lavender morning, Catherine aimed\n to take the advice of her sister-in-law and, dressed simply in a riding costume, set out to see if she might intersect him. In her arms, she carried\n Feliciana, sweet baby, still so sweet-smelling and young.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As Anne had suggested on their stroll, Catherine’s goal was to soften the king by illustrating how much she, too, enjoyed a vigorous walk. Dona Maria,\n breathless and ill-suited to the business, insisted she must accompany her mistress, but once Catherine spied Charles, ahead with his dogs, she said, “You\n may wait here, Dona Maria.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e, it will be—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Please.” Catherine pressed a hand on her arm. “Wait for me here.” Catherine set off at a quick pace. Ahead, long-legged Charles walked briskly, the dogs\n romping around him. The mists moved as if they were alive, swirling through tree branches and parting suddenly to reveal a splash of color, the shimmer of\n water, then coyly covering it again. Catherine caught her skirts in her hands, set Feliciana down to make her happy way by her side, and the two ran across\n the grass. In no time, she was able to call out, “Your Majesty!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles, dressed impeccably in an embroidered yellow doublet and scarlet cape, halted. She could not read his expression. “May I walk with you, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If you will not harangue me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She shook her head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come, then.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the silence of the morning, it was enough to simply walk together, the dogs tumbling and running. Rogue spied his dearest love and rushed back to greet\n her, and Catherine laughed lightly, bending to offer her fingers for him to lick. Another pup dashed up to her; this was no spaniel, but a merry red-haired\n little fox kit with a pointed, puffy tail. “Who is this?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Gregory. A hunting party found him orphaned a week or two back, and he fancies he’s a dog.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How pretty!” The kit sniffed her fingers, then one of the young pups barreled into him in a game of tag, and they were off. Catherine laughed again.\n “Charming.” The king offered his arm, and she took it gratefully. “I did not have pets as a child. I find I quite like these animals.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “None at all?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The kitchen cat at the convent, or sometimes one of the court’s hunting dogs who’d grown old and wanted a rest, but no more.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dogs are good company,” he said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In quiet they walked, and Catherine sneaked a glance upward at her husband. His dark, lively hair tumbled out from beneath his hat, over shoulders as broad\n as a mountain.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “This is what I missed in my exile,” he said. “These grounds and familiar landscapes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She could forget that he’d spent much of his youth running from an enemy who wanted him dead. The stories were legion—hiding in a tree, living on the\n kindness of relatives. Some of them had been shared by Charles himself in the privacy of their bed, and the darker tales by her own godfather. The king’s\n father had been executed in the courtyard of Whitehall itself, a spot he must pass a dozen times a week. Out of such darkness had his lust for life been\n born. “It is very beautiful,” she agreed. “I did not know I would find it so appealing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And you do?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes. It is sometimes too chill for my tastes, but I expect I will adapt in time. And like this, it is invigorating.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good. You’ll need a warm cloak come winter. We’ll have something beautiful made. Perhaps in scarlet, to show off your lovely brown eyes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n So easily he charmed her! It was as if he wove enchantment right from the pale fabric of the morning, capturing her, making her forget how angry she was.\n “Thank you, my lord.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For perhaps three quarters of an hour, they walked together in the mist. He pointed out landmarks from childhood—a secret passageway, a duck pond—and spun\n tales of himself as that child before the terrible years, describing a mischievous adventurer, prone to mess, possessed of the same vitality and vigor he\n displayed now, as a man of thirty-two. She longed to bear him a child of the same high nature, a mighty son.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara had already given him one. The fact stung, and took some of the sheen from the moment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eHail Mary, full of grace\u003c/em\u003e, she prayed silently. \u003cem\u003ePray for me\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As they returned to the palace, Catherine spied Dona Maria standing like a massive raven on the edge of the lawn, and she paused. “Sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He halted, pulling his hat from his head. A swath of light fell from the sweet clouds and caught his face, the tips of his lashes and the lush curve of his\n red mouth. He waited.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She nearly could not say it, wishing to hang in this lavender quiet with him a little longer, a place where he approved of her. But if she did not fight on\n her own behalf, how could she stand as queen? “Please, I beseech you to reconsider your stance and allow me to choose anyone other than Lady Castlemaine to be a Lady of the Bedchamber.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Wife!” he warned.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is a deeply personal position! I am humiliated to share it with her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Have you come to trick me and beguile me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No—or perhaps beguile, not trick.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He shook his head, his mouth softening. “If there were any way to please you, I would do it.” He took her arms. “But she will be shunned. Would you cast\n another woman away so? One who had no sway over your life, only was my company before you arrived?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She wavered. She had no wish to be cruel. And yet . . . “If you do not act, I shall be humiliated. It is one or the other.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He stepped back. “I have ordered it so and it will be done.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire!” Tears welled in her eyes and throat. “You do me wrong in this. You must know it!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Catherine, I will not hear another word. You will do as I say.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “In all ways I will serve as well as I am able, but in this I stand firm.” She placed a flat palm against his chest. Her breath came quickly. For a long\n moment, she hesitated, then said in a rush, “If you will not relent, I shall return to Portugal.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You would \u003cem\u003eleave\u003c/em\u003e?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If I must.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do not threaten me, Catherine,” he warned in a low, hard voice. “You have seen the softer side of my nature and might still rescue that kindly man who\n wishes to please you, but in this, I will not yield, do you understand? The Lady Castlemaine will be a Lady of the Bedchamber. It is political only.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will not, sire!” she cried, fists at her side.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Enough!” he bellowed. “Leave me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He strode away. For long moments, Catherine held her emotions at bay, deep in her throat, her fists tight at her side. It was too awful to be borne. She\n would be the laughingstock of the court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Worse, he could not love her and behave in so cruel a way. All of her imaginings of the growing love between them were only that, the gossamer fairy tales\n of a stupid child.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Roaring filled her ears, and suddenly Dona Maria was at her side, murmuring words of comfort. Catherine swayed, the edges of her vision darkening, and she\n reached blindly for her duenna’s arm. A firm hand braced the small of her back.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There, now,” Dona Maria murmured. “Come, let us find you a repast. You have wearied yourself this cold morning.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Steadied, Catherine nodded, leaning gratefully on Dona Maria’s arm as they made their way back to her chambers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A letter from her mother was delivered to Catherine in her chambers only shortly after her talk with the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eDearest Catarina,\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e\n My dear, obedient girl, I must first say that I am ever pleased with your good sense and constant nature. A queen must never act in great passion or in\n heedless disregard for the measure of a thing. For the nonce, remember “\n \u003c/em\u003e\n paciência excede sapiência\u003cem\u003e.” An ounce of patience is worth a pound of brains.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n You are queen, while the mistress is only a mistress, and fleeting. He will tire of her in time, and you will yet be queen, and mother of future\n monarchs. Remember, too, that you have saved Portugal. Because of your sacrifice, our country will not be devoured by our rapacious neighbors. That,\n for all that it may be cold comfort, is much larger than any moment in the womanly life of a queen.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eKnow that I am always with you in spirit.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eIn great devotion,\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eYour Mamãe \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Holding the letter in her lap, Catherine stared through the wavery panes of mullioned glass that distorted the swaying branches of trees beyond, blurring\n close by the lead lines, clearing toward the center, blurring again on the other side.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Had she been wrong in this, then? Caused a deadlock for no reason but her own—burning and painful—female jealousy? Was she so shallow?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n If that be true, she had not behaved like a queen at all, then, had she? If she read through the lines of her mother’s letter, was that what her mother\n expressed—let go of womanly desires, and stand tall as queen?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her throat hot with tears she dared not shed before her ladies, she rose with as much dignity as she could muster. “I have suddenly a headache,” she said\n to Jenny, who was mending a stocking. “I would like to lie down. Will you bring me a compress?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The girl bowed and hurried away. Catherine rubbed her brow, allowing the Lady Chesterfield to escort her to her bed and pull the curtains. Where she could\n be allowed the peace to weep in private.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A queen’s duty was to create the kingdom she wished to live in. This place of strife was not what she wished. She would have to give way.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In a day or two, she would make amends. Once this headache cleared. Once her words could be genuine and sweet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She would end the war.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara paced restlessly about her quarters in the humid evening. The rain had stopped at last, but it had left behind a moist ghost of itself, air so\n thick it could nearly be sliced. Her skin was irritable and itchy, and a fine rash had broken out on her arms, a remnant of the birth process. It had\n plagued her after her first child, as well. She dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and cooling mint, then squeezed it out and pressed it to her face, her\n neck, her breasts, which still prickled when a babe cried, though her milk had been gone these six weeks past.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Pacing out to a stone balustrade adjoining her rooms, she lifted her heavy hair and let the air cool her neck. The evening was still, without a breath of\n wind. In the reeds by the river, crickets sang loudly and, from some hidden corner, a nightingale whistled for her lover. The sky shone with stars, red and\n blue and white. Close in, a bright star clung to the lower point of the moon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But she could not appreciate any of it. The troublesome matter of the queen weighed upon her. Both the matter of Her Majesty’s unexpected show of spirit\n and the fact of Charles’s unmistakable tenderness toward the dark little creature.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara’s position, which only a few months ago had appeared to be unassailable, now showed cracks. She had pressed him for the position of Lady of the\n Bedchamber to secure her position at Whitehall, to keep her eye on matters, to prove she was still triumphant.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She would have to do yet more. Perhaps fan the flames of this spat. In contrast, Barbara would be gracious and full of laughter and show her great gifts as\n a hostess.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lady,” said her woman at the door. “Shall I prepare you for bed?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The girl rubbed her head to toe with an oil scented with frankincense and powdered her face, then helped her into a gown made of the finest silk, loose and\n gossamer, which fell in coy folds over her body. Last, she brushed out Barbara’s long, wavy hair, coaxing it to a fine sheen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you, Alice. You may go.” She leaned into the looking glass, rubbing the smallest drops of essential oil of frankincense along the sides of her\n mouth, in the shadow of her cleavage, and into the folds of her thighs.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Tapers had been lit in strategic corners, the pillows plumped, the coverlets turned back. She checked her reflection, reveling in the glow of her skin and\n the allure of the thin silk and the curves and shadows of her body. It was as she bent one more time to examine her face that he entered, his dogs running\n in beside him, filling the room with their damp dog scent.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the mirror, she saw Charles halt, tall and loose-limbed, to admire her posterior view. “Do not let me interfere with your toilette, my love. The moon\n itself cannot shine as sweetly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Laughing, she wiggled her behind then turned to present herself in the best possible light. His approving gaze moved over her, and she languidly crossed\n the room, stepping around Bacchus, who’d slumped like a dead thing on the floor. He licked her heel. She steeled her face to show no reaction, though she\n wished to wipe the slobber off immediately.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara reached for her lover’s coat, helping him off with it, then stood on the very tips of her toes to kiss him. “There you are, my sire.” She trailed\n her hands down his torso. “And king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He bent into her. “And here you are, my juicy plum. Make me forget my trials.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She laughed. “I shall endeavor to leave you senseless.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And so she applied herself with great pleasure and skill, indulging delight with the man who most delighted her on all the earth. When both were spent and\n sprawled, she flung back her hair to display her pretty breasts and poured him a cup of wine. Perched at his side, she settled a hand along his thigh.\n “What news?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He cupped her knee. “None. She will not relent.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Beside the bed, Rogue whined softly, and Charles patted the spot beside him. The pup leapt up, settling against his master’s naked side. Barbara tried not\n to think of the dog hair that would be shed onto her sheets. She hated them in her bed. Most of them seemed to know that—only Rogue insisted. Across the\n room, as far as she could get from Barbara, was True, who’d never liked her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She forced herself not to glare at the old dog, returning her attention to Charles. “I see.” She trailed a single finger down over his leg. “It is not so\n much the trial of my exile—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He snorted. “Exiled in a palace, a sore trial in any book. So far away that I must walk a full five minutes, all the way across the palace, to find you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Exiled away from court while the tempest swirls. Away from all the pleasures and intrigues you know I most enjoy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mmm.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am a help to you at court in ways that are not possible when I am exiled and unacknowledged. Who coaxes the best gossip from the lips of the courtiers?\n Who brings you news of betrayals and leverage you might use?” She used her most dulcet tones, feathering her fingertips through the line of hair on his\n belly. “Lately, I’m left with those who take the time to find me, who wish to flatter and offer me gifts.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled lazily as that finger slid lower, traced shapes on his spent cock. These were the times she most loved, when he was no longer king and master of\n all, but her singular lover, masculine, virile and well-shaped, alone with her. Revealed and at ease. “Do you tease me with your suitors, now?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They are legion, of course,” she replied, twisting hair around her finger.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Though none can hope to compete with the king.” He thrust his hips.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She reached for him. “A kingly sword.” Suddenly, she laughed. “Oh, my liege,” she purred. “I have the most wonderful idea.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do tell.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A stretch of warm days and nights had improved Catherine’s temper—of all the matters to which she had to adjust in her new country, the weather was the\n least of it, but she found the number of gray days to be wearying. Today, the sun poured through all the windows of the palace, lifting her spirits, easing\n some of her pique. She would hold court. And once she had shown her friendly face to the people, she would show it to Charles, as well.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Attired in an apple-green silk with tissue undersleeves, a dress that gave her confidence, she admired herself in the looking glass. The color showed off\n the warm tones of her skin and made her eyes more pronounced, and although the English seemed to favor the buxom, she thought her delicate neck and\n collarbones were more elegant. She imagined Charles admiring her in the dress, coming to her later, apologetic and amorous.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will wear the emerald necklace,” she said. It was brought, and settled just above the curve of her breasts, echoing the roundness of flesh, the angle of\n bone. “Yes,” she said. A woman dressed her hair in the simple English style, brushed to a sheen and then curled softly around her face. Rows of emeralds\n and pearls were woven amid the dark locks. Whimsically, she placed a heart patch below her left eye.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With her retinue, she settled in the Great Hall to receive visitors. The doors were open to the day, and the mood in the room was pleasant, filled with\n laughter and conversations. A breeze wafted over Catherine as she greeted her first guest—an extraordinarily pretty young woman, not yet fifteen, who had\n hair of the sunniest gold and curtsied very nicely. Catherine received her, unable to catch her full name, only Frances, a name that was used in Portugal\n and was thus familiar. The girl kissed her hand, blushing sweetly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Why not this one as a Lady of the Bedchamber? “Mark her name,” Catherine said quietly to Lady Buckingham.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is Frances Stuart, Your Majesty. A girl of good family.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Across the room, Catherine spied her new sister Anne, laughing and plainly flirting with her husband the Duke of York. Her hand lingered on his sleeve as\n she uttered some light thing, and the duke laughed outright, his brown hair spilling over his shoulders as he leaned his head back.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Happily married. For a moment, a cloud touched Catherine. She wondered if she would have that sense again, or if it had been ruined for all time.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A stout married couple was presented, the woman impeccable in gray silk. “Make note of her as well,” Catherine whispered after, impressed with her bearing.\n Perhaps \u003cem\u003eshe\u003c/em\u003e could be a Lady of the Bedchamber, though there were protocols that had to be followed, of course.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At one point, Lady Buckingham asked to be excused and Dona Maria took her place, standing beside Catherine while the crier introduced supplicants. There\n were many of them, and Catherine found herself wearying, catching fewer names as the morning unfolded. It was a tiresome thing, this business of a new\n language! \u003cem\u003eLord Sun\u003c/em\u003e, she thought she heard once, which was impossible.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Still, it was not so difficult to smile and offer a hand to be kissed, give a musical laugh. A queen did what she must.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At last, she saw Charles. His thick hair fell over the shoulders of his red coat, and she had never seen anyone who moved so easily, as if he had no bones\n or joints, only lightness and grace. Her stomach leapt a little as he caught sight of her and gave a small, sideways nod, his lips curling slightly in\n acknowledgment of their feud.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It had been more than a week since the disastrous walk in the garden; a week since they’d spoken. Anticipation fluttered over her nerves as he began to\n make his way through the gathered crowd, stopping to greet this one and then that. She opened a fan and pretended not to stare. Another woman was\n presented, and Catherine heard only a blur of words. The woman was middle aged, pale, and her hands were quite cold.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Over the woman’s head, Catherine saw Charles intercepted by a lady of the court, who curtsied and gestured toward Catherine. He gave a nod and offered his\n arm, and the pair approached. Catherine barely spared a glance for the woman. Her attention was entirely on her husband, who gave her his very best smile,\n his dark eyes glinting. His gaze lit on her dress, and it was just as it should be.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The caller announced the lady’s name—Countess of something Catherine did not catch. She forced herself to tear her gaze from Charles to acknowledge the\n woman. She was a very great beauty, with that cream skin the English so valued, and long, tilted violet eyes. Her hands were very soft as she took\n Catherine’s hand in hers, and curtsied deeply.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Catherine said in her heavily accented English, a phrase she had worked to perfection.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The woman straightened. She smiled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty,” Dona Maria said urgently at her shoulder, “you have just bestowed your blessing on Barbara, Lady Castlemaine. Your husband’s mistress.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Unmerciful time halted. For the space of hours, days, years, Catherine stared at Barbara, her hand still proprietarily curled in the crook of Charles’s\n arm, her expansive bosom plump and smooth above her bodice. The extraordinary eyes glittered with triumph.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine could not breathe. The entire court looked on, and she thought desperately that they had all witnessed the queen be tricked by her husband and\n his mistress. How \u003cem\u003edare \u003c/em\u003ehe?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Fury blackened the edges of her vision, making a tunnel through which she could only see the vixen who did not look away, revealing not a thimble of shame.\n The roaring buzz returned, like a thousand wasps burning up her skin, stinging her eyes, blackening the edges of her vision. She could not breathe, could\n not move. Someone tittered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles stepped toward her, but she jerked backward, eyes filling with tears of rage and impotence. And as if her humiliation could not be complete enough,\n she felt her nose gush blood. She raised a hand to halt it, seeing bright red on her fingers, and she thought simultaneously that she wished the blood were\n Barbara’s, that it would ruin her most beloved gown, and she wanted to slap them both with all her might.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Overcome with emotion, she fainted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles left Barbara preening amid her admirers and strode to Catherine’s rooms. The dogs trotted beside him, subdued. An uncomfortable sensation made his\n belly ache. Why could she not have simply given way? First the threat to run home to her mother and now this public display of temper. Why had she forced\n his hand?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When he was admitted to her rooms, her women were clustered around her, murmuring like doves. “We will be alone,” he growled. Most of them scurried away,\n cowed by the king, but the old duenna, the Condessa de Penalva, stood fast, a hand on the queen’s shoulder.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He gestured for her to leave as well. “Go.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sullenly, she obeyed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine glared balefully at him, her hair tumbling loose of its curls, the limp strands doing her narrow face no favors. Her bodice was dotted with\n blood, and he was ever so slightly repulsed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What new cruelty have you come to deliver, sire?” She stood, tears pooled brightly in her eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Guilt. That was the acid in his belly. “Come, you’ve caused enough of a spectacle. Have done with this.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will not.” She pressed a cloth to her nose and blood smeared over her cheek. “On the advice of my mother, I had resolved to heal this breach and make\n all well, but you contrived to trick me, sire!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He shifted, attempting to dislodge the sorry weight of regret that pooled in his gut. “Perhaps that was badly done—” he began.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps?” she repeated, aghast.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Guilt made him harsh. “Enough of this!” he roared. “You were prepared to make peace, so let’s move forward with peace.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, sire.” Her neck stiffened and her chin rose, despite the tears leaking from her eyes and running across her white face. “Do your worst. I’ll not be\n moved.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So be it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny and Mavis sat in their high attic chamber, clothed only in their shifts in the warm evening. The dormer was open to whatever breeze might stir, but\n though the stars had long risen, there was little movement to cool the room, tucked as it was beneath the western roof.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They shared a heel of bread brought up from the kitchen and a bowl of cherries Mavis had coerced from the cart of a farm lad on his way to town. The fruit\n was deep red and juicy, the sweetest thing Jenny had tasted in the best part of a month. She missed her family at such times, when she remembered the\n rituals of cherry picking or apple gathering. But one had to give up something to find something else.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis sat before her, hair loose as Jenny brushed it, then sectioned it, holding it with pins. One by one, she twisted the sections with ribbon and secured\n them, and gossiped about the dramatic scene at court this morning.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I feel sorry for Her Majesty,” Jenny said. “Poor wee little thing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lady Castlemaine has been kind to me,” Mavis countered. “This ribbon she gave me, only for mending a tear in a silk gown, and a bit of lace for me\n sleeves. She’s bold, that one. Imagine making a fool of the queen!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Neither of them had been present, but the tale had been told again and again, embroidered and expanded until the original tale that had been whispered to\n Jenny when the ladies brought their mistress back to her chambers had turned to a cat fight, complete with scratching and biting. “Her majesty was covered\n in blood when she came back; she bumped her head on the floor when she fell.” Mavis’s hair did not hang right, and Jenny shook her head, taking the pins\n out to begin again. “It fair broke my heart.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Does she love him? The queen, I mean?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Who would not?” Jenny said, and slapped a hand over her mouth. They both giggled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, he is a fine figure, but I would stand William beside him any cockfight.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n William was Mavis’s suitor, a footman with a tumble of dark curls and limpid eyes who ever haunted the yard for a glimpse of Mavis. She had no lack of\n suitors, with her buxom beauty and good cheer. Only Jenny and Cook knew of the cruel husband, forgotten back in Cranbrooktown.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “William is fine enough,” Jenny conceded, “but I say they’re all the same in the end. I would live my life without a husband to order me about.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, that has some appeal. But what of babies? I would not mind babies of me own.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny shrugged. “There are babies abounding if I wish to give one a cuddle.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis laughed. “Ye’ve a cold heart, Jenny Martin.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment, Jenny allowed herself to think of Thom, who had waited to try to steal a kiss only yesterday when he’d delivered a bolt of cloth. For a\n moment, she was weak, considering his mouth, his deft hands, his deep and twinkling eyes—but no. She had a goal, and she meant to rise on the strength of\n her own merits. As the whole tangle in the royal chambers so clearly showed, there was no autonomy once a woman took a husband. She would do without.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On the last night of July, Barbara sat at the head table at Whitehall in a gown of ruby velvet, her hair dressed with pearls and garnets, a heavy brooch of\n gold and rubies pinned to her breast. Surrounding her were courtiers vying for favor, and sycophants waiting for attention. On the table was spread a feast\n of tender venison, stewed in a rich gravy dotted with early carrots and the last peas of the season, roasted rabbits glistening with fat, a fricassee of\n chicken and leeks, and fig pudding. She’d asked for carafes of Burgundy wine to complement the dark flavors, and the company had grown merry on rich food\n and drink.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Nearby sat Charles, elegantly attired, flirting with her and with a stout matron granted such high status for the evening thanks to a contribution her rich\n husband had made to the navy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen, flanked by the Duchess of York and Lady Buckingham, wore peach silk, and her hair had been curled precisely to hang around her face in dark\n sausage curls. Her large dark eyes shone brighter than her jewels, and she studiously ignored the king. He ignored the queen as thoroughly as she ignored\n him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara ate ravenously, in high good cheer. The plot to trick the queen into acknowledging her had been rife with possible disaster—and there had been\n disaster aplenty, though all of the bad luck had fallen on the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Oh, the moment! Such triumph in the queen’s recognition that she’d been tricked by her king, her face pale, her eyes wide. All dignity fled as her nose\n began to bleed, and even before she fell, Barbara knew she would faint in her anger. And so she had.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Smiling now at Charles as he offered his cup to be filled from Barbara’s hand, she looked toward Catherine, who made a show of standing haughtily and\n walking out in defiance. Barbara laughed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003ePoor dear girl. What a fool she is. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Smug in her place, she raised her cup. “A toast,” she cried. “To the robust good health of our king!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “To the king!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara raised her cup to her lips, secure once more. Let the queen sail away, back to Lisbon. Charles already had his queen, right at his side.\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCatherine and Charles secretly wed with a Catholic ceremony before their public Anglican one, to appease Catherine’s religious sensibilities while respecting the English public’s hostility towards Catholicism. Barbara gave birth to Charles’s healthy son, causing her husband to disavow his brazenly disloyal wife. Afraid for her position and jealous of Charles’ obvious affection for his wife, she demanded a position amongst Catherine’s ladies – and Charles, aware of all he owes her, reluctantly promised to make it so. Catherine found a sympathetic soul in a Spanish-speaking servant girl, Jenny.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003eJames\u003c/strong\u003e: Duke of York and brother to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eClarendon\u003c/strong\u003e: Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor. Father in law to James and advisor to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Barbara Samuel \u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.49","slug":"whitehall-3","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP3.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall3serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall3serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall3serialbox.pdf","share_url":"https://www.serialbox.com/episodes/whitehall-3","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ed3bada6e22ac9d178f3","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":4,"title":"Wit in All Languages","released_date":"2016-06-08T14:39:31.912+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"Fortune favors the bold.","byline":"Madeleine E. Robins","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall4.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-06-08","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAugust 1662\u003c/em\u003e\n \u003cbr/\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “This will not continue. Send them all home.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king had come from the tennis court triumphant, a-muck with sweat. His linen shirt was transparent with it; the cloths with which he had rubbed his\n face and scrubbed at his hair were now wreathed around his neck. Before Lord Clarendon had caught his eye Charles had looked invigorated, a man enjoying\n the sun on his face and the scent of dew melting into the early morning air.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All that animal pleasure had evaporated when he saw his Lord Chancellor waiting for him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon knew that look of old: When Charles, only a prince, had taken the baser part in some argument or stood out against his father’s expressed wish.\n When he knew, deep in his honorable heart, that his behavior was shameful. In his own heart the earl had believed—\u003cem\u003ehoped\u003c/em\u003e—that Charles would\n acknowledge the cruelty of taking Barbara Castlemaine’s part and find a way to make amends to the queen. Given enough time and quiet to consider the\n matter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But it seemed that time had run out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Send them all home,” the king said again. He quickened his pace. Charles was several inches taller than Clarendon, who was no small man. Within a moment,\n the earl was trotting to match the king’s long-legged stride. He felt the warning twinge that presaged an attack of the gout, but did not slow his step.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Who, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t be coy, Lord Clarendon. That pack of black crows and hangers-on who press around the queen and coach her in this defiance. Those po-faced priests.\n They keep the girl from English society for their own reasons.” Charles stopped walking long enough that the dogs, loosed from the kennel where they had\n waited while he played tennis, caught up to them. For a moment his attention was upon the spaniels that surrounded him, demanding a pat, a tug on a silken\n ear, a chuck behind the jaw. At last he straightened. “Perhaps when there are none of them whispering poison to her she’ll find a more womanly, yielding\n disposition. Did her ladies coach her in defiance?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Coach? What need? Sire, would not any wife in your kingdom, put in such a position, object?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is not \u003cem\u003eany wife\u003c/em\u003e—and the sooner she learns it, the better.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, she is not \u003cem\u003eany wife\u003c/em\u003e, sire: she is queen. In what light do you expect her to regard my cousin Barbara? As a friend?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Even in a passion the king was too honest a man to answer \u003cem\u003eyea\u003c/em\u003e to that. Still: “I care not how she regards Barbara. It has gone beyond that.\n Catherine must come to understand that \u003cem\u003emy\u003c/em\u003e word is \u003cem\u003eher\u003c/em\u003e law,” he finished. “There can be no doubt of it. Send her people home.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Have you considered how the Portuguese will regard such a gesture?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n That had been a mistake, Clarendon realized. The king’s face reddened, decisiveness become anger. “Is the king of England to make policy in obedience to\n the concerns of the Portuguese? I won’t be talked round. Send them all away—let her keep her confessor, the ambassador, and the Condessa de Penalva . . .\n her cooks, perhaps. But the rest of them, every last one of those black crows and hangers-on, back to Portugal. The girl must learn to be an English queen.\n Let her begin today.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles fixed his counselor with an expression that brooked no further discussion, whistled for the dogs, and continued across the soft scythed grass of\n the park at a vigorous clip, surrounded by the cloud of eager spaniels; his gentlemen trotted after.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Clarendon, winded, beads of sweat standing on his brow, looked about him for a friendly bench, even a low tree branch where he could take his ease,\n catch his breath, and consider if there was any way at all to mend the mess. He saw none. The king’s command, however intemperate, was given. That would\n not be the end of it—if Clarendon knew Barbara Palmer at all, he knew that once she got what she wanted she would find a new prize to wheedle and pout for.\n And the king—resolute as he was on the battlefield, he could not stand against Barbara.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And Catherine? The girl had been so compliant, obviously besotted with her new husband, and ready to accede to any of his wishes. Any \u003cem\u003eother\u003c/em\u003e of his\n wishes. “Who would have guessed she had a spine?” he muttered to himself. And how very inconvenient that that spine should show itself just at this moment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Although the sun had broken from behind the English clouds to warm the gardens below the queen’s windows and send the scent of verbena, rose, and muguet\n upward in a fragrant cloud, the queen’s mood, and that of the small court that gathered in her apartments, was still gray.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen’s ladies had fallen into two camps. On the left of the room, by the mullioned windows, sat the Portuguese: Dressed in somber colors, the ladies\n bent over bits of needlework, listening while Father Patrick read from a book of homilies in Portuguese. They made a very virtuous picture, Catherine\n thought, but not—she felt a twinge of guilt—not an entertaining or even an inviting one. It seemed to her that some of her attendants were intent upon\n illustrating the benefits of virtuous behavior to the dissolute English. Not just in obedience to the True Church, but in all things. Catherine did not\n think that a hundred Portuguese could force a conversion of manners upon an entire nation; she was certain that her new subjects would not love her any\n better for the attempt.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On the other side of the room the English ladies seemed to glow in their bright colored gowns, the lambent fabrics catching the shafts of golden sunlight\n in a way that Portuguese cloth did not. Lady Chesterfield was reading, the others were playing cards—an English pastime that was incomprehensible to the\n queen—murmuring and laughing quietly. It was like a garden full of bright, scented flowers, meant for no other purpose than to be decorative.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine sat apart from them all, her dog Feliciana tucked away under her sleeve, snoring softly. She wore one of her English dresses, light green and\n frothing with point work. Did that make her a bright, scented flower? She hardly felt it. Yesterday she had told Lord Clarendon that she could not yield.\n That was, as her confessor and her Portuguese ladies had assured her, what a queen must do: Be resolute in the cause of right.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Perhaps she felt uneasy because the cause of right so closely marched with her own will: to rid Charles, and the court, and herself, of Lady Castlemaine.\n Catherine sighed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Condessa de Penalva was at once at her elbow. “Are you tired, Majesty? Would you like a cup of tea?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine shook her head and closed the book in her lap. “Only thinking, Dona Maria.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “About what, Majesty?” The older woman frowned.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine shook her head. “It is not important.” It was, but to whom could she say what she was thinking? Her confessor? One of her ladies? De Mello?\n Almost easier to speak to the girl they had brought from Portsmouth, Jenny. Perhaps the words would come easier in Spanish, with one so far removed from\n the push and pull of court politics.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eCatarina\u003c/em\u003e,” Dona Maria singsonged.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eShe forgets that I am a woman, a married woman, a queen and not a child, to be spoken to so\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dona Maria, if your queen says it is not important—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Startled, the older woman murmured an apology and effaced herself, only to be replaced by Father Patrick.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Majesty, if you are troubled—” The priest’s expression was solicitous and speculative in equal measure. Her confessor stood close enough to her that\n Catherine could see that he had been hasty in shaving that morning and missed a patch on his chin. She blushed at the thought: Being a married woman had\n made her aware of such things.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e?” Father Patrick prodded. \u003cem\u003eHighness.\u003c/em\u003e But she felt so low.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I thank you, Father. No.” That was a lie; another venial sin to confess. The priest bowed himself away and Catherine was left again to her thoughts. She\n could not, or would not, confide in anyone, not to be lectured on what her beloved mother in Portugal would do, or what her beloved husband here in England\n expected her to do.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was a private pain, and to whom could she speak of it? No one, except God. And God, surely, would expect her to be a queen first and a woman second.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a stir at the door. The Lord Chancellor—the Earl of Clarendon—had arrived, limping slightly, mopping at his forehead with a cloth. Catherine\n suppressed the impulse to jump to her feet and run to meet him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When he reached her chair he bowed low. Catherine smiled guardedly and inclined her head. She said, in Latin, “You have word for me, my lord?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon sighed so heavily that the ends of his graying fair hair stirred about his face. “I have, Your Majesty, but I fear it will like you not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine closed her eyes for a moment, gathering courage. Then: “The king \u003cem\u003ecommands\u003c/em\u003e that I permit that woman among my attendants?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She thought she read surprise in Clarendon’s expression. “No, indeed, he does not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If that is so, then I am sure I can countenance any other requirement His Majesty makes of me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I fear—” Clarendon began. “Your Majesty, the king has ordered your retinue to return to Portugal at once. A certain few may stay, but the rest are ordered\n to sail with the tide. Today.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine felt a buzzing in her head, the familiar sensation of a hive of bees swarming there inside her skull. “\u003cem\u003eAll\u003c/em\u003e my retinue? Today?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her Portuguese ladies had looked up from their handwork at the sound of distress in her voice. Most understood only Church Latin, but the few who knew more had begun whispering to the others.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I regret it, madam, but yes. The king has commanded it. One or two confessors may stay, and your chief woman—” he nodded to Dona Maria, who was attempting to quiet the ladies of the Portuguese party. “The cooks, I think, as you are not yet used to our English food. But the rest must go. A ship is being\n readied.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The buzzing in Catherine’s head was made worse by a sudden cacophony, as the Portuguese women began to chatter and wail, and their English counterparts to\n speak amongst themselves. Feliciana, wakened by the tumult, jumped from her mistress’s lap and began to yap. Catherine held herself upright by force of\n will, eyes closed and one hand to her temple, waiting until she could trust herself to speak.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n“If His Majesty has commanded it—” Her voice almost broke, and she felt tears starting in her eyes. \u003cem\u003eHow does a queen react to such a blow? With tears or outrage?\u003c/em\u003e An upwelling of anger straightened Catherine’s spine and helped her to get her voice under control. At the very least no one should see the hurt that had been dealt her. Mamãe had said: \u003cem\u003eA queen does not weep\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If His Majesty has commanded it then we must, of course, comply.” She turned to Dona Maria. “Madam, will you help these ladies to pack their belongings?\n And Father Patrick, will you see to the bestowing of the men?” She turned back to Clarendon. “I trust my people will be given transport to this ship?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon, his face redder than it had been when he first entered the room, agreed that all arrangements would be made for the travelers’ comfort. “And I\n shall tell His Majesty of your ready obedience to his wishes, madam.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I should be very grateful, my lord.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon bowed. There was what spoke of sympathy in his eyes, but of course he could not speak it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the wake of the Lord Chancellor’s departure, the women of Catherine’s Portuguese retinue surged toward her despite Dona Maria’s best attempts to keep\n them from overwhelming their lady. From the words that Catherine could make out through the churn of noise, some were worried for her, fearful lest this be\n the first step in an assault against her person. Who would protect her against the English apostates? Others were worrying that Queen Luisa would punish\n them on their return to Portugal for having so failed their charge. All wanted reassurance, honeyed words, comfort.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nIt was too much. “Dona Maria,” she implored. The older woman nodded and spread her arms to shepherd the other women from the room. \u003cem\u003eLike a flock of doves being shooed from a pile of crumbs\u003c/em\u003e, Catherine thought. The room was instantly quieter, and the pounding in her head lessened. For a few minutes she sat, examining her hands in her lap, trying not to think of what had happened.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From the English side of the room a murmuring arose.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine looked up to find her English ladies watching her. Did they expect some reprisal? No—she realized that most of them appeared as dismayed as she\n herself. Of course, if one retinue could so easily be banished, any other could as well. It would be dangerous to assume that any of them felt real\n sympathy for her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eI tried to act a queen. I demanded that I—at least my rank—be respected. Surely a queen demands her due? \u003c/em\u003e\n But, as surely, demanding had availed her nothing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When he had walked a mile or so in a circuit around the Privy Garden, Charles’s temper cooled a little. Across the lawn, a lad in livery trotted; half the king’s dogs deserted him to greet the newcomer, who knelt to offer the king a letter. “Steward said you’d want this straightaway, as it come from France.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles thanked the boy and took the letter up, his heart uncomplicatedly lightened for the first time in days at the sight of his sister Minette’s\n writing. She wrote from Paris to apprise him of their mother’s plans to return to England late in the summer, amusing him with wickedly observant comments\n upon the queen’s progress in packing her French household in the entire. The king walked and read, chuckling, until he turned the sheet and Minette turned\n the topic. It had been too much to hope that his quarrel with Catherine had not entertained the whole of Europe; of course Minette had heard. He was\nstartled to find that, so far from taking her brother’s part, her sympathy was all for Catherine. \u003cem\u003eIt is said here, \u003c/em\u003eshe wrote,\u003cem\u003e that the queen is grieved beyond measure, and to speak frankly I think it is with reason.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCharles shoved the letter into his pocket. Quite enough of that. He distracted himself with Babette, who had dropped in front of him, her belly displayed. \u003cem\u003eSilly bitch\u003c/em\u003e. He leaned down to ruffle the soft, muscular flesh, and Rogue raced from a tree ahead, his ears pluming out behind him, coming for his\n share of their master’s attention. \u003cem\u003eNice to have affection so easily won.\u003c/em\u003e He tugged lightly on Rogue’s ears, gave Babette’s belly a final scratch,\n then stood. The dogs understood that their master’s attention was turning elsewhere and scattered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n By now, Clarendon should have delivered his command to Catherine. How would she take it? With tears, or with that fierce, poignant dignity? He stopped his\n pacing again. Honesty compelled Charles to admit he had been unkind. But he had had no choice: Catherine had defied him publicly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The dogs, seeing their master halt, had come racing back and surrounded him, anticipating a change, a new direction.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “None of that,” he told them sternly. “I’ve taken up this course and must stay with it. No one knows better what can happen to a king who lets his queen\n have the ruling of him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He began to walk again, ringing the sundial and starting for the Stone Gallery.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She shall not have the ruling of me, but when she gives way I shall be kind.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rogue, at his heel, sneezed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine’s women, tearfully, had taken their leave, promising to pray for her, alone and undefended in this Godless place. Bereft as she felt, Catherine\n wondered what defense they imagined she would need and what defense they might have supplied. She nodded and smiled and shook her head and smiled again,\n unable to comfort them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The perfumer, Dom Abravanel, was apologetic, as if it had been he who was the occasion of this catastrophe. He bowed and kissed her hand and promised to\n convey her love and duty to her mother, and bowed again and was gone, leaving a cloud of his scent behind him. Dona Maria hovered at the queen’s shoulder,\n ready to comfort Catherine should she be overcome.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But Catherine sat, receiving homage, patting a hand here, murmuring a comforting word there, dispatching the travelers with more eye to their feelings than her own. It was not that she did not mourn their going, or that she did not feel fully the great loss that her husband and master, her \u003cem\u003eking\u003c/em\u003e, had\n thrust upon her. But what good would weeping and tearing her breast do? She was married, by the rites of her own church.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At last the parade of the departing ended. The queen’s English ladies, perhaps feeling that they would not be welcome, had absented themselves from the\n chamber. Now one of them—Lady Chesterfield—peered in at the doorway as if to ask if the queen willed that they should return.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Before Catherine could say a word, Dona Maria shook her head. Lady Chesterfield withdrew tactfully.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why do you send them away?” Catherine asked. Her voice, to her own ears, sounded unearthly, as if it belonged to another, speaking from far away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Maria de Penalva looked taken aback. “Why? I thought perhaps Your Majesty would prefer a few minutes to—to think, before those noisy English girls\n returned.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eNoisy English girls?\u003c/em\u003e\n Lady Chesterfield, at least, was no younger than the Condessa de Penalva herself. Catherine could no longer afford to have a Portuguese and an English\n faction among her ladies, among any who served her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n“I understand you mean it kindly, Dona Maria,” she began, “but they should not be punished for the decisions of—” She stopped. Could she say \u003cem\u003efor the decisions of my husband\u003c/em\u003e? “For decisions in which they have no part.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria pursed her lips before she nodded.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eShe disapproves\u003c/em\u003e. \u003cem\u003eWhat would she have had me do? I have married England and its king, and must learn to be queen of all. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Condessa, you have been married longer than I. You can surely tell me: What is the duty a woman owes her husband?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria was not to be caught in so simple a trap. “You know as well as any girl. Your husband is your lord, you his servant. But if her husband acts in\n error, is it not the part of a good wife to school him in the better part?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up in her at the thought of schooling Charles. She might as easily school the endearing swarm of dogs\n that followed at his feet. “I sought to school him, as you say, in the unwisdom of installing that—Lady Castelmaine—in my bedchamber, with the results you\n have seen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Condessa shrugged. “If you say so, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e. Perhaps some tea?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n An ungraceful way to end an awkward conversation, but there was nothing graceful about this day. The queen was seized with a restless wish to be up and\ndoing something. “No tea, I thank you. I will . . . I will walk in the gardens.” \u003cem\u003ePerhaps I will meet the king and learn how displeased he truly is with me\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria turned as if to summon some of the Portuguese ladies to accompany the queen, then made a theatrical gesture of remembering and called out in her\n heavily accented English, “The queen would walk in the garden.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nAt once, Lady Chesterfield and Lady Bath emerged from the anteroom, as if they had waited a-purpose to hear the summons. \u003cem\u003eThey were barely permitted to perform their offices while my people were here\u003c/em\u003e, Catherine realized. \u003cem\u003ePerhaps that was unfair\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The sun is still high, Your Majesty. Perhaps a stole?” Lady Bath spoke slowly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Does this hat please you, Your Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the two women, one young, one with threads of gray in her light brown hair, came forward, Dona Maria seemed to fade into the background.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The garden outside Catherine’s apartments was as bright and colorful as the two ladies who flanked her. She closed her eyes for a moment to take in the\n warmth of the sun and the scent of roses and lavender that rose up. Lady Bath was Catherine’s own age, and chattered in English too rapid for her to\n follow. She gave up trying to make sense of it, but did not make the mistake of nodding in agreement—that much she had learned, that she dare not agree to\n anything until she understood it fully.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was whistling down the path. Catherine’s heart beat faster at the thought that it might be Charles himself. Come to apologize? Come to hear her\n apology? Without thinking, Catherine quickened her step, only to find a gardener’s boy bustling along with a basket full of flowers, just cut. The moment\n he saw her, the whistling stopped and he dropped to both knees, head bowed. As if he feared she would punish him for going about his work.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine extended a hand, meaning to pat the boy on the shoulder, but he pulled back, head still bowed. He looked barely ten summers, far too young to be\n so fearful of her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I—meaning no ’arm. Sank you . . .” The words eluded her. “\u003cem\u003eObrigado\u003c/em\u003e.” She lapsed into Portuguese. “\u003cem\u003eAs flores ajudam meu coraçao\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The boy nodded without raising his eyes to meet hers, then turned and fled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine sighed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I think he fears your Catholic enchantments.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The familiar voice made Catherine turn. Francisco de Mello walked up the graveled walk with his customary energy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Godfather, good day,” she said in Portuguese.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e.” He bowed over her hand and took the place of Lady Bath to her right. “Why is it that the queen needs her heart lightened?” he asked in\n their native tongue.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have heard, Dom Francisco? All—almost all—of my people have been sent back to Portugal by the king’s wish. Because—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Quite.” De Mello cut her off.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Godfather, what am I to do? What would my mother say?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello pursed his lips—thoughtfully, but without censure. “It is a vexed question, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e. Do you mean as a queen, as your mother, or as one\n woman dealing with another?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How would she—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She was never so tested, \u003cem\u003efilha\u003c/em\u003e. She would expect you to be a wife and a queen, as you are.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How?” Catherine had stopped and turned to her godfather, tears in her eyes. Where de Mello might once have comforted her, he did not now.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n“Not your mother’s way or mine. Not Lady Castlemaine’s, either. Look beyond today and consider what you wish for tomorrow. You will find your way, \u003cem\u003equerida Alteza\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eMy\u003c/em\u003e way.” The two English ladies watched her, puzzled. Dom Francisco smiled gravely. At last Catherine nodded her head, setting her new English curls dancing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My way,” she repeated. “Mine alone.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When Dom Francisco parted from his goddaughter, it was with a heavy heart. He genuinely loved the girl, and liked her, as well. And he had helped her to\n this unhappy place. One does not remonstrate with a king, but for a moment Dom Francisco imagined taking the trouble-making Lady Barbara aside . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The sun was still some hours before summer dusk, but it slanted from the west over the roofs and parapets of Whitehall, casting a rosy light on the faces\n of the buildings opposite. The palace was a city in miniature, surrounded by the whole of London. And at the kernel of it, three persons: the king, his\n queen, and his mistress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dom Francisco wanted a cup of wine, and to put his feet up and consider what was to be done, if anything could be done, to lighten the weight upon\n Catherine’s slender shoulders.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dom Francisco.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello looked up to see Lord Clarendon sitting on a stone bench outside the banqueting house, one leg raised up on a stool, with a bottle and a cup to\n hand. \u003cem\u003eWould that were I\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you take a cup of wine, sir?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was so precisely what de Mello wanted that he dropped onto the bench without ceremony. “By God, yes, my lord, I will.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon conjured up one of the serving men to bring a second bottle and another cup. For a few minutes the two men sat quietly, drinking strong wine and\n watching the play of light over what Dom Francisco knew were Barbara Castlemaine’s apartments.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A troublesome day,” Clarendon said at last. “How—how fares your lady?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sad. Afraid. Determined to be a good queen and a good wife. But she will miss the friends who came with her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am sure she will.” Clarendon was casual.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My queen will be very surprised—and dismayed—to see so many of her daughter’s retinue returned in so summary a fashion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon poured more wine into his cup. “Something had to happen to break the impasse. And to be frank, it did the lady no favor to have so many\n pap—Catholic hangers-on about her. The people need no reminder that she keeps to her own faith.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps not. I had hoped that marriage would make such distinctions unimportant.” Dom Francisco tossed down his wine and poured himself more.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not in England, Dom Francisco. Not after the score of years we have survived. Nor, I suspect, would it be in Portugal. In any case, the queen must be a wife first, and obedient to the law of her lord, before all else. That remains the truth regardless of what rite she follows. I am sure Queen Luisa\n understands—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eI\u003c/em\u003e am sure my queen is a mother before all else. If Queen Luisa were to believe that \u003cem\u003eyour\u003c/em\u003e queen has been ill-treated—there is still a\n substantial portion of the dowry to be transferred to English hands.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That, my lord, is a knife that cuts both ways. If the whole of the dowry has not been paid, as you know well it has not, what incentive does England have\n to keep the queen here? What incentive, indeed, to give aid against the Spanish? If the queen proves intransigent—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eIntransigent?\u003c/em\u003e Was it \u003cem\u003eshe\u003c/em\u003e who wished to make the king’s harlot part of her intimate court?” De Mello put his cup down on the bench with\n sufficient force to send wine slopping over the rim.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Earl of Clarendon pinched his nose with two fingers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lord, I like and admire your lady. I think she will make a queen and wife—if she but learn to choose her battles. My feelings about how—about—about\n Barbara Palmer—are of no account. The king is my king, and I am his man and will do his will. And you know well that there are many at this court who would\n work against Queen Catherine because of her faith. She is vulnerable. She must become less so.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That, Lord Clarendon, we can agree upon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello poured himself a little more wine, gestured to the other man and, upon receiving a nod, poured wine into Clarendon’s cup.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The two men raised their cups in concert, a toast to things neither one would specify. De Mello drank off the whole and tossed his cup to the side.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then, a little unsteadily (Clarendon’s wine was good), he rose. “This has been illuminating, my lord Clarendon.” He swept a bow, and walked toward King\n Street, waving for a chair. He would return to his house and write a letter to his mistress Queen Luisa, and let her know that, if she wished this marriage\n to prosper, and expected the assistance of the British fleet against the Spanish, she should see to the prompt payment of the remains of her daughter’s\n dowry.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The apartments Barbara occupied at Hampton Court had been comfortable enough—lavish, by most standards. But her rooms at Whitehall were far finer, as befit\n her status as the king’s favorite. Even the advent of the little queen had not changed that. Barbara Palmer settled back in her chair and let her\n hairdresser brush and twist ropes of her thick auburn hair into a knot, pinning them over a wire frame, teasing out individual curls that would drape over\n her breast.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Motherhood proved a great beautifier: her hair had remained thick and lustrous, her skin was now as clear as alabaster, her lips plump and rosy. Even with a wet nurse to see to the baby, her breasts were still sensitive. The thought of Charles’s hands or lips playing over their white swell made Barbara catch\n her breath. Her eyes slid closed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dreaming, Barbara?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As if her thoughts had summoned him, the king stood in the door to her bedchamber, the silken heads of Babette and Rogue peeking from behind his boots.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At once Barbara was on her feet to curtsy profoundly, heedless of the mayhem doing so created with her half-pinned hair. Head down, she looked backward to\n see her coiffeuse curtsying as well, brush in her hand, a tortoiseshell comb held between her lips and a look of panic in her eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Up, up!” Charles extended his hand to raise Barbara then pulled a chair near hers and sat companionably. The girl could finish with Barbara’s hair and be\n gone, leaving her alone with the king. The coiffeuse made quick work of pinning and curling, perhaps not so perfectly as she might have under a less august eye, then curtsied in a direction halfway between His Majesty and her mistress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Go.” Barbara waved a careless hand at the girl and did not think of her again. Instead, she turned to the king. “What news, dear Majesty? How does the\n king today? Did you swim this morning?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king raised an eyebrow. “I beg you will not pretend to care whether I swam this morning, or played tennis, or whether Bacchus’s barking disturbed my\n morning meetings—at least until you have heard what matters to you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Whatever matters to you matters to me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No doubt,” he said dryly. “You will be happy to know that I have made it clear to the queen that my word is to be her law.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As it is for all of us! But how did you do it?\"\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I ordered her retinue back to Portugal, the lot of them. It will be a hard punishment; in truth, I wonder if I went too far. I recall well enough being\n lonely in a country not my own. No amount of French kindness was as dear to me as the sound of my own tongue spoken by a friend.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara was quick to counter. “The cases are not at all the same. You were an exile. She came to England to be queen. Perhaps sending away the Portuguese\n will speed her learning English ways?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eThere’s\u003c/em\u003e a way to put a sunny face upon the matter. Babs, did I not know better I would assume your concern was all for the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My concern is all for you.” It was the truth, and yet . . . “\u003cem\u003eHas\u003c/em\u003e she given way?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not yet. I would give her a day or two to—” Charles paused. “A day or two to understand the lesson she has learned. She’s a clever girl; I do not expect\n it to take her long.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And I shall have the appointment?” No point in dancing about the subject. He knew what she wanted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king smiled down at her. “You shall.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara flung her arms about her lover’s neck and kissed him, once, twice, and once more.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles returned the kisses, then pulled upon one of the long curls the coiffeuse had fussed over, until Barbara’s head came up and her eyes looked into\n his own. “Triumph becomes you, sweet—everything does—but you will want to be more subtle.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Have I said a word against her? It was not \u003cem\u003eI\u003c/em\u003e who refused to obey your command.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yet I understand why Catherine would feel an affront, I do.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara liked this not at all. She preferred to think of herself, and have Charles think of her, as the victim, the devoted lover threatened by a foreign\n interloper. Her fear that she might be abandoned was real. Why should her joy be any less so?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I asked it only for the children’s sake, for their future and security.” she protested. “Palmer has gone back to Dorney and does not answer when I write.\n Were he to repudiate me and my children publicly—I must have some way to provide.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He won’t—were he to repudiate you and your children, he would lose the titles he sets such store by. As for . . . od’s fish, do you think I would let\n you—or little Anne and the baby—starve in the streets? You wound me, Babs.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara’s lower lip trembled. “I shall not always be beautiful.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles snorted. “Am I now to seek a strand of silver in the grotto?” He slid his hand under the shining fabric of her skirt, up along her thigh. As\n always, she softened at his touch. “You will be celebrated for your beauty for many years yet.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He pulled her to him. She abandoned all anxiety, all thoughts of dress or hair or anything but the feeling of his body against her own.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Later, when the king had undone all the good work of her maid and the coiffeuse, they lay quiet, Barbara with her head upon his shoulder and her breath\n stirring the locks of dark hair that curled damply around his face.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Barbara—” He hesitated. “You have nothing to fear from Catherine. She’ll never be your match. You could be a generous winner.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara nodded. If she had won her hand she could afford to be gracious—a little.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Am I not generous?” Barbara rolled to her side, her face turned from Charles’s, thinking. “I will show you how generous I can be. I think you should hold\n a ball in the queen’s honor. Without that frightful coven of crows she kept around her, perhaps she’ll show to more advantage!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king laughed. “And where will you be during this ball, my dear?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, just one lady among the others, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That”—he slid his hand over her shoulder to pull her back facing him—“you will never be. But a ball would be a pleasant thing. I wonder if the girl knows\n how to dance?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara smiled, maintaining a mask of good humor, and hurried to turn his thoughts from Catherine. “What will be the theme of this ball, Your Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What would \u003cem\u003eyou\u003c/em\u003e, Babs?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She made a play of thinking, her eyes lowered, one finger upon her lower lip. It was a pretty pose, she knew. “The sea? The jungle, and you the lion?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If it is to be a ball in the queen’s honor—od’s blood, I barely know the girl well enough to know what would please her. And I do not suppose I can go and\n ask her now. I expect to hear that she’s taken to her bed in a faint.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Is she so sorry a little thing? Like a nun—like a novice!—cloistered away among her ladies?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not \u003cem\u003eher\u003c/em\u003e ladies,” Charles reminded her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Was everything to lead back to Catherine? “Ask one of her English ladies,” Barbara said flatly. “Perhaps—the sun and the stars, would she like that? You\n must, of course, be the sun, as you are the orb round which we all circle.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She distracted him with plans for the Great Hall decked out with hangings of celestial blue, and the court dressed as constellations and moons. It would be\n expensive. But no price was too high, to Lady Castlemaine’s mind, to upstage Catherine and show the court who truly had the king’s heart and ear.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As was his custom, the king rose early the next day and went to swim in the Thames. Afterward there had been business: an audience with the ambassador from\n Orange, and an hour in Clarendon’s company discussing funds for the navy. No man was truer or more loyal than Clarendon, but Charles sometimes found\n himself impatient with the older man’s measured counsel. The fact that the counsel was frequently wise did not take away the sting of what the king felt\n was near fatherly disapproval. After that meeting Charles had given his steward orders for preparation for a ball in the queen’s honor a week hence.\n Perhaps that would cheer little Catherine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Had he been cruel, sending her people back to Portugal? He could not afford to have anyone—particularly his wife—be insubordinate to his will. Still—what\n had Clarendon said? Any wife put in such a position would feel herself wronged. By the \u003cem\u003ehusband\u003c/em\u003e who had put her in that position. And by the rites of his own Church and of hers, Charles was her husband.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king left his offices with no further appointments, thinking he might take some of his gentlemen and go riding. The air—and the activity—would do him\n good. Charles was aware of a restless urge to be doing, to use some of his abundant physical energy. Almost before he turned, the Earl of Bath was at his\n side. Bath had been with him for many years, and was like to recognize his king’s moods as well as Charles himself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Shall I have your horse saddled, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The notion was a grateful one, but an idea was nagging at the king. “I will go and call upon Her Majesty first.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Bath’s expression did not change, whatever his surprise. “Yes, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine’s dayroom was filled with feminine chatter, which stopped immediately when the king and his gentlemen stepped through the door. The ladies\n attending her bowed and Charles waved them up again. Lady Suffolk was the first to speak. “Your Majesty, we did not expect—the queen is at—” She paused as\n if what she had to say was an embarrassment. “She is at her \u003cem\u003edevotions\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “At prayer or at confession?” the king asked easily. “It does no harm for us to wait, so long as her confession is not overlong.” He meant it as a joke—he\n doubted Catherine could have much upon her soul to confess. Still, Lady Suffolk made a gesture to one of the servants and the girl left the room to seek\n the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A few minutes later Catherine arrived, a little breathless, the ladies Buckingham and Suffolk in her wake. She wore a brown dress in the English style; the color did not much become her, but her hurry had put color in her cheeks, which did. Before the king could greet her, Catherine dropped into a curtsy so\n profound she was nearly kneeling, and said, in Spanish, “My lord king, I beg your pardon for my stubbornness against Your Majesty’s will.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He had not expected that. Charles reached down to cup her chin in one hand and raise her up. Her skin was warm against his palm, very soft.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam, all offenses are forgotten. We must learn to be better friends, you and I, yes?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I should like that, sire.” She smiled, heart in her eyes. “Will Your Majesty sit for a while? Perhaps you will drink a dish of tea with me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Tea? Charles could not understand what anyone saw in it, but he had drunk and eaten worse things in his years abroad for the sake of amity. A cup of tea\n was nothing. “I would be very happy to do so. And—” He thought of his conversation with the steward earlier. “To celebrate this understanding of ours, I have ordered a ball in your honor, six days hence. A masque.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine’s eyes grew large. “I have never been to a masque. What does one do?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles laughed. Catherine’s ladies, who had withdrawn tactfully to the other end of the room, smiled encouragingly. “One dances and drinks and eats and\n flirts—ah, Cat, have I shocked you? You need not flirt if you dislike it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine blushed, and busied herself with preparing the tea with her own hands, plying cups and pot, hot water, and inscrutable shreds of dark leaf. As\n she worked, Charles explained the conceit of the ball.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I must come in costume?” The king could not tell if the idea frightened or pleased his wife. A little of both, perhaps.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed. Some celestial figure, perhaps. I’m sure your ladies will be pleased to help you.” He switched to English and explained to the ladies what was\n planned. “I rely upon you ladies to assist Her Majesty—it seems a masque is something quite new to her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles finished his tea in three sips—the cups were small, and he was thirsty. It had a pleasant astringency he had not appreciated before.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam, I will not take your time—” he began.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The light in the queen’s eyes dimmed. “You must go?” she asked in Spanish. “I had thought—” She stopped.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes?” Charles was wary; what would the woman ask for?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I sometimes see my ladies playing games with cards. In Portugal this is not the custom, but now I am in England. If I am to become a good Englishwoman, I\n must learn new pastimes. Would you teach me the cards?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Teach you the cards?” It was nothing of what he had expected. Again, Charles felt a moment of guilt. He knew what it was to be in exile, living in a\n country other than his own. Perhaps Catherine had deserved better at his hands than she had received. “Madam, it would be my greatest pleasure.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In a moment Lady Bath, who had been talking quietly with her husband, was dispatched for a deck of cards.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now, Cat, we will start with something simple. A game I learned in France, called \u003cem\u003equinze\u003c/em\u003e. Each of these pictures has a value, you see.” One by\n one he took her through the suits and cards and praised her quickness when she caught on at once. \u003cem\u003eI must remember she’s clever\u003c/em\u003e, he thought. He\n shuffled and asked her to cut the deck, then shuffled again, and dealt one card to Catherine and one to himself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The first to reach a sum of fifteen, or close to fifteen without going over, will be the winner.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine pursed her lips, considered, and nodded. “The knave is eleven, the queen is twelve, and the king is thirteen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have the right of it. Here, let us try a hand.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It took three hands before Catherine beat him, then beat him again. Her face was lit with pleasure, and her laugh rang out more than once.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Shall I regret that I have taught you a game at which you excel?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She mocked dismay. “Would Your Majesty prefer that I lose?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles shook his head. “Never in the world, Your Majesty.” He switched to English. “Since you have proved such a quick learner at cards, perhaps I should\n be schooling you in English as well?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If it please Your Majesty—” she tried in English, the last word so unintelligible that he was hard put not to laugh. “I should like that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As they continued to play, and he continued to tease and cajole Catherine into using English, Charles felt an odd contentment. This was comfortable.\n Despite the servants who bustled or stood in waiting at the room’s periphery; despite the Ladies of the Bedchamber who sat nearby, he felt at ease. Perhaps\n it was possible for one to be a husband as well as a king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The English ladies were fluttering around Her Majesty, chattering so fast that Jenny doubted the poor little queen could understand one word in ten. In the\n days since the ball had been announced, Jenny had found herself one of a dozen seamstresses sewing brilliants upon the queen’s dress at the directions of\n the tailor. She felt a proprietary interest in how the dress fit and how the queen appeared, but there was little likelihood that she would be permitted to\n get close enough to tweak a fold or turn a curl. She contented herself with her work at the clothes press, folding the delicately made point cuffs on one\n of the queen’s nightshifts.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The new dress was beautiful, styled to make the most of the queen’s figure (unlike the regrettable attempts by her Portuguese tailors to produce “English”\n dress). And the sweep of brilliants from hem to shoulder would make Catherine look a very celestial being indeed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her dress laced up and arranged, the queen settled into a chair so that the coiffeuse could attend to her hair. Marie-France—a fat, ponderous old\n Frenchwoman with magic in her hands—pulled the queen’s dark hair this way and that, pinning it up with combs studded with brilliants, twisting the hair\n along her brow and at her temples into clever, pretty curls.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At last, satisfied, the coiffeuse stepped away from the queen, her hands in the air as if to say, “It is all up to God now, I have done my best.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Bath and Lady Buckingham, the younger of the queen’s ladies, near to squealed with pleasure at the queen’s toilette. Catherine glowed at the praise,\n and in halting English sent them off to dress themselves. Lady Suffolk had already gone to make her own toilette, and Lady Chesterfield, not one to spoil\n the young with praise, sat near a branch of candles, pointedly reading from a book of sermons. Protestant sermons.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With the two younger ladies gone, the room was suddenly quiet. Catherine approached her glass and looked at her reflection as if at a foreign landscape. As Jenny watched, the queen’s face clouded and her brows drew together. She turned from the mirror and attempted, in her bad English, to ask Lady Chesterfield for the box in which her hare’s foot and cosmetics were kept.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Chesterfield took a moment to untangle the queen’s meaning, then waved at another servant to find the box. When the girl returned a moment later, Lady\n Chesterfield opened the box and stared at its contents as if at a loss. Ordinarily it was one of the younger ladies, Lady Bath or Lady Buckingham, who\n painted the queen’s face, but they had gone to dress. And Jenny feared that near-sighted Lady Chesterfield would make the queen look as dowdy as herself,\n undoing all the good of the tailor’s exquisite work.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny looked down at her hands. A maidservant does not advise the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then she heard her name. “\u003cem\u003eQue pienses\u003c/em\u003e, Jenny?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Chesterfield held the hare’s foot in her hand, poised to apply powdered pearl to whiten the queen’s olive skin. The queen’s expression as she regarded\n Jenny was of one girl seeking reassurance from another. The opportunity Jenny had hoped for.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She took a breath. “\u003cem\u003eReina querida\u003c/em\u003e,” she said in Spanish, “the English fashion is more . . .” Jenny sought the right word. “The style is more\n subtle. Just a light veil of powder. A touch of rouge. Will Your Majesty permit me to assist you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen’s face showed no displeasure. Rather, she motioned to Lady Chesterfield, who surrendered the hare’s foot to Jenny. Catherine sat, eyes closed\n like a child ready to be prepared for her party. Feliciana, barred from her mistress’s lap, danced around Jenny’s feet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A dusting of rice powder rather than the heavier powdered pearl, a touch of rouge upon the cheeks and just under the brows to draw attention to the queen’s\n dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Finally, Jenny looked through the patch box and found, to her private delight, a black silk star, and a comet. She fixed the star\n on the right, below her majesty’s full mouth, and the comet on the left, by her brow. When she had finished Jenny stood back, hands upon her hips.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Is it well?” Catherine asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is more than well, Majesty. You are beautiful.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Turning to the mirror again, the queen observed what Jenny had done. After a moment, she nodded. “If I am to wear English clothes, I must follow the\n English style in all things.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Chesterfield had returned to her sermon but looked up sleepily now at the queen, as if she were an unexpected vision. “What is that, madam?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In answer, Catherine gestured to her gown and her face.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Very handsome, madam. I am certain you will have an excellent evening.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny, thinking of all the things that could happen to confound the queen, hoped so as well.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n John, Earl of Rochester, took advantage of acquaintance and youth to sprawl in a chair in Lady Castlemaine’s boudoir, watching her apply a patch to her\n rounded chin with casual skill.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Have you come only to watch me dress, my lord?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Does it displease you, my lady?” Their honorifics had a mocking sound to them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis pleasant to have company, I suppose.” Barbara turned from her mirror. “Although \u003cem\u003ethat\u003c/em\u003e is not the company I would have imagined.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “This?” Rochester’s tone and expression were all innocence. Perched upon his shoulder, with a tiny paw laced into his master’s fair curls, a monkey dozed.\n “He hasn’t a name yet. Perhaps you have a suggestion?” Rochester stroked the monkey’s tail, curled across his chest like a plume.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If \u003cem\u003ehe\u003c/em\u003e were \u003cem\u003eshe\u003c/em\u003e you might name her in honor of the queen.” Barbara frowned and turned again to her glass.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That has an ungracious sound to it. Come, you cannot blame the king for holding a ball for his \u003cem\u003ewife\u003c/em\u003e.” His emphasis was light but discernible.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The ball was my idea,” Barbara said. “I meant to show His Majesty that I can be gracious in victory—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So you \u003cem\u003ewill\u003c/em\u003e be joining the Ladies of Her Majesty’s Bedchamber? Then why so sour?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine shook her head, loosing the chestnut curls at her temples, and took up a silver comb in the shape of a quarter moon. “I am \u003cem\u003enot\u003c/em\u003e\n sour. But I cannot say I like the queen, nor that I think she will be good for the king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Her dowry was good for king \u003cem\u003eand\u003c/em\u003e kingdom. For the rest, she seems an unremarkable little woman. No rival to yourself. Is it the queen you dislike,\n or the fact of her?” Rochester tugged softly on his monkey’s tail and the dozing animal sat upright and began to chitter and look around him. When his\n master shrugged his shoulder, the monkey took this as a signal to leap to the bed-curtains and hang there, swinging.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Fore God, Rochester, if you let that animal befoul my linens—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not for the world, lady.” The monkey could not go far: A fine chain in Rochester’s hand led to a gilded collar round the animal’s neck. But the earl took his time in collecting the monkey, more amused by its antics than Barbara’s outrage. “Do you know, I had a suit made for him, specially for the ball. But I\n am undecided if I should bring him or no.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, do, by all means. Perhaps Her Majesty will like him. Perhaps now all her Portuguese she-monkeys and priests have been sent away, she’ll be seeking a\n friend.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester enjoyed the malice in Lady Castlemaine’s tone, but went on: “You never answered me, Barb’ry. Is it Queen Catherine you dislike, or the fact that\n she exists and—it seems—is not a cipher to be ignored?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Words broke from Barbara’s lips as if they had been dammed there. “She will do the king harm, I feel it. She’s little and plain and cannot even speak\n English! The people call her the Catholic whore—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “When did the Countess of Castlemaine concern herself with the opinions of the people? Catholic she may be, but no whore. There were witnesses enough to\n the wedding.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine stood and smoothed the cloth-of-silver skirts of her gown, as if that was sufficient to end the subject. For a moment, Rochester felt a\n little pity for the glorious Barbara. But only for a moment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are you leaving?” He rose to his feet and tucked the monkey under one arm, as one might a hat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara reached the door as a maid opened it for her. “I am. Do you mean to go attired like that?” She eyed Rochester’s brown doublet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, lady. Clarendon and I”—he indicated the monkey—“I have named him, do you see? We will dress, and see you at the ball.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’m sure that Clarendon will enliven the proceedings.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester swept a bow. “I shall do my best to see that he does, my lady.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen and her ladies gone, Jenny spent a few minutes tidying and putting away the patch box and powder. Then she took up the queen’s fine shift and\n dressing robe and a few other things, and started for the back stairs and the laundry. She wished, for a moment, that she could see the faces of the lords\n and ladies at the ball when they beheld her little queen—Jenny had developed a proprietary feeling for Queen Catherine—in her spangled and glittering\n finery. Most had not seen the wan, sickly little thing that stepped onto English soil in Portsmouth, so they could not appreciate how much English fashion\n and English life had improved her. Jenny was smiling as she went down narrow stone stairs worn by a hundred years of footsteps, the clothes in one arm, her\n skirts held up with the other. It would not do to fall here.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n An unfamiliar servant went past her, carrying, from the smell of it, a pail of night soil. Jenny wrinkled her nose and continued downward. On the next\n landing she threaded her way through a crowd of manservants, porters or the like, standing about nattering as if they had naught else to do. She was headed\n for the leftmost stairway; it had taken her a long while to get her bearings here—there were more than a thousand rooms at Whitehall—but she knew her way\n to the laundry right enough.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What’s that smell, Rob?” one of the men she saw in the crowd said loudly. “That the smell of a papist, ye think?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny flushed. She clutched the queen’s robes tighter and kept her eyes down. She could handle one rowdy man, right enough, but six or seven? Best to keep\n moving.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Smells like a papist to me, Jack,” another man said. “Like one of them Port-a-gee. Thought they’d sent ’em all packing?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Looks like a papist, too,” Jack said. The crowd closed up, and Jenny found herself confronted by one broad chest, then another. “Brown as a nut and\n black-haired. Only thing I heard is: Them Port-a-gee women, when ye get ’em alone—” He went on with a description so raw that Jenny blushed . . . and lost\n her temper.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’d check my own scent before I talk of anyone else’s,” she snapped. “And speak civil to an honest woman. I’m no more a papist than the Archbishop of\n Canterbury, born in Portsmouth and as good an Englishwoman as—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The man nearest her, stocky, with tow hair and smallpox pitting on his cheeks, put an arm out to gather her in. “Now, sweet, don’t be like that. Th’art\n comely enough for a Port-a-gee—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny dodged backward, but found herself against the wall. A lick of panic flamed in her. The leftmost staircase was too far away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hal Sudby, ye mind yer hands! Rob, Tim, Jack! What are you lot doing about ’ere?” The interruption had come from one of the cooks, a broad, red-faced\n woman with winged ginger eyebrows and a starched coif, who stood, arms akimbo, glaring comprehensively at the group. “Ye’re wanted belowstairs—there’s tuns\n of good wine to be brung up. And you, girl, get about yer business and don’t try your tricks on a bunch of honest lads.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was on Jenny’s lips to defend herself, but already the cook had started toward the kitchen, and the crowd of men stepped away. As one of them passed her\n he gave a great sniff and made an exaggerated gesture of holding his nose. Then he was gone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nJenny turned to the laundry stairs, still clutching the robes in her arms hard. Her pleasure in imagining the queen’s reception at the ball had quite fled. \u003cem\u003eHonest lads\u003c/em\u003e, indeed; her mother had often said one lout in a crowd of good fellows could spell trouble as well as one bad apple in a barrel. She\n hoped that the queen met with more courtesy at the ball.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The walls and ceiling of the Great Hall were hung with velvet drapes. Nearest the doors, they were the blue of a midnight sky, spangled with brilliants\n like stars clustered in the arch of the Milky Way. Dom Francisco de Mello eyed the drapes with delight; whatever could be said of King Charles and his\n court, style did not lack. As de Mello walked farther in he looked up to see the blue shading to the soft grays of the skies before dawn, then pale rose\n and the blazing gold of sunrise (with wisps of gauze hung like clouds across a morning sky) and at the farthest reach of the chamber the velvet drapes were\n the brilliant, clear blue of noon, and the thrones that waited were gilded and set before a spray of golden wire: \u003cem\u003ethe sun\u003c/em\u003e, de Mello thought with\n amusement and appreciation. And the king and queen would be the suns around which this celebration orbited.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello looked for the queen, but among the dozens of brilliantly dressed ladies and gentlemen of the court, he did not see his goddaughter. The\n king—taller than any other man in the room, and nearly ablaze in the cloth of gold and satin of his doublet and breeches, was here—not yet seated. Perhaps\n he was waiting for Catherine. De Mello watched as the king spoke to this courtier, then the other. He did not stand upon ceremony, this king, and yet—de\n Mello’s eyes narrowed as he observed King Charles—with all his easy charm, there was a distance and a melancholy a sharp eye could observe.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king made his way toward the dais and the thrones, looking here and there for someone. De Mello hoped perhaps it was the queen he sought, but then, as\n he watched, the king’s eye was caught by the tall beauty in cloth of silver, her chestnut hair coiled around and framed by a silver disk behind her head.\n The moon. Dom Francisco marveled at the audacity of Lady Castlemaine. The moon, to partner with the king’s sun.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Not for the first time, de Mello felt a great sadness for his goddaughter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king joined Lady Castlemaine, who bowed very low to her sovereign, but with such a dimpling, laughing eye that it was plain she believed him entirely\n in her thrall. And the court around her observed this behavior and saw nothing out of the ordinary: Barbara, Countess Castlemaine, captor of the king’s\n heart. De Mello quelled an impulse to go forward and chivalrously defend Catherine’s place. There was no point. She was queen, yes, but Charles was king,\n and what he made of the marriage was what it would be.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A servant passed with a salver of cups. De Mello took one and drank deeply.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a quarter hour he walked through the crowd, smiling and bowing when courtesy required it, aware as he always was of the few who turned away from a\n greeting from his Catholic self. Where was the queen? Had Catherine’s nerve failed her? A ball in her honor, but one at which Barbara Castlemaine held\n court? Perhaps as well that the queen stay away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then there was a flurry of movement at the door, and a fanfare. De Mello moved forward in the crowd, straining to see who had come.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The figure at the doorway could hardly be his goddaughter. Two of her attendant ladies were behind her, but de Mello had eyes only for Catherine, who\n tonight wore a gown of velvet so deep a blue that it seemed to capture the light from the sconced torches and candles. Nearest the hem of her skirt, the\n cloth was patterned with brilliants in the same way as the drapes overhead, and on one side a ray of brilliants twisted into the tail of a shooting star\n that blazed across the queen’s breast to a brooch of diamonds and sapphires upon her shoulder. Her dark hair was held in place with combs that sparkled\n with brilliants, and across her head, fixed among her curls, a trail of silver foil and more brilliants ascended to a radiant star.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello gave a private laugh. Barbara Castlemaine might be the moon, but Catherine, Queen of England, had eclipsed the moon and come as a comet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment Catherine paused, looking out at the court—which, in turn, was looking back at her. Did her heart fail her? Did she step back? Perhaps for a\n moment. Then, with a smile as bright as her jewels, she began to cross the room. De Mello watched her acknowledge the bows and salutes from the crowd, and\n ignore the two or three whose scowls were a commentary on her foreignness or her Catholicism. She stopped to raise someone—Lady Bath, one of her English\n ladies—and kiss her cheek.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Deus\u003cem\u003e, regal as her mother\u003c/em\u003e, de Mello thought.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He, and all the court, watched Catherine as she approached her husband. Dom Francisco was pleased to see that, for the moment, at least, the king’s\n attention was entirely upon his wife.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello thought that Barbara Castlemaine, standing behind the king, did not care for that at all.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When she reached the king, Catherine bowed deeply. He held out a hand, took hers, and raised it to his lips. De Mello could not hear what he said to her,\n but Catherine blushed and laughed. Her eyes were all for her husband.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then the Queen of England turned to greet her husband’s mistress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine inclined her head as she might have done to anyone at all. Had Lady Castlemaine hoped for a scene like that from their last encounter? She was to\n be unsatisfied. Catherine, standing by her husband’s side, looked patiently at the other woman. The whole room was hushed, all eyes upon the two women\n before them. Catherine did not speak; she did not smile; she waited until Barbara Castlemaine, slowly, almost awkwardly, dropped into a curtsy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine nodded again and turned to speak to her husband. The king, de Mello thought, had been surprised, perhaps amused, by his wife’s composure. Lady\n Castlemaine had not.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello considered how he would describe the scene to his queen when he wrote to her tonight. He had told Catherine that she must find her way, but how\n had it happened so quickly? Queen Luisa might think there was only one way to be a queen, but she had never imagined the challenges she had sent her\n daughter to face.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eThe girl is a queen.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He could feel Barbara’s eyes upon his back. \u003cem\u003eI shall pay for that\u003c/em\u003e, Charles thought. But what would she have had him do? The moment he saw Barbara\n dressed in garb meant to complement his own, he knew that she meant to put her rival in the shade. But Catherine—he smiled down at his wife, frankly\n magnificent in her gown and jewels. Who would have thought her capable of carrying off such a toilette?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam, I think we must take our place in the heavens,” he said to her in Spanish. He paused to look over the crowd, gave a salute, and the musicians\n struck up. At once, couples began to form for the dance.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Shall we lead them out?” he gestured to the dancers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She curtsied, then leaned forward to murmur to him, “I have not thanked Your Majesty for your patience in teaching me \u003cem\u003equinze\u003c/em\u003e the other night. May\n I call upon your patience again in acquainting me with English dance?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It would be my honor, lady.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He led her down among the dancers, who parted to let their sovereign take his place.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the end of the dance, when the queen stood, laughing with pleasure, he said, “Madam, is it possible you have lied to your sovereign lord?” Charles\n looked down at Catherine from his full height, a smile in his eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lied, sire?\"\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You gave me to believe that you required tuition in dance, but the woman with whom I shared a branle has quite a pretty step.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Warm color suffused his wife’s olive skin. “You are too kind, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The blush pleased the king. “And your eyes are brighter stars than any you imperson. Now, will you dance again or sit?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nAs a king and a man, Charles had long understood his effect upon women—and their effect upon him. But this—he remembered again that this was his \u003cem\u003ewife\u003c/em\u003e. This charming girl with stars—and her heart—in her eyes. And he was her \u003cem\u003ehusband\u003c/em\u003e. As different to be a lover or a husband as to be a\n prince in exile or a king in his own land. He had, he thought, some things to learn of this.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine was speaking.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Pardon, lady?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I would like to dance again, if Your Majesty will partner me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The musicians were tuning up for a country dance. Around them the lords and ladies of the court turned and turned again in patterns of brilliant color.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It would be my greatest pleasure.” He held out his hand, she put hers in it—more confidently, this time—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From somewhere at the rear of the room a sudden roar of noise brought the music and the dancers to a halt. Impossible at first to see what the ado was, and\n then half a dozen dogs, \u003cem\u003ehis\u003c/em\u003e dogs, came tearing through the crowd, being deviled by some sort of imp. Rogue and True, in the fore, tore under the\n skirts of this lady, into the knees of that fat fellow in a green doublet. And the imp—no, a monkey in a tiny striped red-and-white doublet and a laced hat\n tied upon its head—leapt from True’s back to the shoulder of the Duchess of Richmond, then on to a torch, where the heat made the creature hiss, rear up,\n and jump again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All was chaos. Rogue, True, Amity, Bacchus, even wise old Babette were running through the crowd, baying at the monkey that cowered and gibbered and swung from the cloth that draped the ceiling. The chain that swung from the monkey’s collar caught in this hat, that lace, with each of the animal’s movements.\n Servants ran from all corners, waving uselessly at the monkey with spoons and staves.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Movement caught the king’s eye from the back of the room. \u003cem\u003eDear Christ, not another monkey!\u003c/em\u003e No, no ape but a young man with fair hair stood there,\n tucked into the doorway, watching the mayhem of his creating with satisfaction.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king strode through the tumult toward the doorway, and took the man by the ear like a schoolboy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lord Rochester, I presume that is your monkey, and not a relative?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester, evidently torn between mirth and apprehension, attempted a bow while the king still held his ear. When that availed him naught, he agreed that\n the monkey was indeed his.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You will go and collect your animal—and my dogs, if you will be so good—and remove them from the Great Hall. In fact, I pray you will take the monkey to\n your own house and leave him there—with yourself. Am I understood?” The king released Rochester’s ear and kept his voice steady by main force; laughing at\n the boy’s prank would only encourage him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I understand entirely, sire. My apologies, sire.” Rochester swept the king a deep bow and charged forward into the Great Hall, making a peculiar clicking\n noise to get the monkey’s attention until he could grasp the chain and bring the animal to bay.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles followed more slowly, watching Rochester untangle the monkey from a shred of velvet from the drapes, then from a lady’s curls it had clenched in\n its fist. With the beast finally clutched to his chest, the earl gave a sharp whistle to summon Charles’s dogs, and led them away in a ragged parade. In\n his wake, ladies wept or swooned; some men were laughed, others scolded or bent solicitously over the women.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Which made the king turn to look to \u003cem\u003ehis\u003c/em\u003e women. Barbara was not to be seen. But Catherine? He sought her among the dancers, saw her not, then\n looked to the dais. There his queen sat in her gilded chair, her hand raised to her mouth in an attempt to contain her amusement, her expression what he\n imagined to be a mirror of his own.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It would do, he thought. \u003cem\u003eShe\u003c/em\u003e would do.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCatherine and Charles’s growing affection was tested, and Catherine’s iron will demonstrated, when the two engaged in a stand-off over the appointment of Barbara to the queen’s personal household. Unused to not getting her way, Barbara succeeded tricking Catherine into publicly acknowledging her existence. Her plan backfired when Catherine, hurt by the king’s callous treatment and obvious deference to Barbara, strengthened her resolve. \n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eClarendon\u003c/strong\u003e: Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor. Father in law to James and advisor to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDon Francisco de Mello\u003c/strong\u003e: Conde de Ponte, Portuguese ambassador to England\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Madeleine E. Robins\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.50","slug":"whitehall-4","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP4.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall4serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall4serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall4serialbox.pdf","share_url":"https://www.serialbox.com/episodes/whitehall-4","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":"Episode 4"},{"id":"5710ed49ada6e22ac9d178f4","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":5,"title":"The Rules of the Game","released_date":"2016-06-15T11:45:20.880+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"New arrivals cause a stir.","byline":"Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall5.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-06-15","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eSeptember 1662\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eThwack—sssss—CRACK!\u003c/em\u003e\n The ball shot through the iron hoop and rebounded off the pole. “Oh, well played, Your Majesty!” Catherine clapped her hands.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles turned and saluted her with his mallet. His page trotted up with the small hardwood ball; Charles took it, dropped it, and swung his mallet in an\n exuberant circle to send the ball hurtling back down the white crushed cockleshell pitch toward the other end, where a matching hoop hung far off the\n ground. All the gentlemen ran after it, coattails and long hair flying behind them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feliciana, Catherine’s spaniel, leaped from her lap and flung herself into the pack of Charles’s dogs, who ran yipping happily down the spectator’s side of\n the waist-high fence in parallel to the men. Gregory the fox gamboled with them, twice their size but just as unrestrained in his joy. Remembering the\n uproar occasioned by Rochester’s monkey at the ball, Catherine thought it a good thing that the young earl had banished the animal to his country estate.\n It was a funny creature—how she and Charles had laughed over it later! But it distressed the dogs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The gentlemen in the distance tangled in a scrum, then broke apart and ran again. Wearing their usual velvets and silks in brilliant jewel tones,\n fluttering all over with ribbons, they looked, Catherine thought, like a flock of brightly colored birds.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She clasped her hands under her chin and smiled happily. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Buckingham and Lady Suffolk exchange a smile, fleeting\n and all but secret. Catherine instantly schooled her face into a more demure and dignified neutrality.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But was she not allowed to display her pleasure, her innocent and honest joy in her husband’s prowess? She was still learning what seemed a Byzantine\n tangle of unspoken rules in this new world. Perhaps it was for her as queen to set the rules, but how could she, when she was still uncertain of the\n ground? And she knew—oh, how keenly she was aware—that she was in no position to set any fashions, for who would follow her? While the king showed her\n respect and came to her bed most every night, all imagined that she had his ear, and so all took care to be polite. That, still, was as far as it went.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But today she was happy, and would trust that all would be well. The afternoon sun shone on the golden leaves of St. James’s Park. It was still warm enough\n to sit picnicking with the lightest of wraps, in little upholstered chairs carried outside for the purpose. A soft breeze brought the heavenly fall scent\n of the last fading flowers, decaying leaves, and woodsmoke, amid the mingled perfumes of the court ladies about her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She reached out and squeezed the Duchess of York’s hand as she sat beside her. She said in Spanish, “Sister, your husband plays well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne looked after James as he took his shot—and sent the ball whistling into the trees beyond the hoop. She laughed and said, “I hope he fires his cannon\n with more accuracy, else we’ll be in danger of falling to the Dutch next war.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A troop of small boys went running after the errant ball, whooping and jostling to be the one to carry it back. The leafy park all around the pall-mall\n grounds was thronged with spectators—workers, merchants, gentlefolk, and apprentices—anyone who had a mind to watch the court at its play. Anne noticed\n Catherine’s glance and said, “Is it still strange to you? I know it is quite different at the court of Lisbon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, yes. I never once saw my father or mother among ordinary people. It is so much more formal there.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It was so here too, before. But I must say, I think it better now; the people love Charles for his easiness with them. And what a bore to be always on\n one’s perfect dignity, don’t you think?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps? In any case, I don’t suppose I could. I keep slipping up as it is, like a fool.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne shook her head in mock sorrow. “And now I have a bitter choice: to contradict my sister and my queen, or agree with one who mocks her, even though it\n be herself.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine smiled. “Very well, but is it mockery if it is true?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a rustling at Catherine’s elbow, and she turned her head to see her newest attendant, Lady Eleanor Plumstead. Beside her stood a servant with a\n large tray, and on it an array of gleaming silver cups.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor offered, “Would it please Your Majesty to drink a mulberry syllabub?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine accepted a cup and sipped. Cool, thick, and creamy, both sweet and tart. Carefully practicing her English, she said, “Much good, I thank you. But\n I do not know this . . . mul-bur-ee?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is a fruit, madam, a large berry. There is a whole garden of them here in the park.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor was newly arrived from Bedfordshire, where, it seemed, her family’s estate was much reduced. There were many such stories, Catherine had come\n to understand, since the Civil War. So perhaps it was not surprising that the lady seemed a grave young woman. She had a habit of looking down when\n Catherine spoke to her, not insolently, nor shyly, but with a careful reserve.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And she was thin to the point of looking not quite well. Catherine wondered if it would give offense if she were to express concern. Perhaps she should\n wait a bit, until the lady seemed more at ease with her. For now, at least, she could surely urge her to take a syllabub herself, for she alone among the\n ladies had waved the tray away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine was composing the English for this in her head when she was distracted by another resounding \u003cem\u003ecrack\u003c/em\u003e of wooden mallet and ball, followed\n by a shout of masculine voices. Apparently—for she had not bothered to absorb the rules of the game, beyond the obvious point of getting the ball through\n the hoops—Charles had now won the match. His brother was clapping him amiably on the shoulder and the other gentlemen were bowing and laughing, and\n good-naturedly jeering each other on their bad plays. They all came strolling up in the sunshine, thirstily downing tankards of small beer handed to them\n by pages.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCharles had loosened his neckcloth; there was a sheen of sweat on his throat as he swallowed, a sun-warmed ruddiness to his skin. Catherine thought, \u003cem\u003eLook away, Catarina, do you want them all to see how you feel? \u003c/em\u003eIf she had learned nothing else at court, she knew it was considered the height of\n absurdity to be in love with your own husband. But she found it curiously hard to tear her gaze away. He lowered his tankard and met her eyes, and she\n blushed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rising, she came down to the edge of the pitch to meet him, followed by Anne and the other ladies. “I take it you won, sir,” she said in Spanish, “and so I\n congratulate you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I thank you, sweetheart, but let me hear you say so in English. Do you remember that phrase I taught you? Very suitable at this moment.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine concentrated, and brought out, “Con . . . confess and be hanged!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To her astonishment, this caused a sensation: the men laughing, the ladies gasping and then attempting and many failing to repress laughter. Charles\n positively howled and James nearly wept, leaning one arm on Charles’s shoulder so as not to collapse with laughter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What? What did I say? You told me it meant—oh, you devil!” But even Catherine had to laugh; it was too infectious. Charles caught his breath and took her\n hand across the fence, bowing and kissing it. “My dear, forgive me—I could not resist!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James wiped his eyes, saying, “Good of you to take it well, sister; Lord, what a joke!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne pretended to frown at her husband. “And did you know of it, rogue?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He pretended to be put out. “And so if I did, vixen?” Putting one hand on a post, he leapt lightly over the fence, where he put his arm round his wife’s\n waist and kissed her. Catherine felt a slight coolness around them, ladies and courtiers stiffly averting their eyes, as though this was felt to be going\n rather too far in public.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Another fine point of etiquette. And a reminder that she could not take Anne as her absolute guide, for the Duchess of York, too, was a species of\n outsider. No one ever forgot she had been born before her father Clarendon had attained his title, nor that James had only married her because he’d gotten\n her with child and Charles had insisted. Still, was it not a happy thing that they loved each other? After all, it might very easily have been otherwise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne leaned away from James and said, “Come sir, will you put on your hat? A chill taken after sweating is the most dangerous.” She beckoned to a page\n holding James’s hat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James said carelessly, “Well, I will indulge you, madam,” and put it on.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles had reassumed his own hat, though none of the other gentlemen had, and was just turning back to Catherine, when a movement farther down the pitch\n seemed to catch his eye. Everyone turned to look. A wide gate had been opened, and several gentlemen were approaching. At the fore was a striking young\n man, slim and well made, with dark brown hair flying back over his shoulders. He was beautifully dressed in rust-colored velvet slashed through to show the\n pewter-satin lining. As soon as he came within speaking distance of the king, he swept off his plumed hat and bowed gracefully and low, saying, “Your\n Majesty, may I present myself your most obedient servant?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles looked at him very keenly, Catherine thought. He beckoned him to rise and then, to her surprise, opened his arms and enveloped him in an embrace.\n The youth came up only to his shoulder, though he was by no means short of stature. Her husband kissed him on both cheeks and stepped back, looking warmly\n at him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You are welcome, most welcome indeed. How does my beloved mother the Queen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is very well, sir, and sends her loving regards. And a letter, I have it about me . . .”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Later will do for that. Well, my lad. I am sorry it has been so long. Two years, is it possible? You’ve shot up marvelously, nearly as tall as James.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young man bowed to the Duke of York and said, “Your Grace, I rejoice to see you well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James grinned at him. “Welcome to England, and not before time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles now turned toward Catherine. A formality entered into his tone as he said to her, “Your Majesty. Pray allow me to present to you our most dear\n friend and newest courtier, of late in attendance at the Queen Mother’s court in France. James Crofts.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Young Mister Crofts turned to her and made a very proper bow, though he looked pale. She saw that he was nearly crushing his hat in his hands. Naturally,\n she thought, he was shy at being presented to the queen. Still, there was something here she did not understand. Why would Charles present a young man of\n no rank or title to her so formally? Why did Charles and James seem to regard him so affectionately and informally, almost as though he were . . . and as\n the word “family” rang in her head, she saw the resemblance, and she understood.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In an instant, an entire sequence of thoughts flashed through her mind:\n \u003cem\u003e\n Who was his mother, how am I to feel, but after all it was long ago—there is no time to think it through—all are looking, everyone knows, this is\n Charles’s acknowledged son, it’s clear as day—put the poor boy at his ease, that is all that matters now.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She gave him a kind smile, and offered him her hand. “Welcome, Mister Crofts. Soon I hope to know you, and love you also.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He hesitated; for such a clearly well-trained young man, his awkwardness with her was touching. He took her hand very lightly, his lips hovering over it so\n she barely felt their warmth before he dropped her hand and stepped back, avoiding her eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles said, “Here, that’s well met. You’ll be good friends, I know it. Jamie, we’ve rooms for you at Whitehall, and we’ll find you occupation enough.”\n And turning back to his brother—“A hunt tomorrow, eh, James?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James. Of course. Named for his uncle and great-grandfather. Young James Crofts was still more pretty than handsome, at that age where the glow of youth is as lovely in a boy as in a girl. But he stood martially straight, and it was easy enough to see the Stuart look about him, a firmness to his chin, and\n resolution in his large dark eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Though at the moment he still seemed ill at ease; he shifted from foot to foot and visibly shivered. The air was cooling rapidly as the sun slanted low\n through the trees. Charles said in a kindly tone, “Come, dear boy, cover your head. You’re not yet used to our changeable English climate.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine saw the young James look up at Charles as though startled. A slight flush came into his cheeks; he put his hat on slowly and stood even\n straighter than before. No one reacted visibly, but there was a stillness, an electricity in the air. She felt her sister-in-law grow rigid beside her, and\n exchange a glance with the duke, for no more than an instant, before they both looked perfectly bland. All this because the king had told a boy to put his\n hat on?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Before she could think further on it, she noticed a line of sedan chairs being carried up for the return to the palace. Charles came through the gate and\n led her to her chair, saw her seated, and closed the door. She reached both hands out the window and he took them in his, leaning down to speak privately.\n “Thank you, sweet Cat, for greeting him so kindly. We shall talk more of it when I come to you tonight.” He squeezed her hands, and gave her that tender\n look that always undid her. “Of that, and other things.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I await it with pleasure, my lord.” She blushed again, hoping she didn’t sound too eager. He kissed her hand, then turned away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come on, let us walk,” he said to the gentlemen. He began to stride off, but not before she overheard his brother say, in the tone of one who has said it\n before, “I tell you, Charles, you hazard yourself needlessly. Must you go right among the common folk, as though you were anyone but yourself?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If I kept myself from them, I would be someone other than myself. Anyway, my dear James,” Charles smiled and patted his shoulder, “nobody would kill me to\n put you on the throne.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James laughed, giving up the argument. Catherine’s chair lurched as the men stood with it, and the procession of ladies began winding its way back through\n the park, as behind them pages collected the balls and mallets and maids packed up the picnic, drinking the leftover syllabubs and beer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor leaned out of the window of her sedan chair as it swayed out of St. James’s Park and approached the immense Holbein Gate on Whitehall Road\n that led into the palace.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Take me to Westminster,” she commanded the man carrying the front poles.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He turned off into Parliament Street, his thick neck, broad back, and straining shoulders communicating nothing but the effort it took to carry half the\n weight of the heavy chair and her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She leaned back against the leather seat. She’d have much preferred to walk, but ladies did not walk in London. The streets were incompletely paved—here\n paving stones harking back to the Romans, there raw dirt where grass sprouted up in less trodden-upon corners, and everywhere mud and the contents of a\n hundred chamber pots befouling every lane. London was still at its heart a medieval city, a warren of close-built half-timber houses blocking out the sun,\n and overcrowded with city folk, bustling and rough-tongued. She gazed out at it and thought of the country lanes of Bedfordshire, wrens twittering in the\n hedgerows, the clean smell of burning leaves in the good crisp air, the autumn sun burnishing the stubbled fields, country people walking in their neat\n kerchiefs, with their ancient respect for her family. Her family. Her thin fingers twisted in her lap and her breath caught short.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The men carrying her chair lurched to a stop and lowered it to the ground. She tightened her lips and her resolve, and stepped into Westminster Palace, the\n seat of the English Parliament.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Inside, a young man waited to guide her through an endless maze of halls and stairs. After a time, he knocked on one of the myriad doors, opened it, and\n said, “Lady Eleanor Plumstead, my lord.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The man sitting at a large, paper-littered table on the far side of the room looked up. “Very good. Remain outside and see we are not disturbed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The door closed behind her, and they were alone. He did not rise. Nor did he offer her a chair, or any refreshment. His tone when he spoke was, to her\n ears, decidedly insolent. “You’ve taken your time about it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She stepped farther into the room and sat in a chair along the wall, where she carefully arranged her skirts as she looked about the room. It faced the\n river; water reflections shimmered on the ceiling. The window was open an inch or two, letting in the stink of the river and the indistinct shouts of\n boatmen. The walls were hung with portraits and tapestry, the mute boastings of a noble family. Not more ancient than hers, though her ancestral walls were\n bare now, the adornments sold off one after another.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feeling she’d delayed for as long she could, she turned her gaze on Lord Russell.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He was looking irritated. A young lord, three years younger than she at just twenty-three, though he’d been a Member of Parliament for Bedfordshire these\n two years already. He was clean-shaven, lean-jawed, inclined to a choleric ruddiness, with narrow eyes of a disconcerting pale blue. She knew him of old. A\n second son, but the first was some species of idiot, so he’d all the duties of a first son with none of the rewards. It had made him keen. He was ever a\n weapon looking for a fight.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now he snapped at her. “Well? What have you to tell me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She took a steadying breath, and spoke quietly. “You are abrupt, my lord.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What’s that?” As she’d intended, in choosing to sit so far from him and speaking so low, he was prompted to get up and come around the desk, so he could\n hear. He had not risen in courtesy, but he had risen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was a small enough victory, and brief. He seized a chair and brought it close to her, so close that when he sat their knees nearly touched. She\n stiffened. He leaned in, and cocked an ear in an exaggerated fashion. “Well?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, my lord. If you insist on foregoing all ceremony in favor of business—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What should there be but business between us? Unless you care to offer me pleasure on the side? I should be glad to entertain such an offer, though you\n never were so inclined in the past.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She flinched inwardly, but her gaze remained steady.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It would be kind in you, sir, to recall that it was not I who ended our perfectly honorable association.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nor I, truly, I declare. I would have gone through with it—honorably, as you say. Alas, circumstances intervened.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Circumstances,” she repeated in a dry and bitter tone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, circumstances. Or would you rather I speak more plainly and say your father’s damnable—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I beg you, sir.” She rose hastily as she spoke, hearing a tremor in her voice. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at her, pale eyes glinting.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Just so. Pray, my lady, be seated. And tell me what you have learned of the queen’s treachery.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor resumed her seat, her stomach clenching. She said, “I am profoundly sorry to disappoint you, my lord. But I have nothing of value to report.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He frowned. “Nothing?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I promise you, no one could be more desirous than I to discover something that might be used against her. But I cannot tell you what I have not seen. She\n goes about her religious observances in perfect decorum.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His face darkened. “I find this hard to believe. Does she not attempt to convert any of her household?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have not seen any such attempt. We attend her to Mass, of course, in our turn, but that is only as is seemly; no observance is urged upon us. She does\n not so much as speak of the Pope—were it not for her own constant devotion, one would scarcely know she was a servant of Rome.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nHe stood and began to pace. “This will not do. I have not spent valuable influence getting you placed in the queen’s household on the expectation of \u003cem\u003enothing.\u003c/em\u003e”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am very sorry, my lord, but—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He took no notice of her protest. “It will not do, it will not do; I will not have it! The Queen of England, our England, a follower of that absurd, vile,\n bloody, and perilous cult? They are sworn to the Pope, sworn to do his bidding. What might follow? Will she not be determined to undermine the king’s faith\n and bring him over to Rome, to the ruin of us all? His family is already infested by them—his mother, the Duchess of York—and it’s said his French sister\n writes him at every post! How do we know what persuasions they bring to bear? And even if he be firm, who can say what the future will bring, if our lady\n bear him a son, and he die before her? Will she not be determined to give us a Catholic for our next king? I swear, I will burn before I turn Catholic,\n before I see our country forced to its knees before a foreign power.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He had been pacing and speaking as though to a greater audience than she; it was the speech he longed to give in Parliament and never, never could, she\n thought. Now he turned his cold blue gaze upon her again. “I will fight to the limits of my strength to prevent such a catastrophe. I will use \u003cem\u003eyou\u003c/em\u003e\n as long as you are useful, and if you fail me, I swear, I will not fail to ruin you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor had listened warily to the young lord’s ranting, but at this, her pale face turned even paler with anger. “Ruin me?” she cried, rising. “How much\n more can I be ruined?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I believe you know,” he flared back at her. “I believe you know how much farther you have to fall, if you lose my favor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Stung, she lost all control. “Yes, yes, I am in your power, but you need not taunt me with it, when you must know—you must know all too well—how little I\n need your urging to wish to destroy the queen—aye, I would murder the king himself with my own hands if I dared!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Be still!” She caught her breath, and stood trembling. He seized her by both shoulders. “You go too far. I do not seek the king’s life. You are too rash,\n my lady.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His fingers were bruising hard. She lowered her eyes, defeated. “I know it. I know it. Pray you, overlook it. You know I was provoked.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well. I have no wish to threaten you, only to make you know I am in earnest.” His grip softened, and his voice grew less harsh. “Indeed, I am sorry for\n your troubles, Eleanor. Your father was foolish, but I would not have wished his death on a dog that had bitten me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Foolish. Aye. Foolish to have trusted a king who spoke of mercy and showed none.” She was trembling so, she found herself glad for his hands still on her\n shoulders. Strange: He was her tormenter, not her friend, yet he was the only person in all the world to whom she could speak freely of the worst things in\n her mind.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Have you seen a man drawn and quartered, my lord?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was speaking to the breast of his charcoal-velvet doublet, finding herself unable to look up. He didn’t answer at once, and then he only murmured,\n “Yes. But not your father. And nor did you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No. We stayed behind in the country. But . . . but we knew . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her voice faltered. That agonizing day, her family weeping and praying, knowing that in London, their father was being hanged, cut down still conscious,\n his . . . his parts cut off and his entrails pulled out of his living body, his body cut in pieces as though he were a hog at the butchering . . . Her\n breath stuttered. Somewhere far away, she heard Russell saying, “It was the law. He signed the old king’s death warrant. He was a \u003cem\u003eregicide.\u003c/em\u003e”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the word, she felt her strength return a little, fueled by anger. She pulled away and walked a few steps, gripped the back of a chair. “Yes. He was. He\n did what he believed was necessary. What was \u003cem\u003eright\u003c/em\u003e. And he might have fled the country, when the prince came home. But he was promised mercy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked back at Russell, who was watching her tensely. He said, “That is in the past now, lady. And you will admit the king has shown \u003cem\u003eyou\u003c/em\u003e\n mercy. In allowing the penitent daughter of a fallen earl to attend his queen at court, he has shown himself gracious and forgiving.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, \u003cem\u003eshown\u003c/em\u003e,” she said passionately. “All show, all playacting—behold the bountiful King Charles—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Enough, my lady, enough. Your grief for your father does you credit, no doubt, but you must not let it make you stupid. You are not the heroine of an old\n play; revenge is not in our story. Again, shall I remind you of what you have at stake?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor straightened, her lips tightening. She didn’t trust herself to speak.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have always said you were the only intelligent person in your entire family,” Lord Russell went on. “A pity that you were not born a man. Your brother\n is as foolish as his father.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If you please, my lord, no, you need not remind me.” Her voice was hoarse with bitterness. “My brother’s foolishness is the halter round my neck.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her brother, her beloved younger brother, as passionate a Parliamentarian as their father had been, and wild to avenge him. It had been nothing, truly—only\n impetuous talk with sons of other dissenters—but oh, God, the reckless boy needs must put it in a letter, put it in \u003cem\u003ewriting\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It could have been far worse; the letter could have fallen into the hands of authority rather than their country neighbor’s. When the zealous young Lord\n Russell had come to her, he had told her he did not wish to see her brother in the Tower; he did not wish to see their lands seized, she and her mother\n left homeless. He did not \u003cem\u003ewish\u003c/em\u003e it. But while he held this proof of her brother’s crime, she must play his game. She must come to London, in exile\n from all she loved, and do things she had no skill in at all: dissemble and feign as she spied upon the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Russell came too close again, one hand on her arm to keep her still. She knew he did it with deliberation, to let her know what he could do, if he would.\n But she did not truly fear him on that point. For all his ruthlessness, he was too temperate and self-controlled to violate her honor. As for her own\n desires, if matters had gone differently, if they had been wed? She hardly knew. Any such tender inclinations in her had been cauterized the day her father\n died.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He spoke quietly. “Well, then. No more of that. I will not harry you more. But we must have patience, and steadiness of will. We are playing chess, not\n some witless pall-mall. Hate the king all you like, but do not let it distract you from our purpose: to secure the country against the threat of a Popish\n queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He released her, and began his restless pacing again. “We must find out something against her. Something sufficient to send her home and free the king to\n marry a good Protestant princess. There must be something; it is not in the Catholic nature to be innocent of all intrigue.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor sank down into a chair. She was aware she had not eaten yet this day, and it was nearly evening. She never wanted to eat, nowadays.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her head swimming, she said, “I will try, I promise. I am sure I will find something. I have begun well; I will continue to attempt to gain her confidence.\n I think she is kindly disposed toward me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am glad to hear it.” Russell spoke absently, as though he were thinking of something else. He turned back to her. “There is something . . . perhaps\n nothing. But I have heard . . . the barest wisp of a rumor.”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is suggested that she insisted upon a Catholic wedding, in secret. That she married the king privately by her own rites, before making a mockery of our\n own decent ceremonies. For a king of England to undergo any such rite in his own dominion presided over by a Romish priest is quite outside the law.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor’s eyes widened. “If I could discover such a thing . . . !”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye. It would do our business for us. It would go off like gunpowder, and hurl her back to Portugal well scorched.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She stood, perfectly composed once more, and gave him a grave curtsy. “It grows late. I must return to Whitehall. Trust me, sir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He did not return her bow. But he nodded, and spoke with a degree more civility. “I do trust you. Only look you my trust is not misplaced.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Fear me not. No hawk has ever watched a mouse more keenly than I will watch the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Having followed the slow-moving train of sedan chairs back to Whitehall, Jenny hurried under the arch of the Holbein Gate, across an expanse of graveled\n courtyard and in through a small side door. She pattered along halls and up and down stairs, winding about through a maze whose key she had not long\n mastered. She could have laughed to think how naïve she’d been before coming, to think of the palace as though it were merely a large house. It was more\n like a sprawling city within the city, wing upon wing, outbuildings, courtyards, ornamental gardens and kitchen gardens, on and on. But at the very least,\n she had by now learned her way about sufficiently for her duties.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She emerged at last into a large, hot, and clamorous hall: the kitchens. These were not the only kitchens at Whitehall, but they served the royal\n households and those of the Duke and Duchess of York and the Lady Castlemaine, all of whose rooms were conveniently close to each other.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Well, convenient for \u003cem\u003esome\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The kitchens filled a long room, light filtering down from high windows, whitewashed brick ovens lining one wall, work-scarred tables running down the\n middle, large open hearths at either end. Fires roared, cooks and kitchen boys shouted, knives and wooden spoons banged and clattered, the short-legged\n turnspit dog ran in his wooden wheel up on the wall, revolving a dripping pig above the banked fire. Various doors led to pantries and butteries, and tall\n shelves gleamed with platters in silver and pewter and gold. Down at the far end, a cluster of the queen’s own Portuguese cooks worked apart, distinguished\n by their red neckerchiefs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny went straight to the shelf where the queen’s teapot stood, and carried it to a worktable. She handled it with reverence, for it was the rarest thing\n she had ever had the care of: tall and ewer-shaped, of porcelain painted and gilded all over with flowers and long snaky dragons. No one else she knew had\n such a thing as a teapot, let alone one that had come a-voyaging all the way from China on a Portuguese trading ship, and then to England with Catherine in\n a great straw-stuffed crate. She set it down, and went to fetch the paper-lined wooden box, stamped with strange red foreign symbols, that contained the\n precious tea.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All the while she worked, not one person greeted her. In fact, they all seemed to avoid even looking at her, as though utterly absorbed in their tasks. She sighed. What now? Had they talked about it and decided it wasn’t enough to tease and scorn her, but they must absolutely shun her too? In the months since\n she’d been in London, she’d only made one friend, Mavis, and perhaps that was only because they shared a sleeping room. And then there was Thom . . . but\n she pushed that thought away. With everyone else almost, she’d been wrong-footed and looked down upon and tsked at almost past bearing, and made to know\n she was a fish very far out of her proper water. Well, she cared not. She would serve the queen and trust God and let the rest fall out as it might.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lifting the lid of the tall pot, she carefully spooned in the right amount of tea. It was stale enough stuff. Tea was not plentiful in England, but she\n would have thought the queen would be better supplied. Was Jenny the only servant she had who put her whole heart into her work? So she grumbled inwardly,\n as she went over to a kettle steaming on the hearth, wrapped her apron round its handle, and carried it back to carefully pour in the near-boiling water.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Steam billowed out of the pot—and Jenny gagged and coughed. What was that horrible stench? She hastily set down the kettle and brought her apron up to\n cover her mouth and nose. A foul smell emanated from the pot—what on earth—?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The room burst into loud and raucous laughter as every soul, from the haughty \u003cem\u003echef de cuisine \u003c/em\u003eto the lowliest scullion laughed and pointed and\n jeered. She stared, then flushed with anger and blazed out at them, “A joke, is it? Do you think it funny, to poison the queen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They only laughed louder at that.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, don’t be daft, we knew you’d smell it first!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What odds she’d know the difference, the nasty stuff she eats!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ho, as if she has a nose for smell left, with the reek of that Popish incense!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Their words echoed in Jenny’s ears as they roared and hallooed and fell against each other with the joy of her outrage.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, will ye look at it, mad as a kicked hen, is it!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, there you are, foreigner’s got no sense of humor!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, can’t you take a joke, little Spaniard?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The funniest thing this age, oh, ha-ha-ha!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny was speechless and choked with fury. At the far end of the kitchens, she saw the Portuguese cooks look grim, but at her pleading glance, they turned\n silently back to their tasks. They had to work down here; they couldn’t afford a battle. Worse, there was Mavis, not joining in the laughter, to be sure,\n but not speaking up for her, not meeting her eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny set her jaw, picked up the reeking pot, and carried it through the door into the sunken kitchen yard, leaving the rude cacophony behind her. She\n marched over to the wall where the slops were dumped and poured out the hot stew of tea and—she supposed—horse shit, careful not to splash her skirts. Then\n she went to the pump, picked up a wet rag, and cleaned out the pot, cradling it protectively despite the stink.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She understood rough humor. Servants everywhere had a way of letting off steam with plain talk and teasing. This was something different. This was meant to hurt. They were letting her know she was an outsider, and always would be. Her sight blurred, and she blinked hard. She would be damned before she let them\n see they’d gotten to her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Someone had come up, and was offering her a long-handled scrubbing brush. Jenny rubbed her forearm quickly across her eyes, and looked up. It was Mavis.\n Jenny’s lips tightened. She took the brush without a word.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis glanced back at the door, and stood with her back to Jenny, her hands on her hips, stretching as though to ease her back.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Never mind them, Jen,” she remarked to the sky. “It’s only by way of a jape, you know.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I \u003cem\u003edon’t\u003c/em\u003e know. And thanks very much for speaking up.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis sighed. “Well, I’m sorry for it, I am. But what could I do? I’ve got to get along, and they won’t like you more for liking me less. You’re new. It’ll\n pass.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It’s not only because I’m new. You know that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis chewed her lip. To be fair, she did look rueful. “Aye, it’s true. Your being half foreign and a countrywoman to boot, and that loyal to the new queen\n . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny shook a stray lock of hair out of her face and glowered up at Mavis. “And are they not loyal? She’s their queen too, isn’t she?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now, Jen, off your high horse, it’s not treason they’re about, but you can’t make people love where they don’t. They don’t know her yet. And they don’t\n know you. Give it time, that’s all.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny rinsed the pot out for the fifth time, and put her nose right inside to inhale. Sweet as well water.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She handed Mavis back the brush. Mavis made a face, and threw it across the yard to the slop heap. Jenny couldn’t help but snort a short laugh, and Mavis\n looked relieved. Well, Jenny thought, disappointed as she was, could she blame her? Mavis was a sensible girl, not looking for quarrels, and was it her\n fault Jenny was feeling so terribly alone? Again, Thom’s face came unbidden into her mind. He looked no more English than Jenny. Did he know what it was\n like to be an outsider? Would he have stood up for her, if he’d been here?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She shook the last drops of cold water out of the pot, and went back inside. Everyone was hard at work; she was greeted with no worse than subdued sniggers\n and wry looks. She made the tea, and turned to leave with her loaded tray.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She paused in the door and looked back. How she longed to say something to put them all in their place, to shame them and wipe their eyes, something witty\n and scornful and devastating! She took a deep breath, hoping for inspiration.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Nothing came. And no one was minding her anyway. She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and went her way.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine sat at her writing table by the window in a loose indoor gown, finishing a letter to her mother, Queen Regent of Portugal. Her spaniel Feliciana\n lay under the table with her head resting warmly on Catherine’s foot. The candles had been lit, but she held up the page to the last of the autumn daylight\n to read over what she’d written.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her last letter from Mamãe had been worrying. It was more full of admonitions to her daughter than news from home, but Catherine could read the cracks in\n the queen’s usual stoicism. Her younger brother the king was in no wise fit to rule; the childhood illness that had withered one arm had disordered his\n wits as well, and without their mother’s wise and steady regency Portugal would likely be in a sad state. Lately her brother had come under evil\n influences, and Catherine feared he was growing rebellious. She wished she could be there to help rein in his wildness. Alfonso was fond of her, and would\n sometimes listen to her when he would not to others.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But she was where she had to be. Her marriage had aligned English and Portuguese interests, and English ships and troops helped keep Portugal safe from a\n bellicose Spain. That was all she could do for her beloved homeland for now. And not add to her mother’s worries. She had certainly written nothing of what\n was uppermost on her mind, the presence of Charles’s natural son at court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She picked up her pen, dipped it in the ink, and wrote: \u003cem\u003eWith all my dearest love and duty, your obedient daughter, Catarina.\u003c/em\u003e Raising her head, she\n returned from thoughts of Portugal to her very pretty withdrawing room in Whitehall, mossy green taffeta curtains gleaming in the light from many candles,\n and a large open fire in the stone hearth taking the chill out of the air. Dona Maria sat as upright as usual in a straight-backed chair by another window,\n squinting over her tapestry. The Ladies Chesterfield and Bath were elsewhere tonight, perhaps with their husbands, though that was by no means something to\n be assumed, she had learned. Nearer the fire, the beautiful young Lady Buckingham sat reading her own letters, and Lady Suffolk and Lady Castlemaine lolled\n comfortably on low padded stools, their embroidery frames idle on their laps and their heads together for a gossip.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk, though dauntingly elegant in her dress, was the sort of self-possessed lady of middle years to whom Catherine was comfortably accustomed. She\n thought her at heart not so unlike Dona Maria, though they’d both have been startled by the comparison. Lady Castlemaine, on the other hand, she suffered\n as the price of peace with her husband, and because the lady was, quite simply, a fact of life at court. Continuing to oppose her would have been like\n opposing daybreak or nightfall. Resigning herself to Lady Castlemaine’s presence was made easier by Charles having promised, in the sweet afterglow of a\n night’s passion, that he would lie with Barbara no more. Catherine knew that he wished to make some amends for the distress her appointment had caused his\n wife, though she was beginning to understand that such promises, made in the heat of the moment, were not necessarily as binding as oaths. But as long as\n he came most nights to her own bed, she was content.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine tried to remember which lady’s turn it was to share her bed tonight, if the king did not. Lady Buckingham was a restless sleeper, Lady Suffolk\n snored, Lady Eleanor sometimes whimpered in her sleep, and Lady Castlemaine—well, Catherine had so far managed to evade finding out what she was like to\n sleep with, and she meant to continue to do so. She must allow the woman in her chamber, in her official position, but there was no power on earth that\n could compel her to address or even look at her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She glanced down at her letter. For all Mamãe had advised her to be politic, would she not be disappointed to see how ignominiously far Catherine had\n compromised? But then, Mamãe had never had to deal with a roving husband. Catherine’s dear father had been as faithful as the rising of the sun. At the\n Lisbon court, no pretty young men from the wrong side of the blanket had been tacitly acknowledged and presented to the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But then . . . she stared off into the air, struck by a new thought. If Charles were as faithful, as pious, as yielding to her influence as her father had been to her mother’s, would he not be another man entirely? Would he not be without that fire, that force of personality, that abundant vitality that she\n had loved from the moment she saw him walk through the door at Portsmouth? Would Charles be the king that England needed now, were he other than what he\n was?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The door opened and Jenny came in bearing the tea tray; Catherine’s thoughts scattered. The girl’s face was flushed and tense, but she set the tray on the\n round olivewood table with an air of pride that made Catherine smile. She’d done well to attach the girl to her household; she was quick and ardent in her\n work and Catherine had come to feel a fondness for her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny bobbed a curtsy and retreated as Catherine rose. Even a queen, she had quietly established, may be allowed to pour out the tea at her own table. Dona\n Maria half-stood in respect, but sank down again at once; she never drank tea so late in the day. “Will you take tea, my ladies?” Catherine said, in her\n carefully practiced English.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk and Lady Buckingham instantly rose and crossed to her politely. Lady Buckingham said, with deliberate courtesy, “If you please, madam, I’ll\n take a cup for your sake.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine had risen too, but stayed by the fire, and said in her silky voice, “Thank you, but no, Your Majesty—I will cry off, if you will forgive\n me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Ignoring this sally, Catherine poured for the others, in mercy only a little. They both swallowed that little with an air of gracious martyrdom, and set\n the porcelain cups on the tray.\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine took pity on them. “Do take wine, Lady Buckingham, Lady Suffolk. I know tea is not . . . not your taste.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk said, “Thank you, madam. God knows I mean no offense, but tea likes me not!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham said, “Indeed. It puts me in mind of a sickbed and an ill-tempered nurse. I cannot think it will ever come into fashion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine drank down her cup. She understood them perfectly, but was not yet quick enough in her English to say what she thought. Which was that she had no\n doubt the English people would become accustomed to tea in time, and find it most restorative.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She gestured to a servant to pour wine as the door opened, admitting Lady Eleanor. She curtsied to Catherine, who said, “My lady. You were missed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young noblewoman looked disconcerted. \u003cem\u003eOh dear\u003c/em\u003e, Catherine thought. She had meant it kindly; had it sounded like a reproach? She did\n want to put her newest lady more at ease. She smiled at her and said, “But now you . . . you are here, will you take tea?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor said, “Oh yes, Your Majesty.” She swallowed her hot cupful with every appearance of relief and pleasure, and said, “I thank you, madam. Most\n restorative.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine felt quite absurdly grateful. “Do you say? Not most England will agree, I think.” She wasn’t quite sure of her English there, but Lady Eleanor\n seemed to understand.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, madam, perhaps not yet. But I am sure we have much to learn from the great Portuguese nation, and much to gain in the learning.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWell, that was courteous\u003c/em\u003e, Catherine thought. If the somber young lady was making a gratifying effort to be amiable, she was succeeding. “Will you to play a hand at the cards, my lady?” she said graciously. “I wish to be make improvement, for to surprise my lord the king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor lowered her eyes and said hesitantly, “Alas, madam, I beg you to excuse me, I . . . I play but poorly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Behind her, Catherine heard a repellently purring voice say, “I will play, if you please, madam.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine turned to Lady Suffolk as if Lady Castlemaine had not spoken, and gestured to the little card table. “Will you to play, my lady?” The older\n countess bowed with a subtle smile, and the two of them sat at the table.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine affected not to notice the snub, sitting down and picking up her embroidery once more. Feliciana, who had been sleeping under the writing\n table, woke, shook herself, and pattered across the polished floor to curl up on her mistress’s skirts.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk picked up the deck of cards and offered it to Catherine. “Will you deal, madam?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine shook her head and gestured for her to do so. She was embarrassed by her clumsiness with the cards, and shuffling them out of order was the\n hardest part. Lady Suffolk handled them deftly, her eyes narrowing in a quite unconscious look of serious intent. She was the right one to practice with,\n Catherine thought, for her love of gaming would overcome any politic inclination to let the queen win.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The older lady dealt, and then hesitated. “The stakes, Your Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Ah. The stakes. Catherine bit her lip. She felt Dona Maria’s look bore through the back of her head. The idleness of card playing was bad enough. But to\n play for money? For a lady to gamble was quite beyond the pale. “Shall we to play only for the pleasure, perhaps?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk’s brows knit together. “Indeed, I hope so, madam. And that pleasure, I assure you, is far greater when something is at stake. I say it with\n the most sincere eagerness for Your Majesty’s enjoyment of the game, and increased skill.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was true that all the court played for stakes. If she refused, would she in fact be playing the game properly at all? And—a new thought—would it not be\n amusing to surprise Charles next time, by playing for money and taking his from him?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She inclined her head to Lady Suffolk. “So. Yes. Let you to name the stakes, kindly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk said, “Very well, madam, let us say a half crown a hand,” and began to deal the cards.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham drifted over with her glass of wine and sat herself near the table to watch. “How lovely it was in the park today, was it not, madam? And\n what a marvelous surprise, young Mister . . . Crofts’s arrival.” She laid the slightest emphasis on the name, and Catherine felt her watching for a\n reaction.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine was adding up her cards in her head and wondering if she should bluff. She laid one down and said, “Yes. Marvelous.” She could hear she’d not\n gotten the pronunciation just right, but it seemed a useful word. There was much to be marveled at, after all.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk said, “Not a surprise, though, was it? He was bound to be sent for.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “True,” Lady Buckingham said. “Of course. Well past time for him to leave off being petted and cossetted by his grandmamma, and join his father’s court.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine continued to look at her cards, but she was conscious of her ladies exchanging glances. Apparently Lady Buckingham had lost patience with\n subtlety, and decided to lay this card right on the table. She heard Lady Eleanor, who stood watching by the table, inhale sharply, and wondered if she, so\n new to court, had been the only one who did not know.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine laid down her card and said, “Fifteen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk folded her hand and slid a coin across the table, saying, “A very pretty win, madam. You will let me try for my revenge?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Picking up the deck, Catherine nodded with a smile, and began to shuffle carefully. She said, “It was pleasure to meet Mister Crofts. He has a look of His\n Majesty, I think.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There. That would show Lady Buckingham her queen was not so easily put out of countenance. She thought Lady Suffolk gave her an involuntarily approving\n glance before turning her attention to the hand Catherine painstakingly dealt out. Lady Castlemaine was apparently absorbed in her needlework, but\n Catherine sensed her attention was on the conversation.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham leaned back in her chair, and twirled one of her glossy brown curls around one finger. “I daresay it must be a pleasure to see one’s\n husband’s face unexpectedly reflected—almost as though seeing what he was like at that age. Though I cannot say my Lord Buckingham has given me such a\n pleasure.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk smiled. “Do you doubt that he could?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine sniggered as Lady Buckingham frowned and said, “Oh, I make no doubt of it at all. He had many a long year to sport in before I was even\n thought of. I say merely that I haven’t had the”—she tilted her head, and gave the next word an ironical twist—“\u003cem\u003epleasure\u003c/em\u003e of being suddenly\n confronted with the evidence, as Her Majesty was today.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was impossible to throw Lady Buckingham off her game, Catherine thought. Young and beautiful as she was, she seemed easily a match for the powerful Lord\n Buckingham. She wondered if there was love there. The lady’s face, of course, revealed nothing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A log settled with a little crash and spark. A maid hurried to poke the fire and add more wood. Another servant brought in a tray of covered dishes, and\n Catherine smelled toasted cheese and prince biscuits. Lady Buckingham said, “Of course, that was very far from the most interesting event of the day. I am\n sure none of you can have missed His Majesty telling Mister Crofts to put his hat on. What a thunderbolt!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine went still inside. Yes, here indeed was something she did not understand. Perhaps if she gave no sign of it, she might have the double win of\n learning something while not giving herself away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To hide her face, she reached down and stroked her dog’s domed head. When she straightened, Lady Suffolk was eyeing Lady Buckingham severely. “Thunderbolt?\n Nonsense, my dear friend, it meant nothing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham raised an eyebrow. “Pray, excuse me, my lady. But how can it have meant nothing? Covering his head? In the royal presence? Forgive me,\n madam,” she said, turning back to Catherine. “It concerns you more than anyone, and if I tread upon a bruise, I beg your pardon most sincerely.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine put a card down more or less at random, and said, “Not at all,” in a tone she hoped would encourage Lady Buckingham to continue.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham took a delicate sip of wine. “Of course, madam, I am sure you know very well what His Majesty’s plans are for the boy’s future. I only hope\n it did not distress you when he seemed to imply before all the world that young Mister Crofts is royal, by allowing him to remain covered in His Majesty’s\n presence. And therefore to seem to announce, by inescapable logic, that he is to be legitimized and made heir apparent to the throne!” She leaned forward\n on the arm of her chair. “I must say, I admire Your Majesty’s composure at such a moment, when the position of your own future children was being thrown\n into question. ”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Fifteen,” Lady Suffolk said coolly, laying down her hand.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine licked her lips and nodded, finding herself unable to speak, all her English flown quite out of her head. Could it be true? She felt numb, like\n one who knows she has been struck but cannot yet feel the pain.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From the corner of her eye she saw a movement, and turned to see Lady Eleanor looking very pale and wavering on her feet. Catherine reached out and touched\n her hand; the lady stared at her with a strange blankness.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lady, you are not well,” Catherine said gently. “Come, you must to sit and eat something.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The others stood and clustered around, helping Lady Eleanor to a chair and toasted cheese.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk said, “You’re not used to court life, my dear—it can be quite fatiguing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham said, “Indeed, and so you must eat, you know; you need your strength.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine threw in dryly, “How kind Her Majesty is, to take notice of your weakness.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Even Dona Maria came clucking up, taking Lady Eleanor’s hand and rubbing it briskly, remarking in Portuguese that the poor girl’s fingers were as cold as\n ice, and she ought to have a tisane. Lady Eleanor looked abashed by all the attention, but the color was already coming into her face.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All this little bustle and exclaiming was a great relief to Catherine, giving her a moment to recover from Lady Buckingham’s dart, and diverting attention\n from her reaction. She withdrew to the window. It was quite dark now, and all she saw in the glass was the reflection of her troubled face and shadowed\n eyes. Feliciana ran up, standing on her hind legs to put her front paws on Catherine’s knees, as though she felt her mistress needed comfort. Catherine\ncrouched down and lifted the spaniel against her face. The soft fur smelled to her like warm bread. She thought, \u003cem\u003eBut all has been so well between us. Must I pick up my sword again, and go back into battle?\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She heard the door open again, and a deep voice said, “Good evening, my ladies. I must say, what a charming scene.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine turned to see Charles in the doorway, smiling genially as three of his dogs tumbled panting into the room. Feliciana abandoned Catherine to run\n to them, and the spaniels greeted each other as joyously as though they hadn’t played together that very morning. All the ladies were standing and\n curtsying to Charles.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk said, “You come before you are expected, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham said, “Your eagerness is a compliment to your queen, of course, and who could blame you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine said nothing, occupied with carefully tucking her needle into her embroidery and laying the frame aside.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine saw the room through her husband’s eyes: candles and firelight glowing ruby in the glasses of wine, gleaming off the bright satins, velvets, and\n embroideries of the furnishings and ladies’ clothes, the warmth and prettiness of it all. And that was true, even though a moment ago it had been—what, a field of combat? She felt an urgent need to ponder it, but she did not have the time. That her husband had sired children before was no news, it would be foolish to mind it. But her future son, if God should bless her with one, to be threatened with usurpation, with disinheritance? If she were not to be the\n mother of kings, what was she? Only a sort of concubine, who could not even command the respect of her own ladies?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She stood and faced Charles, and saw at once that he knew something was amiss.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He came and kissed Catherine’s hand, giving her a quizzical look. “How do you this evening, lady?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Speaking in English, as he had, she said, “Most well, my lord, I thank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hm.” He looked at her a moment longer, thoughtfully. He turned back to the others and said, “I hope I will not scandalize you all if I say I wish to be\n alone with Her Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine, startled, raised her eyes, and thought, \u003cem\u003eAh, if there is to be trouble, he wants it over with\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was the briefest moment of general surprise—it was still quite early, and this was most unusual: a married couple spending the entire evening alone\n together? Lady Suffolk in particular raised her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. But of course, almost at once there were smiles and laughing demurrals and graceful courtesies and witticisms, until finally they were all withdrawing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The last of the English ladies to go was Lady Castlemaine. Catherine couldn’t help observing that she and Charles bowed perfectly correctly to each other.\n He played it off very well. One would never have guessed there had ever been anything but respectful friendship between them, though she thought Lady\n Castlemaine’s color heightened as she turned from them and went out, head held high.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria came up to say good night, and Catherine kissed her, saying in Portuguese, “Good night to you, \u003cem\u003equerida tia\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Condessa looked as though she might have had a good deal to say, were they alone. She understood far more English than she could speak, and had been\n listening. But she merely answered, “And to you, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e,” and followed the others out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles gathered her hand in his long fingers. “Come, sweetheart. Shall we withdraw to your bedchamber, and be entirely at our ease?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They went in together, followed by Jenny and another waiting woman, both of whom stayed to help her undress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine thought, \u003cem\u003eWell, we may as well scandalize the servants too,\u003c/em\u003e and said to Jenny in Spanish, “Thank you, Jenny, you may also go. We would be\n quite alone now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny curtsied, ushered the other girl out, and closed the door behind them. Catherine knew they would not go far.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The dogs, of course, had trailed them in, and now flopped down together on the rug. Old True was asleep almost instantly, Rogue curled up with his head\n resting on True’s flank, and mother and daughter Babette and Feliciana sat companionably grinning and chewing on each other’s ears.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her husband threw himself down on a velvet settee, stretching his long legs out before him. “Od’s fish, but it’s a relief to sit quietly. I’ve been this\n last hour with some members of Parliament. If I’d known how much of being king lies in listening to self-important people insult one to one’s face in the\n most deliberate and interminable fashion, I’d have stayed in exile forever.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine remained standing. “Ah, and you would have been far happier, no doubt.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He lowered his head and gave her a charming smile up under his lashes. “Do you think to catch me out so easily? Nay, sweetheart, that’s my cue to say: But\n then I should never have known you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He meant her to laugh, and she would have, were her heart not beating with mingled fear and anger. How could it be that she still did not know how far she\n could trust him? She looked away at the fire, conscious of his watching her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He didn’t pretend not to know what she was thinking of. He said, more soberly, “Perhaps I should have told you. Believe me if you can, but I honestly\n didn’t think.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She thought, \u003cem\u003eShould have told me what? That he is your son? Or that he will be your heir?\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nShe crossed to a side table, poured a glass of wine, and carried it back to him. He took it, with a wary look at her. \u003cem\u003eHe doesn’t want another battle any more than I do\u003c/em\u003e, she thought. \u003cem\u003eBut I must be armed with knowledge. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you tell me now, my lord?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He made a gesture of impatience, “What is left to tell? Your own eyes have told you who he is.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And his mother?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He drank deeply, set the glass down, stood, and began to pace in his restless way. She sat and watched him. “We met in the Hague,” he said at last, “when I\n was not so much older than he is now. She was not my first, but I was still young enough to fancy myself in love with her. She was wiser.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “May I know her name?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She was called Lucy Walter. A Welsh gentlewoman. Her family was ruined by the war, and she was making her way as best she could. We were soon separated, I\n to rejoin the fighting, and she to a more well-heeled protector, and then another. When reports came in of the child, though, it was clear he was mine. But\n I was in no position to provide for him. You’ve heard all about that time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had. She had drawn the stories out of him, though he was not much inclined to dwell on a past full of grievous struggles, when the present held so many\n and varied pleasures. She knew how the young prince had sought frantically and fruitlessly throughout Europe to raise an army from among his relations and\n supposed allies to rescue his father from Cromwell’s forces, and how he had learned he was too late. How he had led a fractious Scottish force to take back\n his country, and how the attempt ended in disaster and defeat and weeks of living on the run, a wanted man hiding in trees, before he escaped again. She\n knew of the years abroad with his ragtag army of exiles, never ceasing to work toward his return. And finally, with the strangest ease: Cromwell’s death,\n the republic’s collapse, the invitation to come home and restore the monarchy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She nodded, face still to the fire.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He came back to her now and sat beside her. She felt, as ever, his animal warmth radiating through her. A great part of her was tempted to turn to him and\n stop her racing thoughts with a kiss.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But she withdrew and stood, and went and poured her own glass of wine, and drank. Without looking at him, she said, “You speak of her as though of one in\n the past. Is she . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She’s dead. Died in Brussels four years ago, of . . . well, the sort of illness her sort of life exposes one to.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His voice was flat. She thought, \u003cem\u003eHe’s hurt that I’m still asking questions. I must not mind that. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She led a sad, reckless life, poor lady,” he went on. “Dragged the boy from Cologne to London to the Low Countries, making herself a scandal wherever she\n went. She was even in the Tower for a bit, suspected for a spy. The boy had no schooling, he was growing up like a wolf cub, and it being widely known who\n he was, he might have been taken at any time to use against me. We . . . I took him from her. Sent a man, and seized him. I had him sent to my friend\n Crofts in exile in Paris, who lent him his name. Later he came to my mother’s court. She told me he could scarce write a word.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine turned, her compassion engaged. “Oh, Charles. The poor boy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I know. I know. I had no home to give him, but I cannot say I haven’t made a sad business of it.” He straightened his back, shaking off melancholy.\n “Still. Here he is. He’s young; we may yet make something of him. He’s a good lad, and a brave one. He may make a naval officer . . . Well, we shall see.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He paused, eyes raised to hers. “You do not mind him, do you, Cat? I mean, the fact of him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She took a careful breath, thinking, and shook her head. “No, no. There is nothing to mind. Not something that happened so long ago. And he is blameless. I\n will be glad to be his friend.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But? Come, do you think I cannot see that you are troubled? Tell me and let us have it out.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He was still sitting, but upright and tensely, as though ready to leap up and face whatever he had to. He had, while talking, raked his hands through his\n hair distractedly, and it was wild and tangled. Babette came over and pawed at his knee; he lifted her up and stroked her as though for comfort. Catherine\n could see the sorrow beneath his charm, the harried lines in his still-youthful brow. She felt she had never seen it so clearly. Why was she trying to play\n this careful game with him, holding her own hand close and strategizing for advantage? She wasn’t any good at it. She would rather lay all her cards out,\n and hazard her stakes on whatever came.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why did you tell him to put his hat on?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This was clearly the last thing Charles expected her to say. “Why did I—what? His hat?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “In the park. This afternoon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles was still staring at her, plainly all at sea. She said, “Someone told me—I was told—that only royalty may remained covered in your presence. That\n it meant he would be your—that he would be your heir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There. It was out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Comprehension dawned on Charles’s face. And then he laughed. He positively roared. Babette squirmed out of his arms and barked, setting all the dogs off.\n Over the din Catherine protested, “But how can you laugh? Charles, this is serious!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “Yes, I know, dearest. It is only—” He chuckled, as though against his will, and tried again. “It is only\n that your face, so serious, about a—about a \u003cem\u003ehat\u003c/em\u003e—” And he was off again, leaning back against the cushions.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine stood her ground. When he could meet her eyes again, she said, “Very well, but it seemed to mean something to people. I would not have thought\n anything of it, otherwise.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He sobered at last, snapped his fingers and said, “Down!” to the still excited spaniels, and they obediently subsided. He sat thinking a moment. “Od’s\n blood, I’m a fool. Not what I meant at all. I just wanted to be kind. Do you think he thought . . . ? Never mind. I’ll sort it out. Make sure he\n understands the position.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Which is?” Catherine was already feeling lightheaded with relief. But she wished to hear it stated quite plainly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles rose and came to her, taking her hand and placing it palm down over his heart. He looked down into her eyes. “That he is my beloved son, and will\n be so known. And that he never can—never will—be king. For we shall have kings, dearest Cat, you and I—enough kings to people all England.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She reached up and put both arms around his neck. He embraced her, lifting her until her feet were off the floor and she was squeezed nearly to\n breathlessness. She whispered into his ear, “Perhaps we shall make one tonight.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And that was how the king and queen came to go to bed at a shockingly early hour on a fair autumn night, and Jenny spent the night sleeping quite cozily by\n the fire of the outer chamber.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara sat at her dressing table as her woman, Alice, moved about the room, tidying away her clothes and jewels. Barbara wore a sky-blue satin retiring\n gown over her linen shift, and her hair lay curling and loose about her shoulders. She could see for herself in the mirror that her beauty had not\n abandoned her. It was small comfort, just at this moment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She could not remember feeling any lower, in all her life. There was little enough reason for it. She was a Lady of the Bedchamber, a high position that\n protected her reputation, kept her in countenance at court, and brought in a stipend she jealously tucked away. So far, Charles’s loyalty in seeing her\n well supplied with comforts had not wavered. But she had seen what became of mistresses who took too much for granted, when they grew old and lost their\n looks. She would never allow that to happen to her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Bitter thoughts. But there she was. She had won the battle, and lost the only war that mattered. Day after day, holding her head up as the little queen\n disdained her. Night after night, sleeping alone with a maid snoring like a puppy at the foot of the bed. Seeing Charles only in public, acting as though\n it cost her nothing to smile and bow and banter, as though nothing had changed, when everything had.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king came no more to her bed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She slid her gown off her shoulder and eased down her shift, exposing her breasts. She cupped them gently, looking at them in the mirror. Still exquisite,\n despite her so-recent second babe; thank goodness for the wet nurse. Nothing would be easier in the world than for her to take another lover. Men’s eyes\n fixed on her wherever she went, from lords at court to actors at the theater. There was even a court acrobat whose elastic physique had caught her eye, and\n made her wonder how his skills would manifest in the bedchamber. It was no secret her position had shifted, and the subtlest competition was in play for\n who would succeed a king. She was young. Her very skin ached with longing for touch. Why should she ever lie alone?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet, in all honesty, foolish as it might be, humiliating as it was to admit, even only to herself, she wanted him. Only him. Still him. Wanted him in\n her bed, and her in his heart. And she wanted the glory and position too, of all the world knowing she was his. That was still a pearl beyond price to her.\n She was far from ready to resign all hope.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She covered herself. The evening had brought a glimmer. She knew perfectly well, despite Lady Buckingham’s exquisite malice, that Charles had no intention\n of legitimizing young Crofts. If such a thing were even possible, she herself would have stopped at nothing to seize the prize for their own son. No, that\n was a false hare started. But Catherine might not know it. Though the little queen had done a passable job of hiding her feelings, Barbara thought she had\n been shaken. What if she were to quarrel again with Charles? Would he not turn to Barbara for comfort once again? Heaven knew she was not proud, in this\n way. If he came to her, she would welcome him back with all her heart, and more to the point, all the sensual joy it was within her power to bestow. She\n caught her breath, picturing it. And then her heart leapt, for there was a scratch at the door.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her woman looked to her, and Barbara held up her hand to delay her a moment. She bit her lip to bring the color up, tugged her gown down just a bit, and\n stood to face the door. She gestured for Alice to open it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then her heart sank, for through the door came not Charles, but her friend the Earl of Rochester, looking like an angel, though she knew him far from\n angelic, with his gold hair flowing over the shoulders of his emerald-green jacket. He was followed by the young James Crofts.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feeling that it would kill her if the keen-eyed Rochester were to guess her disappointment, she summoned a delighted smile and said, “Here is a welcome\n surprise!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester bowed elaborately, and gestured to the young man. Both of them were plainly lit up from a night of drinking, though not to any gross degree. The\n young earl said, “I know you like pretty things, my dear Lady Castlemaine, and so I have brought this pretty thing to be presented to you. It is called\n Mister Crofts, of all things, and we have agreed so well tonight that he allows me to call him Jamie. Perhaps he would extend to you the same privilege.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mister Crofts had not moved from the doorway. He was gazing wide-eyed at Barbara, apparently awestruck. Rochester gave a little push at his shoulder. “Stir\n yourself, moon-calf, have you never seen a beautiful woman before?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The youth startled, and hastily made his leg. Straightening, he said, “I beg your pardon, lady. I must confess—I must admit—that is—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara couldn’t help laughing at his confusion. He flushed and made a heroic effort. “Madam, I will say the truth, which is that of all the beauty I have\n seen in all the world, nothing can have prepared me for your . . . your goddess-like visage.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester snickered and Barbara gave him a look before offering her hand to the newcomer. “You are very welcome, although I beg you to use no flattery.\n Your charming person is all the passport you need with me, Mister Crofts.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She gestured them to an arrangement of chairs across from her bed. The younger man, in his vinous state, nearly fell down into one before recovering his\n poise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do please call me Jamie, if you like,” he said, enunciating carefully. “I never liked the name of Crofts, nor the title of Mister, and I hope to change\n them both for better before long.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a mix of petulance and pride in his voice. Barbara sat and regarded him. She could see a bit of Charles in his face. But his mother must have\n been very pretty indeed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester had gone to the table where the wine stood, and came now to hand Barbara a glass. He raised his, and said, “To your extraordinarily glowing\n health, my lady.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They drank, and Jamie said sulkily, “None for me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester sat, leaned over, and patted his rust-velvet knee. “Oh, I think perhaps you’ve had enough. Don’t they know how to drink in the Queen Mother’s\n court?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The youth flushed, clearly embarrassed. Barbara leaned forward, and held out her glass. “Sip from mine, sweet boy, and wish me health with it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He stared at her décolletage as though transfixed. She touched the rim of the glass against his full red lip and tipped the wine into his mouth. He\n swallowed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My God,” Rochester breathed. “Barb’ry, you are shameless.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She sat back in her chair and laughed. “Are you jealous, my dear? You are not a whit less beautiful in comparison. In fact, I think you set each other off\n nicely. Rose Red and Snow White,” she added, “like the fairy tale. You know. The dark sister and the fair?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester smiled lazily. “And does that make you the wolf?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t be silly, there’s no wolf in that story.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, the bear, then. Something fierce, wild, and dangerous.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Darling Rochester, you say the nicest things! But are you sure it is not you who are the prowling beast?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Let us be beasts together,” he purred. “They always have the most fun.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young Mister Crofts was staring back and forth between them, looking dazzled. Barbara was enjoying this immensely. The youth’s open admiration was\n salving the wound his father had dealt her. She smiled at him. “You must forgive us, Jamie; you see, we are old friends, and may tease with impunity.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester reached over and flicked one of the youth’s dark curls. “Oh, he minds not, it is no doubt a relief to him just to listen—his wit is spent after\n the long day he has had.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh?” Barbara said. She knew that malicious little spark in Rochester’s eye, but couldn’t think what it might portend.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, for among other great events, he was presented to the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He needn’t think he could disconcert her so easily, she thought; especially with something she knew already. She turned to the boy. “And how did you like\n her?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had meant it as a banality, expecting some commonplace response. Instead, his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, and his light young voice roughened\n with anger. “I did \u003cem\u003enot\u003c/em\u003e, my lady. I did not like her at all, nor can I, nor will I.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester and she exchanged amazed looks, the young earl frankly delighted at this unexpected entertainment. “Why, what’s this? Not a very gallant speech,\n my boy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And why should I be gallant? She is nothing—nothing but a usurper!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What on earth do you mean?” asked Rochester, fascinated.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara put a hand on his arm. “He’s sotted, Rochester. Kindly take him away and in future do me the honor of not bringing drunk little boys to see me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester shook her off. “Nonsense, Babs, let him speak, he’s vastly amusing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Of course, that was what she most wanted. Perhaps it was cowardly of her, but she had only wanted to be able to claim she had not encouraged him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie repeated, “She is nothing, I say.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is the queen,” Rochester said, reasonably enough,\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So she may be, but her children won’t be kings. I will be. I am the son of the king, and I will be king after him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara felt a pang, a kind of pity. This was not so amusing, after all. “Oh, darling. We do know who your father is. Everyone knows. But that doesn’t mean\n . . . you do understand, don’t you? He wasn’t married to your mother.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To her surprise, the young man leaned back in his chair, and his lips curled in a smile that was very like a sneer. “Forgive me, lady. But it is you who\n does not understand. They \u003cem\u003ewere \u003c/em\u003emarried.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The other two stared at him, speechless. He said, “It is a great secret. But it is true. He did marry her, and though she is dead now and can never be\n queen, I am no bastard.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The room went very quiet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then he added, “I have proof.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara took a deep breath, and let it slowly out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And she smiled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCharles forced Catherine into submitting to his will by packing her Portuguese retinue back to Portugal. She capitulated and appointed Barbara as a Lady of the Bedchamber –then demonstrated her practical (and admirable) nature by refusing to sulk. Barbara persuaded Charles to throw a ball, ostensibly in the Queen’s honor, but obviously to further her own agenda. Catherine subverted Barbara’s efforts by outshining the over-ambitious lady and capturing the king’s affectionate attention with her grace and dignity.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames\u003c/strong\u003e: Duke of York and brother to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAnne\u003c/strong\u003e: Duchess of York, wife to James, and a Catholic.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.51","slug":"whitehall-5","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP5.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall5serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall5serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall5serialbox.pdf","share_url":"https://www.serialbox.com/episodes/whitehall-5","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ed5bada6e22ac9d178f5","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":6,"title":"Divine Passion","released_date":"2016-07-13T12:03:53.588+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"A queen’s debut.","byline":"Mary Robinette Kowal","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall6a.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-07-13","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eOctober 1662\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Autumn leaves drifted across the gravel path of the privy garden and twirled about Catherine’s skirts. Around the garden, the great stone walls of\n Whitehall rose in many-windowed splendor. At her feet, Feliciana sniffed the path as though she were a much bigger dog tracking a boar—a performance\n spoiled when she started as a leaf danced under her snout. Catherine laughed at her little dog and her breath steamed in the air. She tucked her hands\n deeper into her pockets.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are you cold, Your Majesty?” Lady Eleanor stepped closer with a shawl she carried over her arms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No. No cold—I am not cold.” English grammar was so nonsensical with all those extra words, but she would speak it. “It is good. This weather. At home . .\n . that is to say, in Portugal, the autumn is not this.” The sky was a high, clear silver that erased shadows and left the world glowing in faerie light.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It must have been a very great shock to come here.” The brisk air had brought a little color into Lady Eleanor’s cheeks, which made her seem less sickly.\n “The weather, and the language, and then getting married straightaway.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Always I knew I would be sent for marriage.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Was it . . . was the wedding what you had imagined?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n An image of Charles’s smile took up residence in her memory. “I still did not meet your question for our marriage?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I only meant that I would imagine, given your great devotion, that you must have wished for a Catholic ceremony.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feliciana barked and saved Catherine from a response, as the little spaniel ran after a squirrel. It was not in her nature to lie, but the Catholic\n ceremony that Charles had granted her must remain a secret. “Vem aqui, cadela parva!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feliciana’s plumed tail waved like flag into battle as she circled the tree the squirrel had gone up. Catherine clapped her hands to summon the spaniel\n back to them, but Feliciana paid her no heed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Shall I fetch her back, Your Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A moment.” Catherine shook her head. “A wonder there are squirrels still here, with all the spaniels of the king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She clapped her hands again and tried to use a firm voice as Charles did. “Feliciana! Agora! Vem!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To her delight, the spaniel dropped back down to all four paws and trotted over to her, tail wagging. If only she were able to speak in such simple\n sentences for her regular communications in English. Catherine crouched to meet Feliciana and fondled her ears. The dog panted white clouds into the chill\n air.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Boa menina. Como uma boa menina.” She straightened, smiling, until she saw Lady Eleanor’s face. Now she seemed quite drawn and pale despite the weather.\n The poor thing seemed to not be eating enough no matter what tempting delicacies were sent up from the kitchens. “Let us get in?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “At your pleasure, Your Majesty.” She adjusted the shawl she held over one arm. “You were telling me about your wedding, I think?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine linked her arm through Lady Eleanor’s, which she hoped would steady the young woman. Young . . . in truth she was three years Catherine’s senior,\n but her fascination with Catherine’s wedding made her seem like a girl fresh from the convent. “I told about the ribbons at my dress?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Attempting to describe them in English took most of Catherine’s attention. She steered them back to the palace in order to get Lady Eleanor out of the\n cold; she was trembling as they walked. Catherine would have to bring a different lady when she next stepped out with Feliciana. The cool air was quite\n bracing, and the warm glow through the mullioned windows of her rooms promised the coziness of a fireplace. They entered inside the palace, and Feliciana raced ahead of them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine laughed. “She knows where we go.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps she smells her dinner?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That looks likely.” They caught up with the dog just outside the door to Catherine’s apartments. Feliciana stood on her hind legs, tail wagging furiously,\n as Jenny scratched her ears with one hand. The other held a tray from the kitchens.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the sight of Catherine, the girl pulled her hand away and dipped into a curtsy, nearly upsetting Feliciana as she did so. The little dog hopped on her\n hind legs again and then rested her front paws against Jenny’s apron. Against the snowy fabric, small muddy paw prints left their tracks.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine laughed and lifted Feliciana.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Let me, Your Majesty.” Lady Eleanor held her hands out for the dog. “You will soil your dress.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine held Feliciana at arm’s length, though the position was far from graceful. Feliciana’s tail did not stop its wagging and her nose wrinkled and\n snuffled at the tray. Jenny’s face was flushed red and her gaze was fixed on the floor. Catherine turned to Lady Eleanor. “Would you be so good as for open\n the door. I will hold this bad dog.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a disapproving frown at Jenny, Lady Eleanor pushed the door open into a room of laughter. Lady Castlemaine’s voice belled over the group: “‘. . . my\n other weapon,’ and he reached for his breeches.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From her position outside the door, Catherine could see Lady Suffolk blotting her eyes as she laughed at Lady Castlemaine’s story. Lady Buckingham had\n doubled over, hand clapped to her mouth as she giggled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had never heard such laughter from her ladies before.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Feeling more awkward than a queen should feel, she set the little dog down. Feliciana ran into the room. Stomach tight, Catherine stepped in after her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The laughter stopped.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the silence, Lady Eleanor entered behind her, trailed by Jenny and her tray. Catherine forced herself to smile at her Ladies of the Bedchamber. They had\n out their sewing and books, and all their faces were turned down studiously to their work. The roses on their cheeks betrayed the high merriment that had\n filled the room only moments before. Catherine turned about the room and sought Dona Maria’s gaze.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Looking up from the tapestry she was working on, the older woman’s lips quirked. In Portuguese she said, “It is like this every time you leave the room.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “This saddens me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They are beneath you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n That was far from true. While Catherine might outrank them, she had little power in court other than that which was reflected from the king. It was all too\n clear that they were following Lady Castlemaine’s lead. While Charles might not visit her bed, her very presence proclaimed that she still had the king’s\n favor, because it showed that her wishes outweighed Catherine’s.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine walked to the tray of dainties and picked up a piece of sausage for Feliciana. She bent down to give it to her, smiling as Feliciana’s delicate\n pink tongue wrapped around the morsel. If she could just win the affection of her ladies so easily.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She straightened, brushing the folds of her skirt smooth. Turning to the ladies by the fire, Catherine framed the sentence in her mind, thinking through\n the English until she was certain it was correct.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I should like to hear your story, Lady Castlemaine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The room paused between breaths. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to still in astonishment. The beautiful Lady Castlemaine raised her head from the\n embroidery it seemed she had been sewing since she had become a Lady of the Bedchamber. No sign of surprise marred her countenance, though Catherine had\n acknowledged her presence for the first time. With a languid hand, Lady Castlemaine lowered her embroidery. “But of course, Your Majesty. I am entirely\n yours to command.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She smiled. Gracefully. Elegantly. Bitterness filled Catherine’s stomach.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny carried the tray back to the kitchen. It hadn’t been her job to take it to the queen’s chambers, but none of the other servants could be bothered to\n help Her Majesty unless absolutely commanded to. Oh, they wouldn’t go so far as to refuse, but they would dawdle. As she slipped into the kitchen, a\n scullion snorted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Rolling in mud with your Portuguese pig?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny kept her jaw tight and wiped the tray down. Running errands to the queen’s chambers kept her out of the kitchens, at least.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The scullion’s comment had attracted the notice of Master Giles Rose, the Royal Cook, who cuffed the boy’s ear and demanded, “What is all this\n hurly-burly?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lookit Jenny. Her apron’s all over mud.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Master Rose rounded on Jenny. “Here, now! What are you doing going about with a stained apron!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The queen’s dog—” A sharp blow to her ear cut off her next words.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “We keep ourselves tidy,” growled the cook. “No matter what the foreigners do.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She’s foreign herself now, isn’t she.” An undercook scowled at her over the pudding he was stirring.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I was born here, same as you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, aye. You’re as English as the Queen of England.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A wave of laughter rolled through the kitchen. At the far end, the Portuguese cooks looked around in question but with no understanding.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is the queen.” Jenny lifted her chin. “And I’m proud to serve her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Too proud to know your place.” Master Rose narrowed his gaze. “I’d not have taken you on if it had been my choice, and Heaven knows the Lord Steward\n wasn’t happy to have you forced on the household. But if a foreign chit with no sense of cleanliness is what pleases Her Majesty, then so be it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny drew a breath to respond. Across the room, Mavis caught her eye and gave a tiny shake of her head, and she let the breath out with her retort\n unspoken. That she was smarter than most of the menservants mattered not one whit. Her mother was foreign. She herself was from the wilds of Hampshire and\n common and—most unforgivable of all—a woman. She dropped a curtsy to the irate cook. “My apologies, Master Rose. I’ll fetch a clean apron at once.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n One of the Portuguese cooks turned from the stove and stepped farther into the room. He spoke in Spanish to Jenny. “Tell them I need you to go into the\n city for some herbs.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There were boys for that, but Jenny tried to keep the impatience off her face. Master Rose would be glad of any excuse to see the back of her, and being\n cast out in a city like London would mean an ignominious return to Portsmouth and nothing to show for it but the grand silken gown the queen had given her.\n “Of course. I’ll be happy to fetch whatever you need.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh—I need nothing, but I thought you might be glad of a reason to be out of the kitchen.” The cook spread his hands. “They think I cannot understand, but\n it is clear that they despise the Infanta and take out their disdain on you as proxy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you.” Jenny folded the offending apron. Switching back to English, she told Master Rose, “They’ve some errands they need doing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is not their place to be giving orders to one of my staff,” the Royal Cook said stiffly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I thought you had no use for me?” Greatly daring, Jenny looked him straight in the eye. “Or have you another maid who can write and understand Spanish?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a frown, Master Rose waved her away and stalked back to the hearth, where he relieved his feelings by cuffing the boy watching the roast.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis spoke up. “You can write?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “In English and Spanish.” Jenny walked down to the Portuguese end of the kitchens. “I don’t intend to spend my life emptying chamber pots.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the priest intoned yet another interminable phrase in Latin, Barbara tipped her head back and stared at the chapel ceiling. She did not bother to stifle\n her sigh. Dona Maria, the Portuguese crone, glared at her. Honestly. Who wore black all the time? And the farthingales the woman continued to wear were\n beyond absurd.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They had been the mark of a well-to-do lady in Barbara’s childhood, but no one wore them now. For Barbara, they had taken on a taint as a reminder of her\n family’s impoverished years after the king was executed. She would never go back to that powerless state again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara shifted on the pew, trying to find a comfortable position. If she had realized that being a Lady of the Bedchamber would require her to attend\n Catholic Mass, she was not at all sure she would have insisted upon it. She might have liked it better when the queen was ignoring her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Still . . . the gamble was paying off. The woman had finally acknowledged her, which only solidified Barbara’s position. Lord—now the musicians were\n playing something.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Did that mean the service was nearly over? With everything said in Latin instead of good, plain English, it was impossible to tell. Was she nearly free of\n this absurd masquerade? At least they were well-trained, even if the liturgy was incomprehensible.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She sighed again, and this time the queen looked around. Barbara gave a sour smile, making it as clear as she could that it was not sincere. She clasped\n her hands at her breast and raised her gaze heavenward in a mockery of the queen’s piety.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen compressed her lips and turned her gaze to the front of the chapel. She bent her head, eyes tightly closed, and mumbled some papist phrase.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The musicians finished their song and Father Patrick stepped forward, with his arms raised. Barbara straightened in her seat. The benediction. That meant\n she was nearly free of this wretched duty.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He intoned, “\u003cem\u003eUni trinoque Domino, Sit sempiterna gloria: Qui vitam sine termino, Nobis donet in patria. Amen.\u003c/em\u003e”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Amen!” Barbara’s enthusiasm made the word echo through the chapel. She sprang to her feet, stretching her back.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen rose more slowly. “If it hurts you for attend Mass, Lady Castlemaine, you may excuse yourself.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Oh, no. Barbara would not fall into that trap so easily. If she refused to attend the queen, then the woman would be able to make a case to Charles to get\n rid of her. With Roger gone, the forty pounds per annum that came with her position was more necessary to her than she would have liked. “I serve at your\n pleasure, of course, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor kept her head lowered. “The music was lovely today. Does His Majesty ever attend with you, ma’am?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No.” A shadow of a frown crossed the queen’s face. “He no does. It would be not appropriate.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But surely, if you asked him, nothing would be untoward about pleasing his queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He pleases himself often enough.” Barbara lifted her chin to study the bas relief of the cherub behind them. “He pleases me. Frequently.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk laid a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She had wisely taken a seat behind the queen rather than in the position of “honor” that\n Catherine had granted to Barbara.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh? You had pleasure of company of the king recently? I did not realize.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara’s cheeks burned. The Portuguese wench’s command of English had improved drastically. Even if her grammar were still faulty, her aim was true\n enough. The king had not, indeed, visited her bed of late, but she would not give the queen that comfort.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara smiled enigmatically and chose to let silence be an answer rather than the truth. “Oh, His Majesty takes pleasure in the company of many. For\n instance, I have been most grateful to him for introducing us to Mister Crofts, and his interesting story.” She took that opportunity to turn to face the\n queen fully. Jamie and his claims of being legitimate offered so many delicious possibilities. A vein pulsed at the queen’s temple. Would she faint again,\n or scream? Another nosebleed would be amusing enough and do nothing to improve the woman’s standing in court, queen or no.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes. The king told me much of the history of his son.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Ah. A point to the queen—she parried more coolly than Barbara would have expected. A sharp inhalation came from Lady Eleanor, and for once the meek woman\n looked up, eyes blazing. She must not have heard the rumors yet, which Barbara would hasten to repair. If she had her way, the whole of the court would\n hear of it, and the path would be laid for Jamie to produce his proof. Which, frustratingly, remained vague; the youth did not entirely trust her yet, and\n would only hint at certain letters he had in his possession. She would draw more from him soon, no doubt.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Portuguese woman had turned her back on Barbara and left the pew for the aisle. “Lady Eleanor, you enjoyed the music?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I did, Your Majesty.” The country mouse, Barbara thought, followed the queen like one of those cursed spaniels. “It is a pity that no one but your ladies\n can enjoy it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen looked up to study the musicians who sat in a loft overlooking the chapel. “Perhaps . . . In Portugal, for times they would play outside chapel.\n It is something to consider.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am certain that people would enjoy hearing them.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara ran a finger along the back of the pew as she walked down its length to the aisle. With a legitimate heir, Charles would have less urgent need for\n the queen. Even with the desire for extra sons in case of the death of the heir, he wouldn’t feel pressed to bed his wife quite so assiduously. The\n simplest course would be to give the queen room to make mistakes. In this case, their mutual animosity could be an effective tool.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sniffing, Barbara flicked a speck of imaginary dust from her fingers. “If you wish to alert people to your . . . unique taste, then, by all means, Your\n Majesty, invite them to hear your musicians. I am certain everyone would find much to interest them in such a curiosity.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara suppressed a smile. The foolish woman would do it just to spite her, and then the whole court could mock her papist songs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny had provided herself with a clean apron and tucker and recoiled her hair under her starched coif before heading out on the “errands” that the\n Portuguese cook had requested. She trotted down the plain whitewashed stairs which led from the maids’ dormitory at the top of the palace to a backyard\n where she could set off into London.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Below her, footsteps rose from the lower levels, along with a pair of men’s voices. “How did you come to learn of these stairs?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A laugh and then an aristocratic drawl. “Well . . . the servants are supposed to move unseen among us, and so I simply made the . . . \u003cem\u003eacquaintance\u003c/em\u003e\n of a serving maid.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “An acquaintance . . . I see, indeed, my Lord Rochester.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And, of course, it has served me well to be able to visit Babs.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are you so familiar with Lady Castlemaine?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As familiar as she will let me be, which is more so now that the King’s fancy is turned elsewhere.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A scoffing laugh followed. “The king’s fancy—that Portuguese usurper.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Patience, dear Jamie. That’s what we shall solve with the help of my dear Babs.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny stopped on the stairs. If they were going to visit the Lady Castlemaine, then they would need to go through the door she had just passed. She could\n continue down the stairs, or attempt to retreat up them and escape their notice through another door. She dared a peek over the banister, and saw their\n plumed hats bobbing not half a flight below her. They were too close, so her best recourse was to continue down.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Think you that she can truly help?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She has the ear of everyone that matters. And you yourself are an object of great interest here at court. Your so-called proof of your legitimacy\n aside—and you know you’ll have to produce it at some point, we can’t take it on faith forever—did not the king acknowledge you as his son?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny lowered her head and pattered down the stairs as though she had some urgent business.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hist—someone is coming.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She rounded the corner of the stairs, and a young man with the look of the king about him stood with his hand upon the chest of a nobleman with curling\n blond locks. Lord Rochester. She had seen him in the halls often enough, but the other man was unknown to her. Given his unmistakable resemblance to the\n king, though, he could only be Mister Crofts, the royal bastard everyone had been talking about this month and more. Lord Rochester pursed his lips and\n stepped away from the other’s hand, squarely into Jenny’s path.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good day, my pretty. Where are you off to this fine afternoon?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She widened her eyes and answered in Spanish. “No le entiendo.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What’s that?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No hablo inglés.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Rochester slapped his thigh in delight. “Portuguese! She understood not a whit of what we were discussing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She’s pretty enough.” Mister Crofts came up the stairs and studied her as if she were a horse. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I’ll wager\n there’re other languages she understands.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny’s heart raced. She tried to pull her hand free. “El burro sabe más que usted. Tírese a un pozo.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young man turned to Lord Rochester. “No one takes these stairs, you say?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “None but the servants.” He smacked Mister Crofts on the buttocks. “But you forget that fairer treasures await us in my Lady Castlemaine’s apartments. And\n that those are but a taste of what is yours by right.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a kiss to the inside of her wrist, the king’s bastard released Jenny’s hand and sighed. “Until later, then.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They continued up the stairs as if she had never been present. Jenny leaned against the wall of the stairs. If she couldn’t win friends among the servants,\n at least she could continue to prove her devotion to the queen. And should not the queen know what Jenny had just overheard?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The sedan chair ride from Whitehall did nothing to steady Lady Eleanor’s nerves. In his reply to her message, Lord Russell had been insistent that she come\n to him, without fully understanding how difficult it was to get away from the palace. She knotted her fingers in her handkerchief and wiped her brow clean\n with the linen. It was too cold outside for her to be sweating, and yet she was.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the sedan chair settled on the ground outside Westminster Palace, she inhaled the rank river air and tucked the kerchief into the pocket beneath her\n skirt. Stepping out, she walked toward the door. She felt half-naked, on the street without a chaperone, but there was nothing for it. It was certainly not\n the first time, but it never became comfortable.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When the door opened, she was led through the now-familiar hallways to the office where Lord Russell awaited. He sat behind his table, scribbling,\n determined to make her wait for notice again. The petty games he played sickened her, but if she had any hope—either for revenge or escape—it was through\n his good graces.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Today, though, she hoped her news would satisfy him. Without waiting for leave, she dragged a chair closer to his table. The wooden legs groaned across the\n floor.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Russell looked up, lip curling. “Well, my lady?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Spreading out her skirts, Lady Eleanor sank into the chair. “I have two pieces of information for you, my lord. The queen is going to host a concert.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What care I for that?” He cast his quill down on the table, and ink spattered across the pages. “I gave you specific instructions to discover the details of her Catholic marriage.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The concert is to feature her chapel musicians.” She tilted her head to the side, watching his pale eyes for understanding. “Her chapel musicians, sir. A\n concert of religious music, beyond doubt. It is the first step at attempting to convert the court to her papist beliefs.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He snorted and tugged on his chin. “Ah. Yes . . . we may perhaps make use of that. It will certainly look bad, and increase ill will against her. A grave\n misstep on her part. And the second?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She smoothed her skirts and let the silence stretch between them. He had toyed with her so many times, but she could match him today. For her second piece\n of news was much better than a simple concert. After the exchange between Lady Castlemaine and the queen in chapel, Eleanor had taken care to be where the\n countess could find her and spill her rumors into her ear. Whatever Lady Castlemaine’s reasons for doing so—Eleanor assumed it was simply in her nature to\n spread vile gossip—the information had both shocked her and given her hope.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor smiled triumphantly, and said, “Have you heard of Mister James Crofts?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course. Who has not? The king’s bastard, off the notorious whore Lucy Walter. That is nothing to our purpose.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor stared at him, speechless and brought up short. Russell frowned impatiently. “Ah, this is where your ignorance of the wide world fails you. Of\n course you would not have heard of it, mewed up in the country. But it is not a secret to the court.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not a secret? That he is the king’s son?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Young Crofts is openly acknowledged.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor rallied, leaning forward and placing her hands on his desk. “Ah. But is it as well known that his parents were secretly married? Making him the\n legitimate heir to the throne?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Russell went still, fixing her with his pale blue gaze. “Where did you hear this?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Lady Castlemaine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He raised an eyebrow. “Hm. And did she tell you how she knew? Did she mention any proof of such a claim?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor hesitated, thinking. “Well . . . not precisely. She seemed very sure of it, however.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Russell made a scoffing sound, pushed back from his desk, and stood, going to pour himself a glass of wine from a small cabinet. “Do you think I have not\n thought of this? How convenient it would be if the king had married the woman in youthful impulse, and thus provided a Protestant heir ready to hand? And\n yet, here the boy is, nearly of age and no evidence yet produced of any such thing. I am not such a fool as to grasp after phantoms, simply because they\n promise what I would wish to believe.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor stood and drew herself up, not yet willing to give up her prize. “And yet should we be foolish enough to ignore a weapon that comes to hand,\n because we mistrust it? What if it were true? You did not hear the lady; she was very persuasive.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He said drily, “I can easily imagine what Lady Castlemaine gains by spreading such a tale. But that is no reason for us to be taken in by it. You must\n sharpen your wits, lady mine, if you are to prosper in this matter.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor thought bitterly of how little she wished to be at this business at all. And yet, since she had no choice, it was doubly bitter to fail.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Russell crossed to her, and standing close, picked up her hand and pressed his wine glass into it. To offer her his own glass was too intimate a gesture,\n intended to fluster her, his usual game. She put the glass down on the desk and looked up into his face, her lips pressed together.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He looked back down at her, his expression hard. “Have you nothing, then, to tell me of the Catholic wedding?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nothing yet, my lord. But I believe she was near to confiding in me this morning. Her trust deepens. I promise you, it is merely a matter of time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He nodded, going back around his desk to sit. “I hope so, my lady. I hope you are not forgetful of your duty to me, and of the consequence to your family\n if you are.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her stomach tightened, and her breath quickened. She said, “Trust me. We shall soon have the tools we need to pry the papist woman from the throne.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And if she had her wish, she thought, King Charles would go right along with the queen. She would see both of them all the way to hell.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The next day, Jenny bent her head to scrubbing the tea stains from the queen’s teapot. Her Majesty might never see the inside of the pot, but that was no reason to leave it brown. Across the table, Mavis had a silver ewer and was buffing it for the table.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She glanced up and raised her brows. “I can put that away for you. Promise, won’t let none of the others touch it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But I’m not finished yet.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Pardon, mistress.” The soft voice was accented and rolling. “The queen wants you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny turned on the bench. Standing behind her was the little page boy, Samuel. Born in the Indies, he had been a wedding gift from some noble lord to His\n Majesty, who had in turn presented him to Her Majesty. Poor lad seemed nearly as lost at the palace as she was. “Oh, Sam. Did she say what she wanted me\n for?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The tailor is here again.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Right.” She placed the teapot carefully in Mavis’s hands. “Thanks, dear. I owe you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Just promise to tell me every word your young man says.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t be stupid.” But Jenny checked her apron for stains. “I’m just helping with translation.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mm-hm . . .” Mavis pulled the teapot closer. “Don’t forget to pinch your cheeks. You’re looking pale as milk, my girl.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny stuck her tongue out at Mavis, but hurried after Samuel. She didn’t need to pinch her cheeks, not with the stairs between them and Her Majesty. She’d\n be flushed enough from the climb.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How’re you settling in, Samuel?” she said to the small, straight back.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am very happy, mistress.” He said it as if by rote.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do they treat you well?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am very happy.” He gestured to the door in front of them. “The queen is waiting.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She tugged on her apron to straighten it. And then she pinched her cheeks, just in case. Ah, she was an idiot. Who would look at her when the Queen of\n England was present? Not to mention the splendid Lady Castlemaine? Sighing, Jenny stepped into a room filled with ladies and a consort of musicians.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The room also contained Mister Hammett—he stood next to a pile of fabrics, stretching out lengths for the tailor to show to Her Majesty. And the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny’s heart thumped sideways in her chest. The king. She swallowed and shot Samuel a glare. He gave her a shy grin as if to say that he had known full\n well that the king was here. He might have warned her, now mightn’t he? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the king before, but she’d never spoken to him, and\n if the queen wanted her usual help with the tailors then Jenny would be doing a fair bit of speaking. She swallowed again. It would be fine as long as she\n kept her head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mister Hammett didn’t seem the least bit nonplussed about showing fabrics to the King of England. Perhaps he did it regularly as part of his duties. As he\n folded a piece of linen and turned to set it back on the pile, his dark gaze caught hers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled, inclined his head, turned back to the tailor, and murmured something.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny’s feet seemed to have grown roots; she had to yank them up to make herself move forward. It wouldn’t do for the queen to see her standing there and\n staring. She crossed the room and sank into a curtsy before the king and queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah. This is the young woman you were telling me about?” The king said it as if he had no memory of having seen her before, which likely he didn’t. Her job\n was to be invisible, after all.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Except to the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes. Jenny is most helpful.” Her Majesty gestured for her to rise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To Jenny’s surprise, the king switched to Spanish. “Then let us give thanks that she knows the words for ladies’ clothing, as I do not. Not even in\n English.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At some point, the queen or the king or the tailor was going to use a word that she could not translate. She must learn more about the trade so she would\n be prepared for whatever the queen asked. She straightened from her curtsy, keeping her gaze respectfully lowered, and backed up until she stood next to\n Mister Hammett.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I was rather hoping you would be here,” he murmured, and shifted so that she had a clearer view of the material.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To make it seem as if they were discussing fabric, she lifted a fold of deep red velvet. “Do I make your job so much easier?” she murmured.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Among other things.” His lashes were so very long and dark. With one hand, he gestured toward the stack of fabric. “What do you think we should show them\n next?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What is the queen having you make?” She glanced at the musicians.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Costumes for an opera, I think. Or a ballet. I’m not entirely clear.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’ve never been to the theater.” Her throat closed a little. She truly would not know any of the right terms for this sort of garb.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He paused in the process of pulling out a length of green velvet. “Have you not? Well, perhaps . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She put her hand on a periwinkle blue silk. “If it’s for the queen, try this. The green will make her look sallow. And—perhaps, what?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you.” He slipped the silk she’d indicated from the stack and handed it to the tailor. “In that case, if it is not too forward, might I be allowed to\n escort you to the theater?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh.” She turned her attention to the queen, who was running her hand over the periwinkle silk with evident delight. Such an excursion would be an\n opportunity to ask Mister Hammett questions about costumes. Nothing more than that. Her interest had nothing to do with the appealing timbre of his voice.\n “I could ask for leave, I suppose.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mister Hammett smiled. “I shall have to see what is playing. With luck, \u003cem\u003eThe Coffee-House\u003c/em\u003e will be running that day.” He reached for the green\n velvet again and showed it to her. “Think you that this might convey a summer day with the periwinkle? For the musicians’ dress?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Grass and sky?” She nodded and he handed it to the tailor. “What is \u003cem\u003eThe Coffee-House\u003c/em\u003e?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A play that I have been most interested in seeing because it is about a man of my own heritage.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Might I then ask where you are from?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “London.” He flashed her a brilliant smile. “But I thank you for not asking until now. My father is from Turkey, and the play concerns a coffee-shop owner\n from the same country. I suspect everything about it is wrong.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then why do you wish to see it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Because I am curious.” He had a dimple when he smiled. “And Turks are so exotic, who would wish to miss the spectacle? Will you come?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a chance to see him smile again? “Yes, thank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The night air caught against the sweat on Charles’s skin and sent a shiver down his spine. He kissed his lover’s cheek and rolled off her. At their feet,\n Rogue readjusted himself on the bed with a little whuffle of protest. In the dark of their drawn curtains, Charles could not see her, but could feel the\n gooseflesh on her arms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Cold, my love?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine snuggled against him. “Not when you are here.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well . . .” He drew the coverlet up higher, wrapping it around her shoulders. “I shall be here all night, then.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She sighed, but it was not the sigh of contentment that she had uttered during their lovemaking. He raised himself on an elbow, wishing that he could see\n her, but she was a mere shadow. “What is the matter?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nothing. Not really.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you not wish me to stay?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh! No. No, it is not that at all. Only . . .” Her hand slid under the covers and cupped his hip. “I was only thinking how nice this was.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet, her sigh had sounded discontented. Charles worked his arm out from beneath the coverlet and found her cheek. He traced the soft curve and worked\n his fingers back into her hair. He would hazard a guess, and if he was wrong, then her correction might lead him closer to the truth. “Do you miss\n Portugal?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What? No—I mean, yes. But that is not why I sighed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aha! So you \u003cem\u003edo\u003c/em\u003e have a reason to be discontent.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She rolled toward him and found his lips in the dark. Her breath was warm, and for a moment she managed to distract him. His loins stirred in response to\n her touch. Lord knew there were not many women who could awaken him so easily a third time in one night. Barbara—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He pulled back, suddenly certain what had caused her to sigh. “Dearest . . . the nights that I do not spend with you are not spent with another.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I spoke to her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I—I had heard.” From Barbara, but it did not seem politic to say so, nor to report how the lady had crowed. “Thank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I did not do it for you.” The sheets rustled as Catherine rolled onto her back.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He waited. He had hoped the two women would find a way to get along. There was little chance of that now. Likely he should not have forced the issue by\n making Barbara a Lady of the Bedchamber, but what was done was done.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine sighed again, more heavily this time. “She is a sower of discord.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No. No, love, she is truly not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not for you. But she has little fondness for me. I was hoping that if I acknowledged her we could put our animosity behind us. All it has done . . . All\n that has happened is that she is even more convinced of her superiority.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles laughed loudly enough that Rogue started awake. The dog huffed a low bark of protest and turned in a circle before settling down again. “There.\n See? Even Rogue knows that is not true. You are the Queen of England. No woman is your superior.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Many women are, and on the most important point. I am not yet with child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That will come.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It has not yet. The assumption is that I am not yet with child because I am either barren or you are choosing to spend your time elsewhere.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles sighed, aware that he echoed her own aggrieved noise from before. “I have told you that I am ‘spending time’ with no one but you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is not as if I can say that. People judge your favor based on the evidence that they can see.” Catherine sat up, and her pale skin was an echo of\n moonlight in the darkness. “You are king, yes, but I have to move in women’s circles, and there Barbara rules.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A chill from more than the night air wrapped around him. “What—” No. He did not need to make her tell him that. He was well enough aware of the evidence\n that seemed to place Barbara first. Short of removing Barbara from her post, which he would not do, there was little that he could do to make it clear how\n high Catherine stood in his esteem. Sitting beside her, Charles wrapped his arms around her cool flesh and pulled her into his embrace. “Dearest. I\n promise. I will think of something to make everyone regard you with the same affection that I do.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Standing outside the Theatre Royal, Jenny had no difficulty at all in spotting Mister Hammett amongst the crowd. Though he was not the only foreigner, the\n scattered few others were mostly Africans. A group of Chinamen passed her in sumptuous silks that would have made half the court faint with envy. What made\n Mister Hammett stand out was his height and his carriage.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At court, he kept his head bowed in the deference befitting an apprentice tailor, and wore his hair tucked under a tailor’s cap. Here, he carried himself\n with confidence, his hair flowing over his shoulders in a glory of black silk waves. He moved through the crowd as if none of the rest of the people\n existed. When he saw her, his face lit, and that charming dimple reappeared by his smile.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mistress Martin.” He sketched a very pretty leg, as if she were a lady.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t make fun of me.” She brushed at her dress, wishing she’d been able to bring herself to wear the silk gown the queen had given her. But of course,\n he’d have made his own clothes and was not allowed to be shabby, being a tailor’s apprentice.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He straightened, frowning. “I am not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh. Well, I’m not used to having anyone bow to me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I hope you do not mind that you might have to become accustomed to it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was a wretched bore, getting upset that he bowed to her. Jenny wet her lips. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, Mister Hammett.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not at all.” He brushed his hair back from his face. “May I ask for a small amendment? It is an easy mistake to make, so I hope you will forgive me . . .\n Properly, it should be Hamed, not Hammett. Actually, that is also not entirely true. Hamed was my father’s given name, but when he came to live here they\n thought it was Hammett, and that, of course, must be a surname—and so here we are.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Look at that. We have more in common than I thought.” She smiled at him. “My baptismal name is Genoveva, though everyone presumes it is Jane.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Genoveva is a lovely name, but I will not presume to use it . . . not yet.” He glanced at the theater, which sat well back from Drury Lane. “Mistress\n Martin, shall we go in?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you, yes, Mister Hamed.” Laying her hand on his arm, she followed him down the narrow passage between buildings to the door.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The interior of the theater was an enormous vaulted hall, with no ceiling save a glazed dome, to let in the light. It was surrounded on three sides by\n ranks of boxes with gilt balustrades. Mister Hamed led her to one of the benches arranged in semi-circular ranks facing the stage. They were cunningly\n arranged so that each row was higher than the one in front. She settled onto the green baize bench and tucked her skirts in so she did not infringe upon\n her neighbor.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The people attending were as spectacular as the hall itself. Jenny had become used to fine clothes, living in Whitehall, so the proliferation of silk and\n embroidery seemed more common than the plain woolen coat of the merchant on her right. A woman two rows in front of them had so many black plaster stars\n and moons stuck to her face that she must have been hiding horrible pox. A group of young noblemen had brought an amusement of their own, and shared a\n young woman between them—she went from lap to lap, giggling and flashing her bosom. Walking between the rows, a young girl carried a tray of oranges.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oranges!” Her mother’s uncle used to send a crate of oranges from Spain for the holidays.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Should you like one?” Mister Hamed raised his hand. “Here, girl!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, no—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But before she could stop him, the girl had run up the aisle and curtsied to Mister Hamed. “Sixpence, sir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Two, please.” He handed the girl the coins and took two of the golden orbs in exchange. He held one out to Jenny. “Here you are.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You oughtn’t have.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But I can’t enjoy one myself, if you don’t have one as well. That would be rude.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He had a winning smile. Jenny took the orange, her finger just brushing his. “Thank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her cheeks were too warm, and she bent her head to busy herself with peeling the orange. As she dug her thumbnail into the soft, leathery rind, a mist of\n scent sprayed upward, carrying a sweet citrus tang. The last time she had eaten an orange, she had been sitting in front of the fireplace with her sisters.\n Her mother had been in the window doing some lacework and Papa had been playing a little tune on his viol. She missed them so very much.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The juice of the segment lit the inside of Jenny’s mouth like a sunbeam after rain. She closed her eyes for a moment to savor the beads of flesh bursting\n between her teeth. It was warm, sweet, and the juice trickled down her throat. When she opened her eyes, Mister Hamed was smiling at her with his head\n tilted a little to one side.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny swallowed and cleared her throat. “It’s been a long time since I had an orange.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A commotion behind them stirred the crowd. Jenny glanced back and everyone was looking up. Above them, the king had entered the center box seat, surrounded\n by courtiers and ladies.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Biting her lip, Jenny faced the front again and crossed her arms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mister Hamed leaned down and murmured, “Not fond of the king?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, no, that’s not it. That is . . .” Jenny screwed up her nose and sighed. If what she’d overheard on the stairs was carried to the wrong ears, she could\n be summarily dismissed. Telling the queen might lead to some appreciation in a more tangible form but . . . She bent her head and picked a scrap of orange\n peel off her skirt. “You seem like the sort of person who knows what o’clock it is.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His long, expressive fingers twitched as if he were going to reach for her, and then he rested them on his breeches. “What happened?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Who said anything did?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, given the way you are shredding the orange peel, let us say that your fingers expressed some . . . concern.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She snorted. “Do you know who Mister Crofts is?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have the better of me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He’s the king’s son.” She dropped the orange peel and brushed her fingers down her skirt. “I overheard him and Lord Rochester saying that he was in truth\n legitimate and that Lady Castlemaine would help him prove it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You—you haven’t told anyone that, have you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny shook her head. “I thought to tell the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But she ought to know, oughtn’t she? What if he divorces her?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is no concern of ours.” Mister Hamed shifted on his seat and leaned closer. “This is a matter for the nobles, and you should not get mixed up in it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I thought that maybe . . . if I told her, she might appreciate the service.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Likely she already knows and . . . people like us, the ones on the outskirts of society, have to be better, and cleaner, and quieter than anyone else. The\n queen does not want to hear about trouble in her own home from one of us.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “People like us?” Jenny raised her head to glare at him. She was nothing like him. “What do you mean by that?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He cocked his head with a wry smile and ran the tip of his finger down his long curved nose. “People who no one can believe are English.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My father is English!” She fell silent at his raised eyebrow. The grief she received in the kitchens was because she looked foreign, no matter that she\n was born in England. “No . . . you’re right. Mum is Spanish and that . . . you’re right.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My father is not English. My mother is, but . . . were it not for the current fascination with Turkish fashion, I would be relegated to the docks or\n sailing, at best.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n While they were talking, the candles had been lowered over the stage, and now the play began. A young man in a barman’s apron entered, cleaning a mug with\n a rag, and two more actors, dressed in the rough linen and wools of knaves, entered after him, laughing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The largest of the men pounded his stomach and clapped his companion on the back, making him tumble forward. “I have made an escape as hard as one of\n Jupiter’s to see thee, Rasy,” he declaimed. “The heat of our morning business is over and now my stomach’s more raw and cold than the weather. Therefore\n prithee one half pint of the best, if thou lovest me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rasy replied, “I know thy meaning; thou shalt have it.” He gestured to the youth. “Lad, a pint pot!” He watched the young man in the apron bow and run off\n stage. “An honest rogue, I warrant him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Here can I drink at any time a pint of sack would make a cat speak Greek or Hebrew for a groat.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny laughed along with the rest of the audience and thought no more of intrigue or the palace.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For the queen’s concert, Charles had given orders to convert one of the ballrooms of Whitehall into a theater. On either side of the hall, raised platforms\n provided seating for the crowd that had assembled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine and Charles were seated at the front and center of the audience. She had brought all of her Ladies of the Bedchamber, and Samuel as well. The\n young boy sat at her feet on a cushion, his eyes nearly as wide in astonishment as hers. She fidgeted in her chair, trying not to look around every time\n someone said “Her Majesty.” Why had she thought this was a good idea? The curse of having learned English was that she could understand the murmurs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Leaning over from his chair, Charles rested a hand on hers. “Nervous, my dear wife?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Everyone is expecting scandal.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He chuckled. “No. They are \u003cem\u003ehoping\u003c/em\u003e for a scandal. It is all they have to discuss.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She turned her hand so that she could clasp his and gave thanks to God that she had instructed her musicians to plan a secular opera. What she would not\n have given to have Feliciana here as a distraction, but she had barked too much in the rehearsals to be trusted. Even Charles had left his spaniels with\n their attendant. Catherine glanced to her left, where her Ladies of the Bedchamber were seated in a position of honor. It galled her to have Lady\n Castlemaine present, but there was nothing for it. She had taken the precaution of placing Dona Maria and Lady Eleanor between her and Lady Castlemaine as a barrier.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She glanced at Lady Eleanor and smiled. Her color was up and she looked around the room with more animation than was her usual wont. She had been so keen\n for the musicians to perform for everyone, and Catherine hoped that she would be delightfully surprised by the selection.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She and Charles had decided upon the most English of themes. Onstage, the machinery of the theater came to life and great shutters unfolded to depict an\n English countryside. One of her female singers walked onto the stage, dressed as a peasant boy, and began an aria about the joys of England. As she sang,\n another singer entered, older and dressed in a long blue robe scattered with stars.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the course of the following duet, it became clear that the soprano represented the renowned King Arthur in his obscure youth. The music continued\n straight through, interrupted only by the occasional recitative, taking the young Arthur and Merlin through a series of adventures ending in a great\n tournament. The climax was the moment when Arthur drew the mystical sword from the stone, revealing himself as the rightful King of England. The scenery\n changed around them, spectacular and ingenious, but the real focus of the event was on the queen’s Italian musicians. They sat proudly at the front of the\n stage, not to the side or hidden behind a curtain, dressed in blues and greens like springtime brought to life.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When Arthur pulled the sword from the stone and sang the last ringing note of the first act, Catherine gripped the arms of her chair, waiting for the\n audience’s reaction.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The applause came with swift enthusiasm. Her chest unclenching a little, Catherine clapped with everyone else and resolved to reward the musicians. Rings,\n she thought, and a heavy gold chain for the concertmaster. She had more jewels than coin nowadays.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A motion to her left drew her gaze. Lady Eleanor had stood, hand to her chest as if she were having difficulty breathing. All the color had drained from\n her face. Stumbling from her chair, she made her way out of the room.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine leaned forward to Samuel. “Follow her, my dear, and make certain she is well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He nodded and sprang to his feet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the applause died away, Charles held out his hand to hers with a wink. “Shall we dazzle them?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had almost managed to make herself forget about this aspect of the evening. All her fear came back with full force, and she locked her gaze on her\n husband’s to keep from fainting. Catherine rose from her chair. Behind her—but she would not look—fabric rustled as the assembled audience began to rise\n with their king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From the stage, one of the performers spoke with the clear ringing voice of a trained singer. “Their Majesties invite you to remain seated.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She swallowed and proceeded to the stage with Charles. This was no different from their dance at the ball. Though she had been trained to be quiet and\n invisible, she had danced then and not perished.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They took center stage. Charles bowed to her, holding her in his gaze. The corners of his eyes crinkled with the hint of a smile that seemed meant only for\n her. Catherine curtsied.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The steps were no more complicated than the first dance they had done together. A simple chassé started it off, and then she turned in circles as the\n mirror of her husband. Their dancing master had conceived the performance as being a bridge between the glories of England’s past and present. For\n Catherine, the language of the dance was as foreign as English, but the physicality of it was freeing. To be able to move and stretch her legs and leap,\n with her skirts flaring about her, was pure heaven. All the while, Charles turned and bowed and had eyes only for her. It was exhilarating.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The final forms led her to face out toward the audience with him. She had almost forgotten they were there. As the music came to an end, she found herself\n curtsying. She had done it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The audience leapt to their feet, applauding with great gusto. The glittering ladies and gentlemen of the English court shouted their acclaim. She squeezed\n Charles’s hand, silently thanking him for lending her prestige as a shelter from the scrutiny of the court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Unbidden, her gaze sought Lady Castlemaine. Her complexion had gone decidedly green.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles waved to the audience and then released her hand, stepping back with a gesture toward her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then someone, she could not see who the blessed soul was, shouted, “Long live the queen!” Lady Castlemaine’s mouth had twisted into a sour line.\n Catherine met her gaze and smiled as she curtsied again for the audience.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The opera was not yet over, but she had already triumphed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nNew faces disrupted the happy calm that had held over Whitehall for some weeks: Lady Eleanor Plumstead, a new addition to the queen’ s ladies, is revealed to be a spy foran anti-Catherine faction, who intend to discredit the Catholic queen to make way for an Anglican one. Elsewhere, the king acknowledged the newly arrived James Crofts as his illegitimate son. Barbara, despondent after being abandoned by Charles, flirted with the young Crofts, who bragged that he had proof that his mother was actually married to the King, making him the rightful heir to the throne.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e \n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames Crofts\u003c/strong\u003e: Charles’ acknowledged but illegitimate son.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eEleanor Plumstead\u003c/strong\u003e: One of Catherine’s Ladies of the Bedchamber.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eLord Russell\u003c/strong\u003e: Nefarious noble with anti-Catholic sentiments.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eThom Hamed\u003c/strong\u003e: Tailor’s apprentice in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Mary Robinette Kowal\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.52","slug":"whitehall-6","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP6.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall6serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall6serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall6serialbox.pdf","share_url":"https://www.serialbox.com/episodes/whitehall-6","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ed7eada6e22ac9d178f6","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":7,"title":"Imperfect Enjoyment","released_date":"2016-07-20T11:54:13.081+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"Piety, hedonism, and some Russians. \n","byline":"Barbara Samuel","featured":false,"coming_soon":true,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall7.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-07-20","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eJanuary 1663\u003c/em\u003e\n\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny hurried up the back stairs as quickly as she could. Around her, the very walls of the palace seemed to pulse with the excitement of the diplomatic\n party arriving from Muscovy. Jenny herself had caught the mood, and knew her cheeks were flushed as she bumped the door open with her bottom. She bore a\n tray for Mavis, who’d been abed these many days with a fever.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’ve brought you broth direct from Cook,” Jenny said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Even with a red nose and rattling cough, her dark hair disheveled under her cap, Mavis retained her beauty. “Have you seen them yet?” she asked, her voice\n raw. She sat up, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not yet, but every lip carries a tale of them. Peter in the garden spied them riding into the city and he said the train of men and horses was near a mile\n long!” She folded a quilt into a tidy rectangle, which she laid over Mavis’s lap, then set the tray atop it. “Go easy, now, sweet, but do see if you can\n down a bit more.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A mile!” Mavis echoed, and coughed suddenly, reaching out a hand rough with chilblains to steady the tray as her body shook. But it only lasted a moment.\n “And me weak as a kitten!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Lord Steward will be dragging you to service again before you know it, so better to rest these days he gave.” Servants had died of the malaise the\n past weeks, starting with old Mrs. Needham in the laundry. Fully half the servants coughed and sniffled through their days. When a young maid and a\n stalwart stablehand were both carried off to their graves, the Lord Steward ordered the sickest to bed, Mavis among them. Jenny knocked wood—she had not\n felt ill at all.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Today, even less. Whatever the opposite of ill, that’s what she was. Musicians had been trailing through the courtyards, fiddling and blowing their flutes with lively abandon. Cook and all his minions had been chopping and rolling, baking and roasting in all the kitchens for days to prepare for a great feast to be held this evening in honor of the guests.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She watched as Mavis lifted the bowl to drink some broth. “I promise I’ll remember every detail and spin it out for you this very night,” she said. “Do not\n be tempted to get out of bed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mayhap I can see a little through the window.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Better to sleep, love,” Jenny said gently. “Think of poor Mrs. Needham, gone to her grave.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis closed her eyes. “Mrs. Needham.” Tears leaked from beneath her lashes. They had often worked together repairing gowns and ironing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Never mind,” Jenny said. “You must eat.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis steeled herself, a quality Jenny liked about her—the thing that had carried her from her bad life into a better one, the thing that would see her\n through this malady. “What gossip do you bring?” Mavis asked, taking another sip of broth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hmm.” Jenny considered. “The queen is angry that her mother has been exiled to a convent.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Bah! Not that kind of gossip.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny chuckled. “Well, ’tis said the king still avoids his mistress in favor of his queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That’s better. Does the lady pout?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have not seen it if she does. She’s all very gay and bright as ever.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What do the ladies wear today? To meet the wild men?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They’re lovely, all in their finery. Lady Castlemaine is in the red silk, you remember it.”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, yes.” Mavis settled, her gaze on the dress in her imagination. Worn from the small act of eating, she lay back.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny conjured up descriptions of some of the other gowns, the slashed sleeves on Lady Buckingham’s velvet, the embroidered skirts of the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You’re a good friend, Jenny.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come now. Let me tuck you in before I go.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis nodded, still weak enough not to mind the fuss. Jenny tucked her in, covered her with another quilt, and raced back down to the kitchen, where she\n dropped off the dishes and then slid out beneath the reigning chaos to find a spot to watch the great parade.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In Catherine’s apartments, a rolling flow of laughter and animated conversation filled the rooms, ladies and servants alight with the coming events. As her woman twisted Catherine’s curled dark locks into an arrangement of braids and ribbons, she smoothed her bodice, made of indigo velvet, a blue so rich it\n glowed. Her full sleeves were tied at intervals with gold ribbon, that same ribbon edging her overskirts, tied back to reveal elegantly embroidered flowers\n and vines on the white skirts below.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The room looked like a garden at midsummer, gowns of yellow and deep red and green, jewels winking, lace trailing from sleeves and hems. The Lady\n Buckingham looked particularly splendid in gold, but no one ever eclipsed the Lady Castlemaine, and no one did today. It was near impossible to avoid\n staring at the woman, Catherine thought without rancor. Like a bold sunset or the first wash of roses in the summer garden, her beauty was perfection, from\n round lips to tilted eyes to long, white hands.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To the Duchess of York, waiting nearby, Catherine said in Spanish, “They are like butterflies and flowers.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed, Madam.” She smiled. “In English, \u003cem\u003emariposa\u003c/em\u003e is ‘butterfly.’”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Butterfly?” Catherine repeated. “Like butter, the butter we eat?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne laughed. “Yes. I do not know why.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “English \u003cem\u003ees enigmático\u003c/em\u003e,” she said, shaking her head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n De Mello entered, a stout little bird amid the flowers, and bowed deeply. “\u003cem\u003eAlteza.\u003c/em\u003e”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Godfather,” she exclaimed, rising. “You will escort me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My pleasure, \u003cem\u003eAlteza.” \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk hurried forward with Catherine’s hooded cloak, to protect her from the weather as they crossed the courtyards to the Banqueting Hall. De Mello\n held out an arm and she slid her hand through the crook of his elbow. Behind her, the ladies swished and swirled into the long hallway, voices murmuring,\n rising, the music of her daily life. Ever had she been cocooned by the company of women, but clusters of nuns had carried an entirely different sort of\n sound. These ladies laughed lightly, their voices smooth, sharp, rolling, teasing. She had become fond of several of them. Anne, of course, but also Lady\n Chesterfield, who carried a motherly calm Catherine found pleasing. She was less fond of the poor, tense Lady Eleanor, who trudged alongside them, hardly\n as wide as a twig even in her dark cloak. Catherine wished to have more charitable thoughts, and she had genuinely tried to make her comfortable, but the\n woman was always grim, and it wore on her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What do you know of these Muscovites, Godfather?” Catherine asked, relieved to speak in her own language. “Why do they come?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Trade. Before the wars, the Muscovites had a trade agreement with England, but they threw all the English out when Cromwell rose to power.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Religious differences?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps. They are Orthodox Christians, which is closer, Your Majesty, to our own Catholicism than to Puritanism.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine nodded. “So now they wish to reestablish relations and trade.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, particularly whaling, I understand. And, too, they’ve been at war with Poland these past decades and perhaps seek alliances.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But do we not have enough war to occupy us?” Catherine asked. A letter from her mother, banished to a convent, had arrived only three days ago,\n complaining of the Spanish advances on the borders of Portugal, and always there were murmurs about the Dutch and their powerful navy. Catherine had heard\n Charles and the Duke of York speak of the need for a stronger navy on several occasions.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Just so,” he answered. “But the Muscovites come in goodwill.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A servant scurried to haul open the heavy wooden doors that led to the courtyard, allowing a blast of bitter wind to sweep in. Catherine bowed her head in defense, and still it found its icy way under her cloak, around her neck, making her cough. “Oh,” she said in small despair, pulling fabric over her mouth.\n “I dislike this weather.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You mustn’t think winter in London is always thus.” The Duchess of York tucked herself near. “I can’t remember a winter so cold! But walk close, there’s\n warmth in numbers.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Grateful, Catherine huddled between her godfather and her sister and they made their way to the Banqueting Hall, ducking inside with a sigh of relief. Anne\n brushed her skirts and pulled back her hood, then did the same for Catherine, taking time to adjust a curl, pat down a wisp of hair dislodged by her cloak.\n “There.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine smiled up at her gratefully and took her hand. They made their way to the dais covered with a canopy in festive style. Overhead, in the gallery,\n a company of musicians played woodwinds and pipes, sending a merry spray of sound over the buzz of voices. She squeezed Anne’s fingers. In English she\n said, “Is very exciting!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is!”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Excuse me, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e,” said de Mello. “I must speak with the ambassador.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On the dais, Charles awaited, adorned in a coat embroidered with gold and scarlet, his hair—all his thick, lustrous, natural hair, never a wig—adding\n counterpoint to the finery. He was taller than any man in the room, and long of leg, and carried some powerful air in his vicinity, so that even if he were\n not the king, one would be compelled to look his way.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine curtsied. “Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He took her hand and carried it to his lips. “How lovely you look, Your Majesty!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And you, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He laughed, guiding her to stand nearby. “Are you prepared for the spectacle? The Muscovites are an alarming lot.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The ladies are faint with delight.” She nodded at them, the bells of their skirts pressing one into the next in a soft cascade of velvets and silks. Lady\n Castlemaine stood out in red, but the king did not appear to notice. Charles seemed to have found true feeling for his queen, and he’d been in her bed more\n often than not of late.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003ePerhaps tonight\u003c/em\u003e, she thought, and the image must have glittered in her eye somehow, because he lifted her hand once more and kissed her palm, a promise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The courtyards were crowded with people as Jenny made her way to the Banqueting Hall. Due to the shortage of staff, she had been pressed into service for the state dinner that would be served later at York House, but for now she had slipped away to see the spectacle. Despite the cold, she had to fight her way through thick crowds outside the hall, trying to find some vantage point that offered a view of something besides hats and burly shoulders.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A blast of trumpets announced the arrival of the Muscovites, but even though it was plain the leaders were riding horses, she could see nothing. In\n frustration, she pushed and moved and wove through, but could make no headway.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her breath hung in the air and she bit her lip, trying to think of—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A hand captured hers. Startled, she made to run away, but then Thom tugged her hand. His nose was bright red, and it made his eyes all the darker. “Come,”\n he said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She allowed him to pull her away from the crowds and down an alley through a gate into a quiet square. A staircase led to small door. “The gallery,” he\n said. “Only the musicians are there.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will we get in trouble?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nay, my cousin will vouch for us. He is playing his violin.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You are ever full of surprises.” She grinned. “Lead the way, Mister Hamed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He lifted her hand and kissed the back quickly, earnestly, then they dashed up the steps. As they slid onto the high balcony overlooking the main floor,\n Jenny caught her breath first over the paintings on the ceiling, illuminated by large windows on either side of the building. She gave a quick, smothered\n gasp, and pointed upward when Thom looked around. He nodded appreciatively, and still holding her hand, made his way to the railing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The musicians played, bright and merry, woods and strings, the sound reverberating as the first of the Muscovites came into the room, dark and dressed in clothes the likes of which she’d never seen. A line of servants led the way, and someone banged a drum. Jenny felt her heart quicken. What a sight!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom leaned close. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She shook her head in wonder. “Never!” Her heart felt as big as the whole hall—never had she imagined she would have a life filled with such wonders.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine stood near the king, nodding and smiling at the foreign retinue. They dressed in the Eastern fashion, in multicolored vests made of many fabrics\n lined with fur, and adorned with intricate embroidery. They all sported thick beards, which she supposed must be protection against their cold land, and\n tall fur hats.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The row of gift bearers snaked in a seemingly endless line through the hall, bringing a rich mix of offerings—dark fur she sank her hand into, fox and\n sable and ermine, and some other pale fur she did not recognize. They carried rugs embroidered with bright thread, so large it took two men to hold their\n weight, and bows and arrows, and cloth of gold and silver. Bearers ceremoniously held up caskets of jewels and trade goods and so many other things it began to make her dizzy. She smiled and nodded.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The animals caused the greatest stir. Three magnificent hawks of a sort Catherine had never seen, hooded against the commotion, their broad shoulders\n attesting to their power, feathers striped brown. Charles roared his approval and held out his arm for them, charming the hawks as easily as he charmed\n every other creature on earth. He stretched one palm out to signal the dogs to stay, and they eyed the birds warily but did not move.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And more—tall, long-lashed birds called ostriches, looking around comically; horses with thick fur around their feet; and, most charming of all, birds the\n color of an evening sky, pale pink and graceful. “Pelicans,” their bearer explained. “Water birds, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Beautiful creatures,” he said with approval. “We’ll make them a lovely home in the park.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On it went, the procession and the presentation of gifts, for hours. Some of the men spoke with Charles for a moment, but it was, in the main, all\n pageantry. Catherine tired at last and sat, Anne along with her. Noise enveloped them in their own little world, and quietly they talked, dazzled by the\n sturdy power of the men, their strange dress and gruff voices. “The language is harsh,” Catherine commented, “or is that only my ear?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “To my ear, as well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps others feel that way about my language, no?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, no! Portuguese is . . . musical.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine smiled. Whether or not the compliment was true, it was offered in kindness. She spied Father Patrick in the crowd, hands tucked behind his back,\n looking for all the world as if he were enjoying himself. “Sister,” she said quietly in Spanish, “a question. I would have your true opinion.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course,” Anne murmured, taking her hand. “What is it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have thought perhaps to show solidarity with my husband and my new country by attending chapel on Sunday mornings with the king. Think you it would be\n heretical?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne glanced toward the priest. “Have you spoken with Father Patrick about this matter?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No.” She lifted a brow. “I rather suspect I know how he would advise me—he would say it is my duty to convert my husband, rather than allow myself to be\n converted.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne’s eyes widened. “You are the most devout lady I have ever known!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Others are more devout than I. But it is true I am in no danger of falling away from the True Mother Church. I could not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A cry went up around them, and the women clapped over a great white horse dancing toward the king, who laughed and gestured for it to be taken to the\n stables.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine focused once more on Anne, and said very quietly, “The English wish for an English queen. Perhaps I can at least accept they have customs that I\n do not mind, as I have done in clothing and hair, no?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne tucked her lip between her teeth, brow furrowing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No?” Catherine asked. “Speak freely, I beg you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not here, Your Majesty.” She glanced over her shoulder. “When there are fewer ears about.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Very well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the party moved from the Banqueting Hall to York House, en masse like some multi-legged insect, Barbara found herself moving with it. The entire\n spectacle had aroused her—robust men on big horses, eyes bold and haughty, the sensuality of colors and textures, the beautiful creatures so alarmed by the\n crowds, the birds with their satin feathers, the ostriches with the great dark eyes. She wanted to touch everything, rub against it all like a cat, the\n carpets and feathers and furs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles had not lain with her in months, and she felt the lack along the crook of her elbow, rustling beneath her heavy hair, weighing her lips. Even in\n the cold she needed no cloak, for steam came off her skin the moment the night air touched it. Her hunger made her reckless, and as the wine flowed freely\n through the party, she flirted shamelessly with the sturdy Muscovite seated to her right. They had no language to share, but she had eyes and a smile. He\n had laughter and hands that reached for her beneath the table.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What harm in it?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the head of the gathering, the king wore his state face, dark head bent close to the ambassador’s. He noticed not his wife, seated next to him, engaged\n in chatter with the Duchess of York, nor his neglected mistress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara’s world had shrunk these long months, narrowed to the chatter of the ladies over their embroidery, to the small comfort of her children, smelling\n of milk and sweet baby sweat when she visited the nursery, to her lonely bed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Late this cold winter evening, she washed up on the shores of a faro table. The air smelled of spice and heat and male sweat, underscoring the musk of\n animals and the overt virility that came off the Muscovites. The mingled odors were not entirely pleasant; they were, however, entirely arousing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was there, many markers down, that Rochester found her. She flirted with a barbarian on her left and the baron on her right, lifting her cup rather too\n often.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why Barb’ry, sweet, weren’t you warned off your habit of losses only last week?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Pish,” she hissed, waving him away. Charles had taken her to task as he paid her latest debts, but he knew she had to amuse herself somehow in his\n absence, and her second choice of pleasure was the tables. “’Tis small comfort, but comfort it does grant.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hmm.” He inserted himself between Barbara and the burly man next to her, giving the enormous man a sidelong glance. “Have you found the wolf?” he asked.\n “Or is he a bear? I’d be wary, dear heart—they have teeth in his part of the world.” He brushed a finger down her neck. “Teeth to tear tender ladies to\n nibbled bits.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Am\u003cem\u003e I \u003c/em\u003enot the wolf, dear Rochester?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He bent close, his hand falling against her shoulder, and whispered, “I should like your assistance with our little prince, Barb’ry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Little prince?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Our Jamie lad.” His mouth brushed the ticklish skin of her earlobe. She leaned away from him, irritable and conversely hungry. Only her women had touched\n her in ages, and every inch of her skin longed for the caress of a man. As if he knew it, Rochester’s hand slipped over the flesh of her shoulder blade,\n trailed along the meeting place of skin and gown. She turned to glare up at him, order him to remove his hands, but there was something in his face, still\n and calculating, that made her halt.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What is it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He touched her chin playfully. “Come along . . . and see.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In her reckless state, it was unwise to stay here among the wolves and bears and barons. Dragging her cloak about her, she followed Rochester’s lithe\n figure out of the hall and into the night, diving into the great room where splinters of courtiers and Muscovites gathered, drinking and playing games of\n dice. Among them was the lovely Jamie, engaged in earnest conversation with a man of great stature, his vest made of various leathers and black fox.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He is a young man yet, our prince, and given to heedlessness,” Rochester said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do not call him that, sir! It verges on treason.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mmm. My point. That is a cousin to the Romanovs, and the sweet boy is spilling his tale like a girl after her first kiss. Do we wish him to be so free\n with his chatter before we’ve learned what it might all be?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, dear,” Barbara said, and cast off her cloak. With a practiced gesture, she tugged a long curl down over her expanse of breast. “We’d best coax him\n away.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Such a pretty boy, Barbara thought, approaching. The same dark hair and delectable features as his father, the wide mouth and curiously luminous eyes.\n Could Charles ever have been so callow as this, though? She could not imagine it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dear Mister Crofts,” she cried, coming forward. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Startled, the youth abruptly stood, his cheeks flushing. “My Lady Castlemaine!” He bent over her hand, kissed her knuckles rather too fervently—but again that rippling through her skin, that remembrance of touch, that need for a thorough riding. She allowed his lips to linger, then pulled slightly away to\n urge him to stand. “Whatever . . . how is . . .” he stuttered. “How might I be of service?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Muscovites sitting nearby guffawed, and Jamie colored. Rochester stepped in and said smoothly, “The cub is clumsy, but you must admit his taste has no\n flaw.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The boy moved forward to retort, but Barbara claimed his elbow, leaning close to press her breasts into his arm. “Dear boy, will you assist me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His tongue lashed over his lower lip. “Whatever you desire. Or, that is, wish . . . want.” He halted, mercifully. “Of course.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The three of them departed, leaving behind raucous laughter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When they were safely awash in the cold blue moonlight along the river, Jamie breathed, “How ever may I be of assistance, my lady?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I only require your company, dear sir, and perhaps a second set of hands at cards. Rochester and I grow so bored with only each other.” She waited at the\n door to her wing for him to open it and ducked inside, taking the stairs to her chambers. A fire was lit and the drapes had been pulled, and her girl slept\n on the pallet at the end of the bed, so soundly that she didn’t stir as they entered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester paused at her side, looking at the downy cheeks washed with firelight, her plump arms tumbling from beneath her blanket. “Pink and fresh as\n dawn,” he said softly, tilting his head one way and then another. “What do you think, dear prince? What flavors might we taste on that unblemished skin?\n Dew? Gillyflowers?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The youth knelt. “Shall we try?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No,” Barbara said sternly, knocking his shoulder. “She’s not thirteen!” Ungently, she nudged the girl awake and she startled, alarm widening her eyes as\n she saw the men staring at her. Barbara tipped her head. “Away with you, Margaret. I have no need of you tonight.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The girl was only too willing to scurry away, closing the door tight behind her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Cruelty holds no sweetness,” Rochester said to Jamie, pouring wine into goblets.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie sat on a stool, hair loose and tumbling around his face. Firelight glinted on his eyes, making them look as if they were made of glass. “I planned no cruelty,” he said. “I have been the sport of those who have a taste for it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara exchanged a glance with Rochester, taking off her cloak and tossing it over the wide sill of a window. “Life during the wars was a challenge, was\n it not?” She drifted behind him, trailing a hand over his shoulder.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I suspect he means a thing you do not imagine, Barb’ry.” Rochester gave the boy a cup. “You were sent to school, were you not?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie scowled into his wine. “We all were, sir. It is no strange thing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But some of us are prettier than others.” Rochester sat next to the lad, brushed back his long hair, and gestured for Barbara to join him. “Perhaps you\n were introduced to things you knew not of before that time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am no innocent, my lord. The hints and coyness do you no favor.” He drank of the wine. “I was buggered, like all are, and you see it did me no harm.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n An unexpected wave of sympathy stirred Barbara as she imagined him a fresh, damp boy at the hands of classmates who used him for their own pleasures. She\n took his hand, long and white, and pressed it into her cheek without speaking. For a moment, he only gaped at her, eyes moist, lips open. “I would that boys were not so unkind to each other,” she said softly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He trembled, looking at her mouth, her breasts, and it was a balm to be so desired.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Kiss her, lad,” Rochester urged.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie yanked his hand away as if scalded. “You must think me ten times the fool,” he spat out, backing away. “My father’s mistress! You think to discredit\n me!” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Shh, shh,” Rochester murmured, coming close, his hands gentling the boy as if he were a nervous horse. “We mean you no harm. Have I shocked you?” He gave\n Barbara a sleepy glance. “Shall I go first?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am not shocked.” Jamie grabbed Rochester’s face in his big hands and kissed him, a rather long and luxurious kiss on his full mouth. Barbara watched,\n stunned, her skin rustling, spying tongues.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They broke apart, Jamie near flinging Rochester away, then spinning toward Barbara. “And one for you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His hands fell on her shoulders as they kissed, a big, deep kiss, his tongue not yet clever but hungry, and it lit points of heat through her, dangerous\n heat. Roused too much, she pushed him away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But there was Rochester, her old friend, eyes shining with wicked intent as he caught her round the waist. “And one for me.” As he leaned in, she felt a\n sharp thrill—Rochester! Whose mouth she had wondered over, whose hands would know their way to a woman’s pleasure. She caught his scent, night and earth,\n before he kissed her. Delicately, tiny flickers of tongue only over her lips, then her neck, and there was no halting the tumble into the lush thing they\n all wanted. With Rochester’s lips on her neck, she reached for Jamie, turned her face for another kiss. A blue-white light, born of the raw spectacle and\n the moonlight and deprivation, burned them all three together. Limbs and lips, slow slide of flesh on flesh on flesh, orange firelight splashing a\n shoulder, the high round of buttocks. Mouths, tongues, cocks and cunt. Barbara lost herself in it. Opened, rode, gave and received.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Slept.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Bright morning light filled her chamber as Catherine stirred. Against her hip rested the hand of the king, heavy and possessive. She smiled to herself and\n tucked into his side, pleased as ever when he stayed abed long enough to share a pot of chocolate with her. More often he was up and about with the dawn.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good morning, little Cat,” he said now, his voice deep from disuse. His finger moved to tickle her earlobe.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She shifted to see his face. “And to you, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A servant brought in a tray of chocolate, with cups and a pot of milk, and settled it between them. “Thank you,” she said, and the girl curtsied and ducked\n out backward. Catherine poured the thick, dark drink into each of their cups, then added milk to thin it down.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Muscovites are a wonder. What a spectacle that was!” Catherine said, offering him his cup. “Do all emissaries bring so many presents?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no. But with the Muscovites, they insist upon a diplomatic ceremony that must be followed.” He sighed. “I’m told it will take forty days.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine laughed lightly. “All steps of grave importance, no doubt. Will you grant their petitions?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will hear them out.” His mouth turned down at the corners. “They are at war and may wish our alliance, but we must keep our focus on our own concerns.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Dutch?” She had heard him discuss their ships with his brother.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye.” He rubbed a brow, a signal of worry or annoyance. “All the years we warred with the Spanish, they spent building trade, leaving the English a poor\n second. But for the nonce, my concern lies with the Spanish, who do not rest in their desire to claim your homeland.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed. And my brother has banished Mamãe to a convent. If I think too long on it, my heart boils.” She shook her head. Fond as she was of her brother,\n he’d never had the sense to rule, and had only managed because Mamãe was so clever. He endangered the country with his trust in those who cared more for\n their own advancement than the good of their homeland. “Foolish boy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king agreed with her and did not need to say it. Catherine had fretted enough over the news of her mother when it arrived a few weeks before. Her\n brother was barely fit to manage a household, much less a nation, and heaven only knew what would happen to her beloved country without the stabilizing\n influence of Luisa.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lightly, hoping to find a way into his confidence regarding politics, she asked, “Is there value in the gifts the Muscovites brought? In the jewels,\n perhaps?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, it appears they might have eased the treasury a little.” He scowled, rubbed that place on his brow. “More is required, but you needn’t concern\n yourself over that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps I will be a better queen if I am better informed, Your Majesty?” She said it gently, but held her head high and met his eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no.” He gulped down the chocolate and rubbed her flank. “I’m afraid I must away, my dear. Much as I dislike leaving behind these lovely legs of\n yours.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After he departed, Catherine lay alone a moment longer, threading Feliciana’s ear between her fingers. The pup sprawled on her back, front paws hanging\n loose in the air, fast asleep, her pale belly exposed. Catherine disliked her husband’s dismissal, and longed to take more of an active part in matters of\n state. She found pleasure in thinking, in considering matters of economics and politics and war, and she needed something to do besides wait. Wait. Wait.\n Catherine stroked the hot skin of the dog’s belly, touching her barely formed teats, thinking of puppies.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rolling onto her back, she placed a hand over her own womb, imagining her son growing there, a dark-haired, burbling child. Last night they had made love\nvigorously, and as her powerful husband moved within her, she’d had a quickening sense of otherness, a being coming to life within her. A child. \u003cem\u003e Her\u003c/em\u003e child.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003ePlease\u003c/em\u003e, she offered to the heavens. Perhaps she should add a novena to her daily prayers as a petition for her child.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Yes. Just right. She called for her maid to begin her morning toilette.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She would start the novena this very day.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After Mass, she waited in the chapel, taking a moment to dismiss her ladies. “I would have a moment,” she said to Dona Maria. “Will you send the others\n away?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e. Would you like me to linger?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, Godmother. Thank you. You may wait for me outside.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As you wish.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the quiet, deeply fragrant confines of the chapel, Catherine gathered herself, her desire, and knelt. The novena was one she had memorized many years\n before, a petition to the Blessed Mother in special circumstances, prayed by rote for nine days in a row to show devotion. Holding her rosary between\n clasped fingers, she began:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e\n O most Blessed Mother, heart of love, heart of mercy, ever listening, caring, consoling, hear our prayer. As your children, we implore your\n intercession with Jesus, your Son. Receive with understanding and compassion the petitions we place before you today, especially—\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She paused to envision her desire, a plump, dark boy like the baby she had glimpsed in the Lady Castlemaine’s arms, a hearty child, and happy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e\n We are comforted in knowing your heart is ever open to those who ask for your prayer. We trust to your gentle care and intercession those whom we love\n and who are sick or lonely or hurting.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She paused to imagine her mother in the convent, where she would be angry over her impotence in saving Portugal from the addled Alfonso.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eHelp all of us, Holy Mother, to bear our burdens in this life until we may share eternal life and peace with God forever. Amen.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She knelt in communion with the Virgin, who surely understood the yearning of a woman who longed to be a mother, a woman who ached to fill her empty womb.\n As she pressed her forehead to her folded fingers, a peace spread through her, as if her heart was touched by grace, by love. It poured through her chest,\n filled her head, then her limbs, making her weightless, without form, part of all that was eternal, all that was holy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eObrigado,\u003c/em\u003e” she breathed over the sense of grace and connection to her Lady. \u003cem\u003eThank you, thank you, thank you. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara swam toward wakefulness, then broke the surface all at once, her mouth dry and head pounding.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And felt the unmistakable effects of a robust night between her legs, on her elbows and knees. Memories flooded through her, mouths and hands and limbs—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She bolted upright to look around the chamber for lingering evidence, but Margaret had been here and there was not even single rumpled stocking to show\n anything untoward had happened.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She fell back, covering her face with an arm draped with the voluminous sleeve of a chemise. Flashes of the night came back to her, the flavors and colors and textures—the pleasures!—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And the trouble. A cold sense of terror washed over her as she imagined what might have happened if Charles had come late to her room and found them all\n three tumbled together like puppies. Not just one lover, but two, one of them his own son!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What a fool she had been. What a fool.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It had been more than a full moon cycle since she’d last lain with Charles, too, so what if a babe was in her now?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The longings of the flesh had oft led her to trouble, but in Charles she’d found a match, a willing and vigorous partner who explored the reaches of their\n play. He’d eased her restlessness, and settled her—somewhat—and slaked her thirst for years now.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Without his vigor, she had become reckless, restless.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lying utterly still in the softness of her bed so as not to disturb the hammers in her head, she warned herself that it could not happen again. Nor could\n any word of it ever get out. She would be ruined—with Charles, if not at court. She would have to bribe Margaret.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And if there was any mercy in the world, she would see her courses on their monthly round. Soon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eDear God. Please. \u003c/em\u003eIt was less a prayer than an oath.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor strode through the gardens in her heavy cloak, on an errand to return a borrowed book. The cold air bit her nose and ears, but she welcomed\n the silence of the frozen landscape. A pair of hearty birds sang in the deep center of a shrub, and a soft wind rustled the treetops. Far off, someone\n shouted. The quiet assuaged her desperate homesickness only slightly. Back home, children would be tumbling down snowy hills while their mothers roasted\n chestnuts for them to share when they came in from their play. For a long moment, she saw a vision of it, hanging in the air—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There you are.” Lord Russell took her by the elbow and steered her toward a copse of trees. “Walk awhile with me, dear Lady Eleanor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She willed herself not to yank her arm away from him but to simply give in to the press of his thumbs as he led her into the trees. She had not seen him\n since the night of the opera, when she had been so desperately wrong about the queen’s musicians. As she’d told Russell, she had imagined they would play\n some popish thing, that first step toward converting the court to her forbidden religion. Instead, it had been the most English of presentations, all about King Arthur and his sword.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have not come to see me,” Russell said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My duties leave me few hours of freedom, as you must know.” She pressed her lips together. “I have not gathered any further knowledge, so what point to it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The point is to find that knowledge, to reveal something, find something, bring me something I might use to topple this travesty of a queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And I tell you I have nothing more than what I brought before.” She strode away from him, clutching the book to her breast. “I am only on an errand and\n will be missed if I do not return.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My patience wears thin, Lady Eleanor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She swung back to face him. “As does mine, sir. I loathe this place, the noise and gossip and sin. None could wish to find what you seek more than I. Now\n leave me be.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To amuse himself during the cold weeks of winter—and to escape the rather boisterous party of Muscovites who seemed to be laughing and whoring and drinking\n in every corner of the palace—Charles slipped away to the Royal Society at Gresham College. The Royal Society, newly established since Charles had returned\n to England, was a collection of natural philosophers and mathematicians. Their passions were devoted to expanding the body of knowledge in many arenas,\n including astronomy, botany and horticulture, mathematics, and others. John Graunt annually presented mortality tables for the city of London, and\n travelers presented their findings from abroad. Charles found relief in the company of such learned men—a change from the plodding minds of many of his\n courtiers, as well as a respite from the constant pecuniary worries that plagued his court. This morning, he’d invited Jacob Winthrop, the young botanist,\n and a handful of other naturalists and gentlemen with questing ideas who had come to his attention about court and in various gatherings.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They ate a simple pie of partridge and winter apples and listened to the presentation of a paper from Mister Evelyn on forestry, proposing that more oaks\n be planted in order to provide wood for His Majesty’s navy. Charles cried out, “Hear, hear,” and Rogue hopped up from his feet and barked. The company\n chuckled. They were less formal than some society he kept, once they leapt the initial block of his royalty, and he appreciated it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After the forestry lecture, Mister Ball, limping noticeably, presented a short lecture on Saturn.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What do you think of all this, Mister Winthrop?” the king asked. “Does it stir your curiosity or are you only lured by the world of plants?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I believe all things are in some way connected, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “D’you now? In what way?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps only that we’re all made of cosmic dust—fallen stars, if you will. Perhaps more. Only time and study will tell us.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mister Evelyn leaned in. “Your field is botany, sir? One of my areas of study is trees.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king clapped Mister Winthrop on the shoulder. “Mister Winthrop shares your passion, Mister Evelyn. Tell him about your figs, young man.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty.” Mister Aubrey, a thin man with a hooked nose, approached. His wig sat slightly askew, and his coat needed brushing, but Charles found the\n philosophers often cared more for the shape of a leaf than the condition of a coat, and took their eccentricities in stride. “I have a proposition for you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do tell, Mister Aubrey.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have been writing a history of the counties of Wiltshire and Surrey, and I’ve found the most marvelous pattern of antiquities in Avebury. I plan to map\n it once the weather grows fine and I wondered if perhaps, well, if perhaps Your Majesty might like to join me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Antiquities, you say?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed, sire. Perhaps related to the monoliths in Wiltshire, though one can’t be sure, of course.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The familiar kindling of excitement rose in Charles’s breast, and he thought to share the day’s discussions with his intelligent wife. While Barbara had\n always enjoyed political discussions, and often offered keen insights, he thought Catherine more the scientist of the pair. “Keep me abreast of your plans.\n I might enjoy such an excursion very much.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After a restless night, Barbara arose early, donned a dressing gown, and raised her girl to go to the kitchen and alert them that she wanted a tray.\n Margaret had been admirably attentive since Barbara had settled her with a cloak woven of wool and silk, as well as a pair of new shillings, the morning\n after the Incident.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She wandered into her aviary, kept just off her bedchamber where there was light and air for the birds, her bright canaries and cooing gray doves. It was\n yet early, so she left the volaries hooded and allowed the creatures to sleep, but opened the shutters to allow the milky day in. On the river, a barge\n loaded with a cow and a horse and tall baskets floated through the purple-tinged mist. The courtyard beyond her apartments was empty save for a lad\n scurrying toward the kitchens with his arms full of wood.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She drew her hair over her shoulder and pulled a brush through it. The hectic dreams began to fade, dreams of being chased by hounds through the palace\n grounds, of Catherine, big with child, smiling wolfishly, of her own belly swelling with a demon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n An exaggeration. And yet, she worried. Her courses had not come.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eHalt!\u003c/em\u003e she told herself. It was unlike her to be so fretful, so weak-minded. It had only been a short time. If she found herself with child, she would only lie with Charles to make the babe his anyway. Done.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She leaned into the long opening of the window and caught sight of a figure slipping out of a hallway and into the courtyard. The mist cloaked him at\n first, then parted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles made his way across the courtyard, hair and coat brushed even so early. The sight of him caught her beneath her breastbone, a sharp puncture that\n stole her breath. How she missed him!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Milady,” Margaret said, dipping respectfully before settling the tray on a small table.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you,” she said absently, willing Charles to turn and look toward her window, to see her face watching him move so jauntily through the morning. He\n disappeared through the heavy doors that led to his own apartments, and Barbara pressed a hand to her heart. When had she lost him so thoroughly?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But more importantly, how could she win his attentions back?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In his privy chamber a week later, Charles wrote a letter to his sister Minette. His limbs fair hummed from his long walk with the dogs in the crisp\n morning and his mood was fine. His correspondence with his sister was one of the great pleasures of his days. This afternoon, he spoke of the figs growing\n in the orangery and of his vigorous walk and the suddenly noticeable shift in how long daylight lingered into the late afternoon. A tip toward spring, and\n he would welcome the change. It had been a cold winter indeed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n One of his young courtiers stepped up to his desk. “Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty. Sir Charles Berkeley wishes a word.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles set down his pen, hiding a scowl. This would not be good news. “Yes, yes,” he said, wiggling his fingers to gesture the man forward.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sir Charles was the Keeper of the Privy Purse, and Charles had only had his weekly meeting with him two days before. “Perhaps a \u003cem\u003eprivate\u003c/em\u003e word, Your\n Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Very well.” He nodded and the courtiers departed. Charles did not ask Sir Charles to sit, and he stood stiffly by the mullioned windows overlooking the\n Thames, where ships and barges moved on their rounds, sails inflating and deflating in the sunlight.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Out with it. What trouble now to mar my day?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Berkeley worried the brim of his hat. “I’m afraid it is the Lady Castlemaine, sire. She has overspent her allowance and came to me for an advance, which I\n said I could not grant without your leave.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How much does she ask?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Twelve thousand pounds, Your Majesty. She pled gambling debts from the night of the state dinner, which she said she engaged on your behalf to entertain\n the Muscovites.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To cover his annoyance, Charles pursed his lips and peered out toward the water. He’d warned her repeatedly, and still she wantonly lost at the tables. It\n was profligate, when the dowry of goods had not yet been sold, the promised gold had never arrived, and when that very state dinner for the enormous party\n had cost the earth and the entertainments continued to cost blood and soul. The forty days of ceremony they required progressed all too slowly, their\n prodigious appetites devouring all profit their gifts had delivered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet, he had neglected Barbara these past months. His most pressing duty was to seed an heir upon his queen. She had bravely kept a cheerful face over\n the failure of that babe to appear thus far, but the more they lay together, the more likely the chance.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara had done no ill to be discarded, and he did yet long for her, the spice and voluptuousness she brought, her ready turn of wit, the throaty sound of\n her wicked laughter. The memory swept along his neck, luring him toward her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But he had promised Catherine not to lie with the woman, and for the nonce, he would honor that promise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Growling a little, Charles said, “Give the Lady Castlemaine what she asks, but warn her I will not always be so generous.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Berkeley bowed. “Of course, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles dipped his pen, trying to remember where he’d left off. Sir Charles did not move.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What else, Berkeley?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Only, er, how shall I rearrange the other costs we are juggling? Shall I—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That would be your task, Berkeley.” He went back to his letter. “And see to it that the Lady Castlemaine is given the gifts we discussed.”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The furs and jewels, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles raised his head. “I hope I do not hear censure in your tone.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no. Of course not, Your Majesty.” He bowed his way out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As soon as the man was gone, Charles frowned after him. The problems of the treasury would have to be addressed, but he had lived too long in exile to\n pinch pennies with a mistress he rightfully deserved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The treasury would wait. He dipped his pen and wrote to his sister of the marvelous discoveries being made by men of science.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor disliked nearly everything about the papist services she was obliged to attend with the queen. The incense burned her eyes and gave her a\n headache. The repetitive prayers, murmured without original intent, the same prayers said for a thousand years—how insulting to the dear Lord!—she found\n thoughtless, empty of true passion.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But the worst were the statues of saints—idolatry, all of them, but especially the Virgin Mary, who was elevated nearly to the status of God. A woman!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n These past days, they had all waited as the queen knelt before the statue and prayed the same prayer, day in and day out. She had explained that the\n purpose was exactly that repetition, but to Lady Eleanor it seemed very like an incantation, like witchcraft. Wasn’t a spell simply repetitive words, said\n in a certain way?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you walk with me, Lady Eleanor?” the queen invited in her musical accent as she emerged from the chapel on the seventh day.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They pulled their cloaks about them, shivering in the passageway where wind seemed to be captured and run up their skirts like demons. She shivered at the\n idea, a black creature clinging to her legs, biting—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are you happy here?” the queen inquired. She had trouble making the soft \u003cem\u003eh\u003c/em\u003e sound, and it came out as “’appy ’ere?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, Madam. It is a great honor to serve you.” Lady Eleanor half-curtsied for effect, feeling her gut sink. She had not been a good actor in this, and now\n she would be found out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Have you left someone? A child? A husband?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, no. I am alone. An unmarried woman with only a brother.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You miss home, no?” She tucked her hand through Lady Eleanor’s elbow. Despite herself, she felt elevated by the queen’s attention. “You are not so old,\n yes—we shall find you a husband!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh!” Lady Eleanor stopped in her tracks. She should have known this would arrive. “Please, no, Madam. I—er—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen paused. “Do you not want a child of your own?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor shivered, imagining herself marooned at court with some drunken courtier, forever locked into a life woven of lies. But the queen wished for a\n child desperately, and Eleanor inclined her head. “I have not allowed myself to dream of it, Your Majesty. Perhaps some women are meant to tread their\n paths alone.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a long moment, the queen’s soft gaze rested on her face. “I see,” she said, and they kept walking.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On a blustery afternoon, Barbara sat on a cushion in her chambers, rolling a ball across the rug with her daughter Anne. The girl was nearly three, round\n of cheek and dark of eye, and she giggled in delight when the ball rolled far past Barbara’s reach and bounced into the wall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Silly girl,” Barbara said fondly as the nurse hurried to retrieve the toy. “I cannot roll it back if you do not get it to me.” She shifted the solid\n weight of her son Charles in her arms, kissing his head. He gurgled and cooed, finding fascination with his fingers. Drool spilled from his fat little lip and she blotted it with a cloth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Roll it again!” Anne exclaimed. The little girl was both adoring and jealous of her brother, used to having all of her mother’s and nurse’s attention to\n herself. Charles often joined these regular hours of play, for he was a good, attentive father. In hopes that he might make an appearance today, Barbara\n had left her hair loose, only tied away from her face with a red ribbon, and wore a simple day gown that showed off her shoulders. It gave her the freedom\n to play with her children without constraint, and more than once, he’d found the ensemble appealing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mama!” Anne cried. “Roll it!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara spun the ball toward her, thinking of Mass this morning, the litany of the Latin words spilling over her, offering a strange comfort she had not\n known before. The repetition pleased her, induced a state of calm, and she had begun to look forward to it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Odd.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her daughter jumped up and down in place, her curls bouncing. “In the summer,” Barbara said, “we’ll play bowls on the lawn outside. Would you like that?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes!” The girl leapt to her feet and spun around, then sank down, ball in hand. “Will Papa King come?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come where, little girl?” said a voice at the door. A trio of dogs raced in, and Anne grabbed her ball, all too aware of what could happen if the dogs\n took a fancy to it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara scrambled to her feet, curtsying as well as she was able with the boy on her hip. “Your Majesty,” she said in a tone meant to be low and pleasing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne jumped up and ran screeching to her father. “Papa King! Play with me!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Play what?” he roared, and bent down to pick her up, turning her upside down as she screeched, then righting her again on her feet. “Wolf? Bear?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No!” She covered her eyes. “I will be afraid.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles dropped to his knees and made exaggerated stomping noises with his knees and hands, growling as Anne protested exuberantly. In Barbara’s arms,\n little Charles chortled over the game, grasping his mother’s finger and kicking his chubby feet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king swept out an arm and scooped his daughter into his embrace. She laugh-screamed and flung her small body at him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As she watched, Barbara quelled a pang of missing him—not her lover so much as her long-term companion. They had often conversed for hours at a time about\n everything—nature and nations, the wives of dukes and the best dishes served at dinner. She was deeply lonely without his company, and though she must have\n known in some private corner of her mind that she would not remain his mistress forever, she had believed their connection to be true and strong, not so\n easily displaced while she was yet young and desirable.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She knew no man ached for a woman who pined for him. Sitting on a stool so that Charles would have a fine view of her creamy décolletage, she lifted her\n hearty son and braced his feet on her legs. “Say good morning to His Majesty, little one.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The baby pushed against her calf with his toes and called out a long series of syllables, making Charles laugh. Holding Anne against his hip, he stood and\n crossed to sit next to Barbara and the baby, leaning in to offer his finger. “What a strong boy you are, little lad!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nurse says he’s the strongest babe she’s nursed in a decade,” Barbara bragged.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Only a decade?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Papa,” Anne said, reaching up for her father’s chin and turning him. “Look at me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara could not help it—the plea was so direct that she had to laugh. “No, sire,” she said, “look at me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no,” Charles said, reaching for his son, pretending to make the sound of a baby’s voice, “look at me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Me!” Anne cried, her tiny fingers against his chin.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles kissed her head. “I always want to look at you, my darling Anne. Who could be as pretty a girl as you are?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She blinked. “Mama?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, she is,” Charles said, and to her great pleasure, he reached for Barbara’s hand and kissed her knuckles, setting her skin afire. His face gave\n nothing away, and he only bent over the children once more, playing with them together and apart.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lap empty, Barbara continued to watch them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’ve sent the presents you requested from the Muscovites to your rooms,” Charles said. “The ermine will go to my queen, but you shall have a cloak trimmed\n with sable.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps the sable will look fine with rubies,” she said in a thoughtful voice, and glanced sideways at him. “And nothing else?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He swallowed. She saw the movement of his throat, but he only gazed at the children. “Perhaps.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you come to supper soon, dear sire?” She found she could not summon any guile, and her heart was in her eyes as she added, “I’ll have our favorites\n prepared.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He held the foot of his child in his big hand, touching the baby’s chubby toes one by one. He did not look at her when he said, “Perhaps not for a little\n while longer. The kingdom awaits an heir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAnd yet the seed falls on barren soil.\u003c/em\u003e She bit the words back, ducking her head to hide her bitter disappointment. To her horror, a tear burned at the corner of her eye.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles reached for her, lifting her chin with one strong finger, in the same tender way he touched his children. “You are the loveliest creature in all\n the world, dear one. Do not doubt that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The tears built. Absurd, foolish, weak, female tears, welling too high to hide, spilling humiliatingly over her cheeks. The scent of his skin filled her\n head, oranges and pine and twilight, so unique to him, and her yearning filled her, both wistful and burning, making her fingers tremble so that she hid\n them in her skirt. She had loved him since she was a girl. She loved him still and wished that she did not.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, sweet, sweet love,” he whispered, and leaned in to touch his nose to hers. His thumb brushed her chin. “Please, oh, sweet lady, do not weep.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n One small sentence escaped her. “Do you not miss our long and playful hours, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye.” He made a sound of pain. “It takes all I am, all I have, to resist.” Leaning in closer, he caressed her lower lip with his thumb, very lightly. His\n other palm circled her neck, tipped up her face. He kissed her, once, twice, and Barbara swayed closer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Patience,” he said roughly, and swallowed. Abruptly, he dropped his hands. “Now I must away. Give me kisses, little beauties.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The children and dogs fell on him, playing, and Barbara fought for calm. Fearing she might reveal entirely too much if she lingered, she bent and kissed\n her daughter’s head, then hurried off.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the queen’s privy chamber, Barbara played cards with the Ladies Suffolk and Buckingham and young Jamie, who was a great favorite with the maids of honor\n for the petulant sexuality he exuded, his pretty mouth and long hands. Over the play, he gave her long looks, weighted with meaning. Exasperated, she\n passed on the bid, flinging her cards face down.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Forgive me,” she said, curtsying to the queen, in conversation with Lady Buckingham over the sketches the queen embroidered so exquisitely.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen nodded and Barbara hurried down the passageway to the closet. The hall was dark and cold, and it felt good against her overheated skin.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Behind her came footsteps. “My lady!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie. She turned, willing herself to have patience as he strode toward her in a pale green coat, those lovely legs clad in tight breeches. A flash of his\n hands, that mouth, Rochester’s skilled tongue—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Not that. Not again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He bowed deeply as he came abreast, peeking over his shoulder before whispering, “I think of nothing but you, day and night,” he declared, reaching for her hand.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She allowed him to take it. To wound him would be a grievous mistake. She glanced down the hallway to be sure they were alone, then pulled him into a dark\n alcove where once a saint or statue must have lived. “Dear Jamie,” she whispered, raising a hand to his smooth cheek. “Nothing would give me greater\n pleasure than to steal back to my rooms with you, but you know that it is impossible.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He moved close, covering her breast with his free hand. “Nothing is impossible! I am your slave, I swear it. No word will ever escape these lips.” In a fever, he bent to press kisses to her chest.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She caught his hand, and tugged him up by his hair. “We cannot!” But she pressed her mouth to his palm, feigning passion. His wrist carried a ghost of that orange and pine scent of his father, and the notes whispered through her person, reminding her of the night, the pleasures, the illuminating thoroughness\n they had indulged.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “We cannot, dear boy,” she repeated, smiling up at him. “A moment was all we were allowed, but know this—when my eyes fall upon you, the thing I am\n remembering is the pleasure you gave.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, dear lady, I have never, I will never—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She touched his mouth. “Listen to me. Your father would banish us both. To play the game you wish to pursue, you must be wise and patient and keep your\n goal always in sight. Do you understand?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He gulped jerkily, eyes downcast, and she thought he might be overcome. “Yes.”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now return to the queen and be kind to her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Very well.” He pressed one more kiss to her hand and rushed away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She stared after him, wondering if she should trust him. Her bladder insisted she forget it for the nonce and she hurried into the closet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Where she saw at last the source of her irritation. No babe stuck in her this round.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was saved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Toward the end of the month, a sudden thaw left the grounds muddy but a bright cold sun lured Catherine outside. The Duchess of York walked with her, their ladies a trail behind them, and Feliciana romped ahead with the fox kit Gregory, now grown to full size with a fat white tail and the loveliest eyes, lined\n in black.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine was in fine spirits. She had completed her novena and there had been no sign of her courses. Perhaps, at last, she was with child!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have thought on your question about going to church with the king,” Anne said. “To show you are adopting the customs of the English.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes. You think it wise?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps.” Anne glanced back over her shoulder. “Mayhap a trade.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A trade?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You attend with your husband. And then perhaps he would attend with you. Out of love.” She paused, as if choosing words with care, then, “You are a most\n inspiringly devout Catholic. Have you considered, Your Majesty, that you are well positioned to bring the Church back to England if you so desired?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Pray, what do you mean, sister? England is hateful to our faith.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What if your king were Catholic? If he converted, would not the country follow?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A tremor of discomfort crossed her good cheer. “But could it not also stir civil war once again? The country is only now easing into a prosperous and\n peaceful era. Surely the people are weary of war.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps that very disinclination for war would be prevention of it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a frown, Catherine shook her head. “He would dislike my meddling with him this way, and things are peaceful between us.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course,” Anne said. “Think no more on it. It is only my own fancy.” She smiled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You are so devout that I have imagined you often as the saint who brings the true faith to the country.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The words stuck in Catherine’s conscience, but she brushed them away. She loved her faith, but she also loved her husband and wished to bring no trouble to\n him. “I am no saint, sister. But enough. Let’s think of some celebration to enjoy this bright day.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Discreetly, she pressed a hand over her belly, imagining that the Holy Mother had granted her prayer, that a new life grew there. Her heart was light, full\n of hope, and she laughed at the antics of the fox and Feliciana.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But the next morning, her flower stained her thighs, the mark that proved she’d not caught a babe. With effort, she held up her chin, but all the ladies\n knew, and she knew they spoke of it behind their hands. \u003cem\u003eThe queen and her flower, no babe again. It has been many months\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After mass she waited until the chapel emptied of all but her two attendants, today Lady Castlemaine and Lady Eleanor, who waited toward the rear. She\n ignored them and knelt in sorrow before the Mother of God.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment, she only looked at the statue, the Holy Mother and her Holy Son, draped in bright blue robes gilded with gold leaf, her long dark hair\n trailing down her arm. Her eyes seemed to look directly into Catherine’s, and for one long moment, she allowed the fury of loss to fill her. Then she bowed\n her head, contrite over her anger.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eOh, Holy Mother!\u003c/em\u003e she cried in her mind.\n \u003cem\u003e\n I have been dutiful in all ways. There are mysteries I cannot know, and the world is ordered according to the will of God, but I beg of you, send me a\n child!\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Fervently, she bent her head and began to pray.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the rear of the chapel, Barbara sat quietly with Lady Eleanor. They’d all heard the whispers that the queen’s courses had arrived this morning, and the\n queen wore her distress like a heavy cloak. It weighed down her shoulders, her head, and although she did not weep, her mood of sorrow was clear.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In some still place within her, Barbara felt a stirring of sympathy, a strange prick of alliance. No matter their differences, the lot of women ever\n carried the same trials. A child, no child, beauty or no beauty, all dependent on the whims and wishes of the other sex.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Next to her, Lady Eleanor sighed and shifted. The woman was never pleasant, but she disapproved of the Catholic rituals particularly. Barbara leaned over\n and quietly whispered, “I will stay if you wish to depart.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She shook her head with a scowl. She would do her duty.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara shrugged and looked back to the queen, the slim shoulders bowed. It had now been more than seven months that the queen had lain with the king, and\n there was still no heir. If it continued thus, Catherine might be sent back to Portugal, disgraced and barren.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The thought did not please Barbara as much as it might have. The king would still need an heir, and a wife, and he would marry again. Perhaps the next wife\n would be less biddable, more threatening.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She pursed her lips. Always the enemy you knew over the enemy you did not.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine rose, pale but straight and queenly, and Barbara thought, quite to her own surprise, \u003cem\u003eBut is she my enemy?\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A cold wind blustered over the windows as Barbara arranged the last touches to a table set for two. The room glowed with candlelight and she’d arranged her\n hair to fall in splendor over her white shoulders. Around her throat and scattered across her décolletage were strings of rubies. Her cheeks flushed with\n anticipation.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A scratch at the door. A tumble of pups, racing into the room, and there was the king. At last. She curtsied deeply, her heart racing. “Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment, he paused, taking her in. “Good evening, my Lady Castlemaine.” His voice, rich and low, carried promise. “You are so very, very lovely.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then he was before her, drawing her up, drawing her into his arms and kissing her. Her lover, her love, her friend and companion. “Oh,” she whispered,\n nearly faint with his return. “I have missed you so.” She kissed his mouth and his face and his hands. Tears again burned in her eyes and she bent her\n head, pressing her cheek into his knuckles. “I have so feared that I lost you entirely.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no.” He tucked a finger below her chin and raised her face. He looked into her eyes, and said with great intent, “It was cruel to dismiss you when I\n hold you in deepest regard. I did not think how hard you would take my absence.” He pressed his mouth to hers. “You are most dear to me. I cannot bear to be away from you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara closed her eyes, breathing in his very particular scent, taking sustenance from the solid presence of him. When she had calmed herself, she opened her eyes, lifted on her feet to kiss his beloved, precious mouth, and said, “Come, let me feed you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCatherine charmed the court of Whitehall by hosting an opera and performing a grand duet with the king, much to Barbara’s dismay. Lady Eleanor, having heretofore failed to find any ammunition against the Queen, latched onto the rumor (circulated by Barbara) that James Crofts is actually Charles’s legitimate heir. Jenny the servant girl went on an outing with the tailor’s apprentice, Thomas Hamed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e \n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames Crofts\u003c/strong\u003e: Charles’ acknowledged but illegitimate son.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eEleanor Plumstead\u003c/strong\u003e: One of Catherine’s Ladies of the Bedchamber.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eThom Hamed\u003c/strong\u003e: Tailor’s apprentice in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDon Francisco de Mello\u003c/strong\u003e: Conde de Ponte, Portuguese ambassador to England.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames\u003c/strong\u003e: Duke of York and brother to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAnne\u003c/strong\u003e: Duchess of York, wife to James, and a Catholic.\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Barbara Samuel\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.53","slug":"whitehall-7","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP7.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall7serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall7serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall7serialbox.pdf","share_url":"#000000","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ed8aada6e22ac9d178f7","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":8,"title":"Ambitions Which Climb Upwards","released_date":"2016-07-27T12:00:41.549+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"On hearts and human nature. ","byline":"Madeleine Robins","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall8.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-07-27","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eFebruary 1663\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Privy Garden lay under a heavy mantle of snow, and a leaden sky stretched over the palace and the city beyond. Catherine had never imagined such cold\n in Lisbon, and yet these English seemed not only to tolerate it but to thrive. The Thames had frozen over, and from the river side of the palace she had\n seen men gliding over the dull white ice on sharpened blades, a pastime Charles’s brother had brought from his exile in the Netherlands. Indoors there were great fires and hot drinks and games and dancing, as if merriment could provide heat that would seep into every corner of Whitehall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Except into the new queen’s heart.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine had wakened in the hours before dawn, while Lady Suffolk snored beside her and Annis, another of the seemingly endless chambermaids, breathed\n heavily at the end of the bed. After lying abed for a time, willing herself to sleep, she had risen, wrapped a down-filled quilt about her shoulders, and\n gone to stare out the window onto the Privy Garden. Torches at each arch and doorway gave the stonework around the garden an odd orange glow, and despite\n the hour there were still servants about their tasks. She marveled at how many people lived and worked in the palace, a small army of women and men.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There were two of them just below her window, shoveling snow from the path into a barrow to take away. She watched, fascinated to see how they edged the\n path to keep the snow from tumbling down again. They talked loudly, heedless of the sleeping nobility just above them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “. . . My Mart’ say it’s all the best for ’er.” That was the square-set man with his head wrapped in a scarf and dirty scarlet mitts wrapped round the\n shovel haft.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Wot, ’er?” The taller, thinner fellow jerked his head, and Catherine stepped back from the window when she realized the man meant her. The queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nar, she’s still flat as my ol’ auntie. Lady Barb’ry, the king’s whore. Ye’d think she’d know by now where babes come from. Only a month or so blown, but\n gettin’ center of the roast and all fine about ’er, Martha says.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ain’t no doubtin’ ’is Majesty’s a man, aye.” The thin man stopped to lean on his shovel. “But ’e ain’t been able to put a baby in the Port-a-gee. Me, I\n spect ’e’ll tire of tryin’ after a time, send ’er ’ome.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Wot, and marry t’other?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ol’ King ’enry married ’is ’oor, din’t ’e? Hark, yon’s t’ steward.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The men fell quiet, shoveling with a will as one of the liveried stewards approached. What he said to them, Catherine did not stay to hear.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She fell back into the room, her ears full of buzzing. Charles gone to \u003cem\u003eher\u003c/em\u003e again, after all his sweet promises, and she was pregnant? Catherine\n said a prayer, but could not be certain what she was praying for. That it not be true? That this child was not her husband’s?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen scurried back to her bed and fell into it, the quilt still wrapped around her, too cold to weep, shivering deeply. It was those shuddering gasps\n that woke Lady Suffolk.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty, are you ill?” The older woman sounded thick and stupid, half asleep still. “You are like ice! Hi, girl!” she tossed a pillow at Annis at the\n foot of the bed. “Fetch something warming for Her Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no!” Catherine sank back among her pillows. “Fetch nothing, I beg. I am—” she could not say she was untroubled. “A—dream. A bad dream. Sleep, Annis,”\n she urged the girl, who looked at her from under a tumble of brown curls. “Lady Suffolk—sleep, I beg. I—” She gestured at the pillows, still too distraught\n to remember the English words. “\u003cem\u003eEu também vou dormir\u003c/em\u003e. I sleep.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk, her dark eyes shadowed with concern, plumped pillows and tucked the covers around her. \u003cem\u003eShe is Barbara Castlemaine’s gossip\u003c/em\u003e,\n Catherine thought. \u003cem\u003eShe acts kind, but she is not. Does she know? If porters know, all the court must know. \u003c/em\u003eCatherine shut her eyes and curled\n about her unhappiness.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After a time she felt Lady Suffolk lie back in the bed; soon she was snoring again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWhat shall I do? What can I do?\u003c/em\u003e She pressed a hand against her flat, empty belly\u003cem\u003e. If I speak to Charles it will avail me nothing. If I speak to Lady Castlemaine— \u003c/em\u003eCatherine’s imagination failed at the thought of such a scene. \u003cem\u003eSurely Charles will not send me home—he may not love me completely, but he loves me a little, I swear, Holy Mother, he does, and he is not cruel. So I must bear this—if it is true. And pray. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thinking so, Catherine drifted into a light, troubled sleep.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a yip, and Feliciana was on her hind legs, nosing at the queen’s hand, begging her attention. The animal was suffered to go everywhere, even as\n the king’s dogs were. Eleanor Plumstead liked dogs well enough, but she disliked these little beasts that were everywhere underfoot in Whitehall, a symbol of everything she loathed about the court: spoiled frivolities in a place and at a time meant for seriousness.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen bent to pick up the half-grown pup and bury her face in the dog’s silken fur. “Foolish baby, your nose is so cold!” For much of the morning, Her\n Majesty had stood at the mullioned window watching the white glare of the Privy Garden. Lady Suffolk had murmured that she slept ill.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor had a shawl over her arm, dutifully ready to offer it to the queen, but Catherine had not asked for it, and Lady Eleanor would not offer it\n unasked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Feliciana wants to be a-running.” The voice came from behind them. Eleanor’s gut churned and, as one with the queen, she turned. Framed in the doorway,\n drawing every eye: the king, with Lord Buckingham and His Grace of York behind him. \u003cem\u003eCoxcomb, making sure of his grand entrance\u003c/em\u003e, thought\n Eleanor. As she rose from her curtsy, Feliciana leapt from the queen’s arms to greet the king’s dogs sniffing under the tables. Eleanor withdrew a pace to\n watch: When Catherine would have dropped into a curtsy herself the king stopped her, raising her hand to his lips. “Good morning, little wife. How do you\n today?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen opened her mouth to answer, but her eyes filled with tears and she said naught.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now, sweet, what is this?” The king put his arm about her shoulders and steered her to a cushioned bench whose position far from the fireplace had kept it empty. Eleanor kept her distance, emotion knotting in her: envy. How long since she had met with that kind of gentleness? Why should a popish queen find it\n at the hands of the king who had killed Eleanor’s father? The thought kept down any sympathy for the unhappy Catherine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king said, gently, “What, tears?” Even speaking for his wife’s ears alone, his voice carried.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine looked up at her husband; when she blinked the tears rolled down her cheeks. She dashed them away and attempted a smile. Eleanor did not need to\n hear her say it was nothing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come, little Cat, I know you too well by now to believe you will weep at naught.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis—” The queen shook her head. “I need not speak of it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor followed the queen’s glance to the knot of ladies who stood in easy conversation with Lord Buckingham and the Duke of York, straight to Lady\n Castlemaine. \u003cem\u003eOh\u003c/em\u003e, Eleanor thought. \u003cem\u003eShe’s heard. She knows\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAnd His Majesty knows too\u003c/em\u003e, she realized, watching a play of emotion on his face. \u003cem\u003eHe knows all\u003c/em\u003e. Almost, she could feel sorry for them both: the queen knowing another woman carried the babe she wanted so badly; the king, delighting in his mistress’s pregnancy—oh, that pleasure was clear on his face—and sad to be the source of his wife’s sadness. No words had been exchanged, yet it was as if they had spoken for an hour. Almost, Eleanor could feel sorry for them. Then she thought of what\u003cem\u003e she\u003c/em\u003e had lost and all pity left her heart.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked away, biting her lip. When she looked back again, as the clock struck twelve, the queen was half-risen from her seat. Her Portuguese woman, Dona\n Maria, stood like a crow with the trappings of the queen’s popish worship dangling from her hand: a breviary and rosary. The king took his wife’s hand to\n keep her there.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Must I suffer you to leave me, wife?” His voice was low; Eleanor was embarrassed by the intimacy in it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty know I am never willingly go from him,” the queen answered in the same tone. She turned to Dona Maria. “I will hear Mass at None.” That sour\n old woman curtsied and left the king and queen. What sort of faith could be set aside so that the king and queen might sit, cooing at each other like doves\n in a cote?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Bile rose up in Eleanor’s throat. \u003cem\u003eWhat am I doing here?\u003c/em\u003e The rich, gorse-colored dress she wore was a reproach to her Puritan sensibilities; she\nwas used to gowns plainly made and of sober hue. The clothes she had left behind in Bedfordshire. \u003cem\u003eThe sooner I find something Lord Russell may use against the queen, the sooner Mama and Roger will be safe\u003c/em\u003e. But Russell wanted only the word of a Catholic plot; nothing else would serve to free Eleanor from his influence and permit her to retreat to her home.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen was so obviously besotted with her husband it made Eleanor Plumstead want to shake her, to tell the little queen that this king was not worthy of her love or the love of any honest woman.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her lips framed the word \u003cem\u003emurderer\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “At your prayers, Nell?” Eleanor was startled to find Lady Castlemaine had come up behind her. Her voice was loud enough in Eleanor’s ear that she thought\n the king and queen must have heard it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “P-prayers, my lady?” The breath caught in her throat; Eleanor turned from the king and queen to look into Lady Castlemaine’s brilliant eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Surely it isn’t wise to be over-public in your devotions, my dear.” For all that she was several years younger than Eleanor, Lady Castlemaine contrived to\n suggest that she was years the wiser. “The queen might be suffered to pray in the Romish rites, but—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor’s temper flared. “Do not mistake me for one of that debauched company, my lady. Just because I am not a—” She stopped. What had she been about to say? “I am no Catholic,” she finished coldly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara smiled politely. “No, I can see you are not. I wonder what it is you \u003cem\u003eare\u003c/em\u003e, dear Nell.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eI\u003c/em\u003e wonder that you spent your thoughts upon me, madam, when our mistress the queen so obviously holds the king’s eye.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Castlemaine’s glittering smile did not falter. “She may hold his eye in this moment, but I have his heart. We all have our secrets, Nell.” Lady\n Castlemaine turned away, leaving Lady Eleanor with a sense of deep unease.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The letters patent had been drawn up, signed, rolled into a tidy scroll, and tied with a red ribbon. They waited in the king’s office for Charles to go\n down the audience hall, where he would create his son Duke of Monmouth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Little enough a thing to do,” he told Buckingham, who was helping his sovereign into one of the new long-skirted coats cut in the Russian fashion. “The\n boy has had a hard enough life of it, shunted from one household to another—including, may Heaven bless her, my mother’s.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Pretty comfortable hardship, sire.” Buckingham stepped back to let his king examine himself in the glass.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My mother’s household is not always an easy one for a boy, Buckingham—particularly for a boy situated as Jamie is, without a clear name or future. These honors should give him a rank, a new name, and a home to shape himself to. And there’s the wedding in a few months. A man shouldn’t be of less account than\n his wife.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The duke handed his sovereign his hat. “Will you wear a cloak, sire? The winds are high today.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles waved the idea away. “’Tis but a few steps to the Great Hall. Come, George. Let me show off my finery.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A light fall of snow began as king and man crossed the Privy Garden, and Charles found himself glad, after all, to arrive in the Great Hall, where a fire\n at the far end of the room behind the thrones gave off a welcome heat. Looking about, he saw that Catherine had already arrived and was talking to Jamie. The king’s heart warmed at the sight: His queen had made it her business to make the boy feel welcome, and more, like a beloved stepson. He must remember\n to tell Catherine how glad he was that she and Jamie had made such friends.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie was dressed the part of a man of rank: His brown velvet doublet was silver-laced, and the points of his collar and cuffs were elaborate enough to\n have driven half the nuns in Valenciennes to blindness. With one hand the boy gripped the sash that crossed his chest; the other fiddled with the sash’s\n tasseled end hanging at his hip. He had not his father’s height, nor his muscularity—but, Charles thought, he was a lad still, with the rounded face of\n youth. There was stubbornness in that chin and in the straight brows, but a little stubbornness could be a blessing for a boy with his way to make; the\n king knew that well enough.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Over Jamie’s shoulder, Catherine had spied him. She laid her hand on Jamie’s arm—telling him his father had arrived—then dropped herself into a deep\n curtsy. The boy, beside her, turned and bowed in his turn.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king stepped forward to raise them up again. First Catherine, with a smile and kiss. Then Jamie. He clapped the lad’s shoulder and urged him to stand.\n “This is your day, is it not, lad? We must be about it!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the king led his queen to her seat, there was the discreet movement of courtiers falling into their places: the Ladies Bath, Suffolk, Plumstead, and\n Castlemaine to the left of the thrones, and his own gentlemen to the right. Charles took his seat, Catherine followed suit, and the crowd in the Great Hall\n stepped forward to watch as James Crofts stood, a little awkwardly, waiting his ennoblement.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a murmuring, then the crowd parted to admit the tall, bulky form of Gilbert Sheldon, Lord Bishop of London, who advanced toward the thrones as if\n it were he who was the son of a king. He bowed to his sovereign, then turned to offer a prayer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles’s eye strayed to Catherine, whose head was cocked to one side. Concentrating upon the words, striving to understand. Although it was not her rite, when the prayer ended Catherine murmured \u003cem\u003eamen\u003c/em\u003e with the rest of the court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now Sheldon advanced upon Jamie, who looked slight and very young next to the prelate. He raised a hand to bless the boy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You look thoughtful, wife,” the king murmured in Spanish.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is just—the words are different, but the rite—it is to ask God to bless this gathering and your son, yes? The same for Catholics and Anglicans?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, I suppose so.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So few differences, really, for so deep a division,” she murmured. The bishop had finished his blessing, and Jamie had advanced to the thrones. Catherine rose and motioned the boy to her, rising on her toes to kiss first one cheek then the other. Charles heard her own murmured blessing: “\u003cem\u003eAbençoo a ti, querido filho\u003c/em\u003e.” The king understood only a handful of Portuguese words, but he knew she had called Jamie her son, and that warmed his heart.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie nodded, pale and unsmiling. \u003cem\u003eNervous\u003c/em\u003e, the king thought. \u003cem\u003ePoor lad, I must set you at your ease\u003c/em\u003e. Charles motioned his son\n forward and, as Catherine had done, saluted him on each cheek. Then he instructed, “Kneel, sir,” and nodded to the herald standing by to read the patent.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “. . . wherefore His Majesty has considered the singular virtues of this Sir James Scott, knight, a young man of the highest promise . . . virtuous\n principles, and with whose very early maturity of understanding . . . and having an anxious concern, on account of the singular affection wherewith he\n cherishes him . . . spur and incitement to him in his zealous prosecution of the course of virtue . . . does create and invest him hereby with the title,\n style, and dignity of Baron Scott of Tindall, Earl of Doncaster, and Duke of Monmouth.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A second herald standing by handed the king a ducal coronet, which he placed on the boy’s head—slightly too large, so that it settled comically low on his\n brow, but James would grow into it—and the sword, the swept hilt laid with gold and jewels, on a hanger of cloth of gold. Charles gestured to James to\n rise, and with his own hands tied the sword on his son’s slim hips.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king stepped back to see on Jamie’s face a curious, almost ferocious mein of satisfaction. Then the new-made Duke of Monmouth turned to face the court\n as the herald announced him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a burst of applause, and many stepped forward to greet the new duke and congratulate him. Barbara was rising from a curtsy to put her arm through\n his as if she would guide Jamie through the crowd. \u003cem\u003eWhat is she up to?\u003c/em\u003e Charles thought, and then he was distracted by Catherine, still seated\n beside him, dabbing at a tear that threatened her powder.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Tears, Your Majesty?” He spoke teasingly and was rewarded with a smile.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Happy ones, Your Majesty. I was imagining . . .” She shrugged. “Someday.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Our own sons, aye. How do you imagine them, sweet? Bold warriors, courtiers, diplomats?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I imagine them like their father, sire, in every way—” She faltered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eNot\u003c/em\u003e in every way?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine’s expression was nakedly honest. “In \u003cem\u003eevery\u003c/em\u003e way, sire. I had before a great regret that I could not share the most important thing in my\n life with you, and with our children when God grants them to us. God—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eThis. Again\u003c/em\u003e. Impatience rose up in the king like a red tide. “You would raise this \u003cem\u003enow\u003c/em\u003e? Your Majesty knew before you set foot upon English soil that I, and your children, would never be aught but good Protestants. You must learn to content yourself with that, Catherine, or you will have a very unhappy life indeed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Please.” She touched his arm lightly. “If you will but hear me, sire. While the thought is still in my mind and in my heart? The bishop’s words gave me to\n think,” Catherine persevered steadily. “There are so few differences between your faith and mine—the God we pray to, the Savior we worship. The rites are\n nearly the same. God, who is greater than all of us, surely will forgive the rest? I mean Your Majesty to understand that I am at peace with these differences.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The red tide ebbed, leaving the king feeling abashed at his haste to anger. “I am right glad to hear it, madam. Has someone disturbed your peace by thinking I would ever be aught but a Protestant king?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine bit her lip.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Who has filled your head with such nonsense?” When his queen shook her head, he pressed, “You will not say? This is serious business, Catherine. I would know who attempted to fill your ears with it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It means nothing, sire. Perhaps I misunderstood—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam, I won’t abide scheming in my own house. If there is aught to tell me—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Please, Charles, there is nothing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Afraid that he would say more and worse, the king rose and left the dais to walk through the crowd, seeking his son. Barbara was still at the boy’s side;\n joining Monmouth meant joining her. He had tried not to seek Lady Castlemaine too publicly out of respect for Catherine’s feelings, but in this moment\n Charles was tired of stepping carefully. Barbara, for all her tricks, seemed a restful presence.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty!” Barbara rose from her curtsy with a smile that awoke a hundred carnal memories. Charles pressed his lips to her hand. Jamie watched, his\nfull mouth in something close to a pout. \u003cem\u003eCareful, my boy. I’ve no doubt you’re blooded, but Barbara’s too rich a mettle for a lad your age. Od’s fish, she’s enough for an old hand like your father to manage\u003c/em\u003e. He tucked Barbara’s hand into the crook of his arm and put Monmouth on his other side. Together they moved through the crowd.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara woke in the dark of the night, comforted by the heat emanating from the body of the man sleeping beside her. Charles had come to her rooms that\n night after—as he confided to Barbara—putting his son to bed, drunk as the lord he was now made. She had said nothing but made him welcome, opening her\n body and her heart to him. In his turn, the king had forborne to speak of Catherine. Of late he had been more careful to come to Barbara’s chambers in the\n middle of the night, when it was less noticed, out of concern for the queen’s feelings. Since Barbara had taken her post as Lady of the Bedchamber, he had\n also stayed from the queen’s bed when Barbara was on duty. But the fact that she was again with His Majesty’s child might be the thing that turned the king\n from his chivalrous concern for the queen’s feelings and returned him fully to her at last.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A smile played on Barbara’s richly curved lips as she relived their play of the night before. Charles had been passionate, as if he meant to bury himself\n in her and make her his shelter and respite. She thought with satisfaction that the king might do his best to get a child on the little Portuguese queen,\n but a mere spilling of seed was not the same as love. His love was \u003cem\u003ehers\u003c/em\u003e. Every time he came to her bed she would remind him of it, until he forgot Catherine entirely. \u003cem\u003eShe\u003c/em\u003e was the mother of his children.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a feathery touch, Barbara reached for Charles, meaning to wake him as sweetly as he had set her to slumbering. But then the heavy curtain of the bed\n stirred, and slender fingertips pushed the velvet aside. “Madam?” It was Margaret, her tiring woman. “You and Lady Suffolk are for the queen’s chamber this morning.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the window that framed Margaret’s square bulk, Barbara could see the gray light of dawn. Someone else had spent the night in the queen’s bed; Lady\n Eleanor or the Countess of Bath. She doubted they’d slept as sweetly as she had. “Very well. Is the water hot?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, madam, hot and scented.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara cast one last look at Charles as he slept, his dark curls a pillow beneath his head, one muscular arm outflung as if to gather her back to him.\n Reluctantly she rolled from the bed and let Margaret drape a robe of pearly swansdown around her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Margaret washed Barbara with sandalwood-fragrant water, heady and sensual, then massaged a lotion into her damp skin. By the time she was done, Barbara\n wished she could return to her bed and delight her sleeping lover. Instead, she slipped into her fine shift. Margaret laced up her stays loosely—she was\n not yet swollen with the child she carried, and could easily slip a gown of silvery stuff over all. When all was done Barbara settled a blue sash across\n her breast.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As Margaret was arranging curls to cluster around Barbara’s throat, Charles came from the bedchamber, his shirt unlaced, and bent to drop a kiss on\n Barbara’s shoulder.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Up early, Babs? I must as well. Promised James that I would try his devilish skating before the Thames thaws.” Another kiss. “Thank you for a sweet sleep,\n love.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara grabbed his hand and held it to her breast wordlessly, feeling the heat of his skin against her own. Then she rose and curtsied. Let that warmth\n make him imagine taking her back to bed. “My duty to Your Majesty, and my love.” She left him standing in his shirt, and started through the labyrinth that\n was Whitehall Palace to reach the queen’s rooms before she was needed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk was already waiting in the antechamber to the queen’s bedroom. “Still asleep. Exhausted, I gather. Nell says the queen lay restless well into\n the night.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As well she might,” Barbara murmured. As if she had heard her name spoken, Eleanor Plumstead slid from the bedchamber, pulling her robe close around her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara nodded to her but did not smile; she had no fondness for Lady Eleanor. A prickly, priggish woman. What was she doing at court when she clearly had no relish of it?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The queen will want her tea,” Lady Eleanor said. “She is unwell.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Unwell. Aching because her courses had come again, or grieving that she had not conceived? It was no great feat, to catch with child, but the little queen\n seemed unable to do it. It made Barbara all the better pleased by the life that swelled her belly, another babe to croon and caper in the nursery. She felt\n a prick of pity for the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your pardon, Lady Castlemaine.” Lady Chesterfield, with two maidservants behind her bearing trays, waited for Barbara to move from the queen’s door.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara smiled without warmth and stepped aside. “It seems I am in the way here.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The day went on just so. Barbara had no great desire to wait upon the queen, but she was a Lady of the Bedchamber, and part of her present power came from\n her willingness to serve. So she sat, gossiping with Barbara Suffolk, and watched until it had been determined that the queen meant to lie abed a few hours\n more, reading letters and sipping her insipid tea.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n By noon, with gossip thinning and the sound of Eleanor Plumstead’s cittern plunking thinly from the queen’s chamber, Barbara had had enough.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My duty to the queen; I must call upon my children.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “If you are asked for?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara laughed. “How like is that?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She spent an hour with Annie and little Charles, who was brought out by his nurse and immediately began to crawl across the flags, laughing when his chubby\n legs got tangled in his gown. So much his father’s boy, active and fearless. But still a babe: By the time the bells rang to call the court to dress for\n dinner, the babe was fretting for a nap, and Anne as well. Barbara gathered her children to her, kissed each, and departed to dine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the high table, framed by the white and gold of the canopy, the king sat with the envoy of Muscovy to his left, with the Duke of York just beyond. A\n place had been set for the queen at Charles’s right hand, but it was yet empty. \u003cem\u003eStill abed? The queen is a fool to leave the place empty\u003c/em\u003e, Barbara\n thought. \u003cem\u003eBut\u003c/em\u003e I\u003cem\u003e am no fool.\u003c/em\u003e That place at Charles’s side called to her, and against sense, Barbara moved through the crowd to make her\n curtsy to the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lady Castlemaine, how do you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do well, if Your Majesty does.” Barbara approached and watched the cupbearer pour claret into the king’s silver cup.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well enough to drink your health, madam, ere you go.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eGo?\u003c/em\u003e That liked Barbara not at all. She was not so mad as to take the queen’s seat as her own, but if it were offered . . . She fixed the king with a look meant to remind him—if he needed the reminding—of all that had passed between them the night before. “\u003cem\u003eMust\u003c/em\u003e I go, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A mistake, she knew at once. Charles’s smile faded and he turned to let the napkin-boy wipe a drop of wine from his lips. “Indeed, madam. I fear I can spare no time for more pleasantries. And if I mistake not—” He tilted his head toward the doorway behind her. “Here comes your mistress to take her place at table.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Panic knifed into Barbara’s gut. It took all her discipline to turn smoothly and drop into a deep reverence as the queen passed her by. Catherine was\n dressed in the cloth of silver and rose velvet that warmed her skin. She spared a nod for Barbara, then turned her attention to the high table and the\n king. He had risen to greet her, and as Barbara watched, he seated the queen beside him with—with \u003cem\u003etenderness\u003c/em\u003e, Barbara thought unhappily. He saw\n that wine was poured for her, and gestured to recommend the dishes set before them. All it lacked, Barbara thought, was Charles feeding a morsel to the\n queen . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara kept smiling, smiling, as she turned away. There was a place at the table where Lady Suffolk and Lady Chesterfield sat, but Barbara could not make\n herself, in the presence of this company, take up that seat. Surely there was someone else to sit with, some way to maintain the seeming of unconcern. She\n cast about: Rochester? No, he had his head half in the lap of some country baroness. Even Monmouth had his back to her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Smiling still, Barbara walked from the hall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The snow had melted, London had shaken off a winter that had seemed endless, and a soft breeze plied the gardens and halls of Whitehall. The queen had\n ordered a dress for sport—a dress that would allow her to pull a bow or cast a rod. To her ladies’ dismay, she rose early many mornings to go with the king\n to the river to fish. The women who must, perforce, follow her, were none of them pleased to fish, but Catherine, once she had learned the knack of it,\n delighted in casting her line into the dark, fast-moving water of the Thames and pulling a struggling fish, even an eel, up far enough that one of the\n palace boys could put a net beneath it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “We will dine on these tonight,” Charles promised her, laughing. “I’ve a fine wife indeed if she can supply provender for the king’s table.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What is—” She sounded the word out carefully. “Pro-ven-dair?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “An overblown way of saying ‘food,’ sweet. Pay no attention to your foolish husband,” Charles replied.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And she attempted—pretended, at least—that she \u003cem\u003ecould\u003c/em\u003e pay him no attention. Her time was more her own than Charles’s. She gave audiences and heard\n grievances and welcomed the wives of diplomats, but even with her devotions and the business of being queen, she had so much time to herself, and far less\n of her husband’s than she wished. Thus fishing, and boating, and any game not favored by my Lady Castlemaine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine had taken to writing a journal, writing the things she would not write to her mother, should not say to her attendants, and could not say to\n Father Patrick.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eBeing a queen requires strategy\u003c/em\u003e, she wrote.\n \u003cem\u003e\n If I wish my marriage to prosper, I must seem not to mind that Charles still goes to Barbara Palmer’s bed. And I must find more things than my husband\n to occupy my time. Let him see that I do not hang about his neck, that I can be my own woman! At least until, please God and the Holy Mother, I have a\n child to take my time.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was long used to the freedom of English gowns now, and had in mind something more daring still. With Jenny to interpret—but more, to lend her eye for what was becoming—she had had the tailor, Master Gilman, meet with her, and he had promised to make her something very special indeed. Catherine delighted\n in looking at the tailor’s drawings, and feeling the different fabrics he and his apprentice brought with them. That apprentice, she was amused to see, had\n eyes for Jenny. \u003cem\u003eShould I encourage that? \u003c/em\u003eshe wondered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Butts had been set up in the park, and on particularly fine days the ladies would go to arch. When he could not come himself, Charles sent his archery\n master to coach and encourage them. The sweet scent of sun on the grass, the sound of English birds chorusing—it was a very different sort of spring than\n those she had known in Portugal, but no less dear. And sometimes, if Charles could not join them, his son Jamie did.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After the first shock of meeting the boy, she meant to love him, seeing in him what she imagined Charles had been at his age. Prettier, perhaps, but\n Catherine preferred her husband’s more rugged features. She made a point to invite him to dine, to arch and fish and play at bowls. When Anna Scott,\n Monmouth’s little betrothed, was brought to visit at the palace, Catherine treated her as she imagined her own mother would treat her brother’s affianced\n wives, when such there were.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine knew the boy did not love her yet. How should he, with his own mother dead and his place at court so newly won? It was no secret that Charles had told the boy to treat her mannerly, whatever he felt. She would exert herself to make him feel a part of his father’s family.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Standing now on the cropped grass of the archery range, Catherine watched her arrow go comically awry. She laughed and her ladies followed suit, a gentle\n ripple of mirth. But His Grace of Monmouth, standing a little behind Lady Castlemaine, was not mirthful. He looked only blank, watchful. Catherine was\n moved to make another attempt to draw her stepson out. “Your Grace!” she called. “You see I am no—\u003cem\u003earquiera\u003c/em\u003e. Arch-aire,” she corrected.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The boy’s lip twitched. “If the queen says so, how can I deny it?” Had the words come from a more practiced courtier they might have been amusing. Still,\n Catherine had experience with sulky young men—her brother Alfonso was far worse. Might an appeal to his vanity soften Monmouth’s boyish sullens?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps you will teach to me someday? I know a young man have many thing to occupy his time, but it would be kindness.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Monmouth’s face remained closed, but he answered, “I should be honored.” He bowed over her hand, his face hidden in the fall of his dark brown hair.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen’s apartments were alive with the sound of lutes and laughter. His Grace the Duke of Monmouth had visited with several other young men that\n afternoon, after they had finished arching in the park. Jenny, at her work in the tiring chamber, enjoyed the chatter and sounds of laughter. Her Majesty’s\n laughter in particular, soft and musical, but with an unmistakable shyness it, touched Jenny’s ear like the sound of a friend.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She shook her head and untangled her needle and thread. \u003cem\u003eFoolish girl, the queen is not your friend. But perhaps you are hers.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The little queen still needed friends, Jenny thought. Although things were better for Catherine now (and therefore for her partisans) than they had been a\n few months ago, there were still those, abovestairs and below, whose feelings toward the queen were all malice. Mavis might admire Lady Castlemaine, but\n Jenny did not.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A warm breeze carried the scent of new flowers from the gardens below; this was the first day Jenny could remember when it was warm enough inside and out\n to permit of open windows. Winter had been far too long. Perhaps there would be time this afternoon to walk in the kitchen garden for a little while; the\n warmth of the sun would feel so good upon her face.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Samuel appeared at the door. “You’re wanted,” he said musically. If Jenny had found London so very different from Portsmouth, how strange must it be to\n have come over the sea from the West Indies? Yet the boy might have been her younger brother. He did errands, took Feliciana out to run when the queen\n could not spare the time to do so, and sometimes he and Jenny sat together and she helped him to puzzle out the words in a book the queen had given to the\n boy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny folded her work, put it carefully away, and went to the queen, who asked if any of the souchong tea remained in her coffers. After the tricks of the\n kitchen staff, Jenny had began to keep the tea things in the queen’s tiring chamber. A few of the ladies had begun to take to the stuff, and His Grace of\n Monmouth would sometimes drink it as well, although Jenny suspected the boy would rather have had small beer to slake a thirst. She went down now to the\n kitchen and fetched hot water and milk without incident—itself a rarity that Jenny put down to the effect warm weather had upon the servants in the\n kitchen—and set the tray before the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you, Zhenny,” Catherine said in English. Her understanding had improved greatly, but her accent was still very thick. She looked about her. “Where is Samuel? I would send him—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Almost as the queen spoke, the sound of the boy’s laughter rose up from the gardens below. Her Majesty was amused and rueful at once. “Feliciana’s needs\n take precedence over mine,” she said in Spanish. “I \u003cem\u003ewould\u003c/em\u003e have sent him for a basin of water—” She gestured at a handful of paper twists on the\n table. “My stepson has brought us paper flowers, but they must be opened in water.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will fetch the water, madam.” Jenny made her curtsy and trotted off.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was water in a cistern nearby, but no basins; again Jenny made the trip to the kitchen, again climbed the stairs, and filled the basin. She made her\n way along the corridor to the queen’s apartments, only to find her way blocked by His Grace the Duke of Monmouth, who lounged against the wall with one leg stretched across the other, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A spasm of anxiety turned Jenny’s knees weak. She had done her best to keep well clear of the duke since their encounter in the back stairs months ago. Young as he was, bastard royal as he was, still he thought every woman a pisspot. Even the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny took a step back, eyes down and voice low. “Pardon, Your Grace.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The duke’s eyes slid open and he half-smiled. The hall behind her was empty, no help there; she must get past him, to safety among the women in the queen’s\n apartments. “Your Grace,” she said again. She could not move forward while his leg blocked the way.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Monmouth’s smile broadened; he reached for her, his foot still braced against the wall, and slid his hand around her waist.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come, give us a buss, lass.” The duke’s full lips sought Jenny’s own—soft, sloppy, wet. She tried to pull away, but he was strong.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny swung the basin in her left hand around until the water slopped down the duke’s front. He loosed her and she jumped back, away from him, and began to\n apologize. “I’m that sorry, Your Grace, I’d not ha’ wet your doublet for—shall I get you a cloth? ’Twas naught but water, but e’en so—” She kept up a\n babble, all the while staying out of Monmouth’s reach.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The duke went from dark-faced outrage to irritation. “I did not see the basin,” he said, as if that explained all. “Go, get you gone. You’ll want more\n water for my \u003cem\u003emother\u003c/em\u003e.” The last word sounded as if it had a foul taste.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny made no further apology. She went back to the cistern, refilled the basin, and when she returned to the queen’s chambers Monmouth was gone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen, unaware of all that had passed, floated the twists of paper in the basin and laughed with delight as they unfurled into purple and red and pink\n flowers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A quarter-hour later, Jenny, in the quiet of the tiring room, could still feel the juddering of her pulse. What would she have done had she not had the\n basin of water? Scream? Not likely. Suffer the lad to do what he would? Had he been one of her brothers’ friends she would have taken care of the matter\n with a kick. But he was not her friend, nor her brother’s, nor any woman’s.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a knock on the door behind her that let into the hallway. Jenny put her sewing down and rose heavily to see who was there. Pray God, not\n Monmouth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was Thom Hamed, his arms full of a muslin-wrapped bolt of fabric. In the relief of seeing his familiar face Jenny wanted to cast herself on his breast\n and weep. Instead, she stepped silently aside and waited for him to explain what he had come for.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Master Gilman wanted me to show Her Majesty the lining for her spring cloak,” Thom began. Then, “What’s amiss, Jen?” He looked to put the fabric down, but\n Jenny shook her head and steered him toward the room where Her Majesty and her ladies were still sitting, and murmured to Lady Suffolk what his errand was.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then she returned to the tiring room and, again, put away her mending. Her mind was not upon her work, and that would show.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why am I here?” she murmured to herself. “How can I do this?” It had seemed so simple: come to the palace, use her wits and her talent to become a lady’s\n maid. When she was taken up by the queen herself, she had believed her future secure. It should have been so simple.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She heard Thom’s voice. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will convey your instructions to Master Gilman.” She looked up to see him bowing himself out of the sitting room and back to the tiring chamber. “Now, \u003cem\u003ehayatim\u003c/em\u003e, come for a walk with me. There’s still light, and the air is soft. And you need a moment away. And perhaps . . .” He pulled her gently to her feet. “Perhaps we may talk a little, yes?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Without knowing quite how it happened, Jenny found herself in the Privy Garden, walking among plots of new-budding daffodils, the scent of apple blossom\n soft on the air. Thom walked beside her without touching her, but she felt his presence very strongly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “We should not walk here,” she said. “This is for the king and queen and the—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They won’t grudge a hardworking maiden a moment in the air.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hardworking maidens are supposed to take their air in the kitchen garden.” Jenny meant to sound dry and humorous, but her voice caught.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Shh, shhh, \u003cem\u003ehayatim\u003c/em\u003e. Tell me what is wrong. I thought nothing could break your peace, and yet I swear you were near to tears when first I saw\n you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What is that word you use?” she asked, hoping to distract him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eHayatim\u003c/em\u003e? It is Turkish. It means—” He hesitated thoughtfully. “Sweetheart? Dearling? I won’t call you so if you dislike it. But you must tell me what is amiss.” He smiled teasingly. “Do I need to thrash one of the fellows in the kitchen?” She had told him of the episode with the queen’s tea, and he\n had helped her to see the humor in it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny shook her head. “It is nothing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “By which, methinks, you mean that it \u003cem\u003eis\u003c/em\u003e something but you do not want me to do aught.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There is naught to be done,” Jenny said unhappily. “I have made myself the queen’s woman, and there are so many who don’t like her, her foreign ways and\n her . . . her popishness. They hate me because—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Because you are smart and hardworking and fair—yes you are, do not shake your head at me.” Now Thom took one of Jenny’s hands in his square, long-fingered\n one, dusky enough to make Jenny’s own olive-complected hand look pale beside it. “You have ambition, yes? And brains. Be patient. Your skill and good heart\n will outlast their enmity.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment it was upon her tongue to tell him about Monmouth’s attempt to kiss her. But what could Thom do? Naught that she could imagine. “I am tired of\n being patient.” She was aware that she sounded childish and petulant.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now Thom stopped and pulled her toward him, and Jenny went and rested her head on his chest. He smelled of clean, sun-dried linen, of sweat and lavender\n and some spice she could not identify, and he was warm. His heart thudded steadily under her cheek, and when his arms came around her she did not struggle\n but let herself rest there.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Something scared you, I think.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How did you guess that?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Because you are too . . .” He searched for the word. “Indomitable.” He sounded it out, giving it weight. “It would take something grave to so dismay you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A man,” Jenny said. “A man of rank, and he thought I could be had because I am nobody, a servant, and I—” She told him the whole of it except Monmouth’s\n name.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indomitable,” Thom said again when she was done. “He is lucky that all you had was a basin of water and not a slops pail.” His tone was dry, but his chest\n shook with laughter. “Not that I blame him for wanting to steal a kiss.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When she looked up Thom was regarding her with an expression that made Jenny feel as though some warm place at her core was melting. When he bent his head\n to kiss her she raised her lips to his. She had been kissed before, but not like this. When he raised his head it was to place another kiss in the corner\n of her mouth, and then one upon her brow like a blessing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, whoever this unfortunate lordling is, I do not blame him for \u003cem\u003ewanting\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a few minutes they stood in the honeyed afternoon sunlight, resting against each other. It was only the sound of men’s voices on the other side of a\n hedge that caused her to step away guiltily. Even when the voices passed and disappeared she did not return to Thom’s arms. It was too tempting; she might\n rest there forever and forget all that she wanted for herself, just for a kiss. Or a lifetime of kisses.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I must go back,” she said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Must you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Did you not tell me to be strong and—what was that word? Indemiable?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indomitable. I did. Perhaps I should not use words which can be used against me.” He was smiling, but she could see that, had she wished it, he would have\n taken her back in his arms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And all her plans would be for naught.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You may use any words you like, so long as you understand that I will not be swayed from my ambitions. Certainly not—” Jenny looked about her playfully.\n “Not in the palace gardens!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If I may use any words that I like, I shall continue to call you \u003cem\u003ehayatim\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Very well, \u003cem\u003ehayatim\u003c/em\u003e,” she murmured, feeling very daring.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom chuckled at her pronunciation. “\u003cem\u003eHayatim.\u003c/em\u003e” When she repeated the word, he corrected her again. “\u003cem\u003eHay-a-tim.\u003c/em\u003e”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eHayatim\u003c/em\u003e,” she said again. “I swear to you, Thom Hamed, I don’t hear any difference between the way you say it and the way I do.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He shrugged. There was a glint of mischief in his eye. “You say it perfectly, Jenny. So well that I want to hear it again.\"\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny pushed him playfully away, but he pulled her back and pressed one more kiss on her lips. She took his hand and they turned back to the doorway that\n would lead her to the queen’s apartments.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the privy door he bowed deeply over her hand, and then Jenny was alone again, even with the queen and all her ladies in the room next to where she sat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny wasted daylight for a time, thinking. Finally she rose from her chair, lit a taper, and again took out the queen’s shift to complete her mending.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Someone—Bath, perhaps, or Rochester—had said a word in the king’s ear, that before young Monmouth was a staid married man he should have one night of\n freedom in London town, and that it should be his father who showed him the pleasures to be had outside the palace.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Surely the boy has discovered those joys on his own,” Charles had said. What boy of spirit would want to explore the stews and taverns of the city with\n his own father? And yet the idea of a night with the cares of kingship shrugged aside, answering neither to wife nor to mistress, fired the king’s\n imagination. As March gave way to the soft air of April and the sun stayed longer in the sky as if unwilling to set upon the balmy days, Charles felt a\n restlessness stir his blood in a way that not swimming nor fencing nor riding would slake. Too many hours closeted with ministers, each with bad news about\n the treasury, the Dutch, his lack of an heir. No troubles came singly, and none gave a man a breath to deal with any other. The king was worn.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thus it was that the king, accompanied by his brother James, the Dukes of Buckingham and Bath, and the Earl of Rochester, appeared one evening at the door\n of Monmouth’s apartments and swept the boy out into the glowing twilight.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What would you, lad?” Charles tucked his arm into his son’s. “We’ll go on foot and see what merriment we can find.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The boy looked sideways at his father as if trying to discern what would please \u003cem\u003ehim\u003c/em\u003e. “Should we start at the playhouse?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king raised an eyebrow. “Does the theatre delight you, boy? I’d not heard it, but—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester leaned forward on Monmouth’s other side. “The bear pits, more like, hey, Monmouth? Something to heat the blood?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A curious look passed over the boy’s face; he looked from his father to Rochester, as if he could not tell whom he wished more to please. When Jamie looked\n at Rochester, his expression was diffident and admiring.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham, now on the king’s right, proposed that whatever they chose to do, they could not do it dry. “A pot of ale before all else, sir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, or two!” That was Rochester, and Monmouth echoed him. “Ale, or wine!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was a tavern not far from the Theatre Royale, where Charles could be “Mister Stuart” for an hour, rather than His Majesty. He had fought long and\n hard to reclaim the throne and make his family whole again, but there was no denying that sometimes the temptation to lay down his office was strong. Just\n for an hour. Just among friends. Mistress Billyns, widow of a good Royalist who had died of an apoplexy the year before, kept a fine table and a better\n cellar, and more than once since his marriage Charles and his cronies had left court, wives, and troubles behind and spent an evening there.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Tonight Mag Billyns saw who had pressed in at her door and came at once to see the party settled at a table a little to one side, and plied with good wine\n and meat pasties. Her round, ruddy face, framed by a linen cap from which curls of red hair escaped to cling to the damp on her brow, was all a-smile as\n she promised the table another flagon to take the place of the one just emptied.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She calls you ‘sir,’” Monmouth leaned to his father to whisper.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “When I come to drink at Mistress Mag’s, I’m Mister Stuart at my instruction, lad.” Charles studied his son’s face. “It troubles you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The respect you’re owed, sire—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Boy, sometimes even a king yearns to set aside respect for lighter fare. This is a night for revelry, sir. Drink up your glass. George”—the king turned to\n Buckingham—“tell me you’ve dice in your pocket!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They diced, and ate, and drank. Monmouth flirted inexpertly with Mistress Mag’s daughter, as red-headed as her mother and as buxom; the girl smiled and\n batted her eyelashes, but came not within Jamie’s reach. A squab pie and another flagon, a joint of beef and good bread to sop the juices, and another\n flagon and another. At some point Buckingham disappeared with a cheerful-looking doxy, and came back a little while later, loose-limbed and jovial, to take up his cup again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles noted, a little muzzily, that Jamie was having a run of luck with the dice. The boy was lit with excitement and wine; he tossed and won, tossed and\n lost a little then won again, and looked around him as if to gather in the admiration of the older men who companioned him. Rochester bent his head and\n murmured something to Monmouth and the boy blushed a deep red. \u003cem\u003eWhat was that\u003c/em\u003e? the king wondered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then his bladder reminded him just how much he had drunk. Charles rose to his feet as his brother knocked over an empty bottle.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “More wine,” James cried out, and rose too, making a ribald joke to the table about making room for the next flagon. He put his arm about Charles’s shoulder and the two of them threaded their way to the door and out into the noisome alley beside the tavern.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the quiet of the street they relieved themselves, observed only by the stars above. “That boy of yours has the Devil’s own luck tonight,” James observed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “P’raps it’s an augury,” Charles agreed. “When we leave here, let us take him to Mistress Page’s in Rosemary Street.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James raised an eyebrow. “The bawd’s?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He’s to be wed in a few weeks. A little experience in the matter might not come amiss—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Anna Scott has barely twelve years! Do you mean them to lie together so young?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nay, of course not. But perhaps by the time Jamie takes his wife to bed he’ll have learned to please her—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James threw his head back in a roar of laugher. “By God, sir, you’ve a very original approach to fatherhood! Well, then, to Rosemary Street.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When they stepped back into the smoky tavern, however, Charles knew that something was amiss. It was too quiet, and too many eyes were turned to the table\n where his men and his son sat. Mistress Billyns’s red-haired daughter was sitting stiffly on Jamie’s lap, biting her lip. Tears were starting in her eyes.\n As for Jamie, he held her there with one hand between her thighs and the other fumbling inside her bodice. He tweaked her breast and the girl started and\n gave a squeal of pain, but Monmouth paid her no mind but to tweak harder.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham was leaning in, remonstrating quietly. Rochester, the king noted with irritation, was regarding the whole scene as if it were a dumb show put on\n for his express entertainment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles pushed past his brother. “Monmouth!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The boy did not look up, as if he were too lost in what he was doing to hear. The king grabbed his son’s wrist and pulled his hand out of the girl’s\n bodice, tossing it away as he might have a soiled kerchief. Then, with all courtesy, he raised the girl from Monmouth’s lap and took her apart a few paces,\n giving her his own kerchief to wipe her tears.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I beg your pardon, mistress—” He waited for her name.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dolly,” the girl said, low. There was no good-humored flirtation to her now, just relief and ebbing fear. “Dolly Billyns. Me mum’s the—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’ve known your mother this many a year, and am sorry you had such rough treatment at the hand”—Charles raised his voice—“at the hand of one who should\n know better. Now, sweet.” He took a few pieces of silver, placed them in her hand, and folded her fingers over them. “Take this, and my thanks for your\n good service tonight. I will take my—” He paused. “We will leave now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But first, with all courtesy, he escorted her to her mother’s side, and bowed to them both.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n By the time he had turned back, Buckingham and James had Monmouth between them and were taking him from the tavern. Charles followed, with Bath and\n Rochester just behind. When they gained the street, Charles turned to Buckingham.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you take the boy home? My Lord of Bath, you go as well. I think His Grace of Monmouth has drunk too deep.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie was indeed drunk, weaving on his feet, but his face was white with shock. “I’m no more drunk than these fellows,” he protested. “I cry Your Majesty’s pardon, what have I done?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As if the sight of his son’s behavior had been a tun of icy Thames water dashed over him, Charles was suddenly and deplorably sober. “Think shame to get\n what you want from a woman by bullying her, boy. Or hurting her. Unless she come to you willingly, you’re no better than—” He gave up, disgusted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come, Your Grace.” Bath took Monmouth’s elbow. “’Tis well past the midnight chime. We’ll to Whitehall.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie might have twisted round to quarrel with his father, but Buckingham was now on his other side. He sketched a bow at the king, turned, and he and Bath\n between them led Monmouth away.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles turned to James. “Did you ask me why I wanted the boy wed so soon?” he said quietly. “He’s young, he has time to mend his ways, but—even in his\n cups the boy should have seen that girl was no trollop to be used so. Had she been willing, all well and good, but . . . Jamie will never be king, but he\n is a Stuart by blood if not by name. He must learn—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He will, sire.” Rochester wove unsteadily as he joined them. He had somehow managed to bring a tankard out with him, and took a deep draught. “He’s much\n the same age as I was when—” He considered. “Well, but they sent me down from Oxford for it. P’raps not the best comparison.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles and his brother looked at Rochester for a moment. It was James who laughed first, but Charles was only a second after. “Od’s blood, Rochester, you\n don’t suggest that my son take you as his exemplar?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester laughed too, and leaned against the wall of the tavern as if into the embrace of a wanton. “I did say it was not the best comparison, sire. But\n Monmouth’s young and tender. He’ll learn his way.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king shrugged. “I pray to God he does, or Mistress Scott will have a sad time of it.” He put his arm about James’s shoulder. “Come then, boys. There’s\n a chill in the air, and this game has lost its savor. Back to Whitehall.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen wore her cloth of silver and rose gown for the wedding of Monmouth to the little Countess of Buccleuch. New lace, silver point, had been stitched\n on to refresh it. As the dark-haired chambermaid brushed the gown and twitched at it to make it hang as she wished, Barbara sat watching the queen’s\n hairdresser twist and pin Catherine’s hair up. Barbara held one of the coffers with the queen’s jewelry; at any moment the hairdresser would demand some\n pin or comb. Feliciana was snoring lightly, her head on her mistress’s foot.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was warm for April. Barbara was now in her fourth month of this new pregnancy, and her stays dug into her swelling belly. Four months Barbara had waited for a scene that never took place, and she was perhaps a touch disappointed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen said something in Spanish and the maid, Jenny, put aside the clothes brush to pour out tea. Barbara extended her hand to take the cup to Her\n Majesty, but the queen gestured to Jenny to bring it. It seemed even a thirsty queen would not take a drink from her rival. Well enough. Jenny dropped a\n curtsy to the queen, a lesser bob to Barbara, and returned to her chores.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The pearl comb, my lady? And the earbobs.” The hairdresser held her hand out and Barbara put the heavy pearl-and-silver drops into her hand. “What do you think?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The question had doubtless been intended for the queen, into whose hand the hairdresser had pressed a looking glass. But Barbara took it as an invitation.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty is very fine,” she said, closing the coffer to leave it on her chair as she went round to examine the queen critically. In justice, Barbara\n had to acknowledge that Catherine looked fair enough for a tiny dab of a woman. It went against the grain to say anything in the queen’s praise, but in the time since her arrival Catherine’s looks had improved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The little page, Samuel, entered the room, bowed, then put his hand up to right the heavy cap that had slid down over his brow. “Dom Francisco de Mello\n craves a word with Your Majesty.” Running with Feliciana he was a child; about his duty his soft, musical voice was solemn.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen’s face lit with pleasure. “Send him to us.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dom Francisco bowed to the queen, who held out her hand to draw him closer. “\u003cem\u003ePadrinho\u003c/em\u003e, it has been long! You come to the wedding, I hope?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Portuguese ambassador kissed the queen’s hand; his smile was genuinely fond. “I hope to be there, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e. But these are busy times; I wanted\n to bring you news, and could not be certain there would be a moment to whisper in your ear at so public an event.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen looked about her, a comprehensive glance that took in the servants as well as Lady Castlemaine. “Is it a matter for secret?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As if reminded that the queen was not alone, Dom Francisco sketched a bow to Barbara; she was under no illusion of the ambassador’s friendship. But he\n answered, “No, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e, this news is no secret. ’Twill be all about the city in a few days. There has been a decided rout of the Spanish at\n Ameixial, near Estremoz. The Spanish have been driven back to Badajoz, and left many on the battlefield.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eGraças a Deus!\u003c/em\u003e” The queen crossed herself. “And . . .” She faltered, and after a moment continued in Portuguese. For several minutes they spoke, the queen and the ambassador; twice the queen crossed herself, eyes closed. What were they saying? Did they speak in Portuguese because they exchanged secrets, or simply because the queen’s English was not sufficient to express what she wanted?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Finally, de Mello bent over the queen’s hand again. His smile was full of affection and pleasure in being the bearer of good news. He turned and gave\n another cursory bow in Barbara’s direction, and was gone with the page trotting after.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After a moment’s silence, the hairdresser began to tidy away her combs and tools. The dark-haired maid, Jenny, returned to gathering and folding away the\n sashes that had not been used to deck the queen’s gown. And Catherine herself sat gingerly, with an expression of contentment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What had been said? Curiosity itched at Barbara. “Your Majesty is very pleased at the news of war,” she said at last.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “War is always threaten in Portugal, lady.” The queen rarely spoke directly to Barbara, but somehow this news had loosened her tongue. “But such happy\n news. Spain retreat to Badajoz—a long way.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And England’s troops, Majesty? What of them?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Brave,” the queen said simply. Her face shone with happiness: Pride? Relief?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And our losses? How many Englishmen died to keep Portugal safe? What widows made in England?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dom Francisco say our force took half the casualty of Spain. Both Portuguese and English together, less than half.” Again Catherine closed her eyes, said\n a fervent prayer, and crossed herself. “All the artillery captured, and Spanish movables. It will be long before Spain recovers.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Spain had been England’s enemy since the time of Queen Bess; hard not to feel pleasure at the defeat. Still, how many Englishmen dead on foreign soil?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As if she shared the same thought, Catherine added, “I pray for \u003cem\u003eall\u003c/em\u003e our dead, English and Portuguese. Perhaps there is some service we may do for\n the widows of England? They must not be forgot.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She said something further to Jenny in Spanish. The maid nodded but said nothing more, and then there was an ado at the doorway.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam, we are come to fetch you to the wedding.” Lady Chesterfield and Lady Bath rose from their curtsies to comment favorably upon the queen’s gown and\n her hair. When Catherine turned to dismiss Jenny and—it seemed—Lady Castlemaine herself, Barbara was surprised to see that the little queen’s eyes were bright. She seemed to be looking into a distant future with gratitude.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara curtsied and watched as the queen’s party departed. Then, unable to keep her curiosity at bay, she called for the maid.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What did Her Majesty say to you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny gave Barbara a look stubbornly unwilling. “She did not ask me to translate, my lady. I’m sure I should never—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If you do not wish me to—” Barbara could not think of a punishment dire enough that she would actually be willing to levy. “Just \u003cem\u003esay\u003c/em\u003e, girl.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny’s chin came up as if she was defiant on behalf of her queen. “She said that at least in this her marriage has done her country good. That it is a\n blessing that she could be the agent of such good fortune for Portugal.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Having said her piece, the maid curtsied and left the room. Barbara, watching after, thought she would never get the measure of this queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king’s chamber had been decked with flowers suited to the youth of the couple to be wed: new-budded roses, myrtle, ivy, and orange blossoms. The room\n was close and fragrant; Catherine thought to suggest that the windows be opened to let the afternoon breeze blow in. In the dining chamber next door,\n servants were carrying plate and bottles, setting out the first dishes for the banquet to follow the ceremony. It was to be a small gathering—intimate, as\n Lady Wemyss, the bride’s mother, had put it—in recognition of the bride’s age.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n That lady was talking animatedly with the Duke of York, nodding so that her red curls bounced upon her breast. James was nodding affably enough, but\n Catherine thought he would be glad of a rescue, and only a moment later Anne interrupted to summon her husband elsewhere. Privily, Catherine suspected that\n James had no immediate duty, and Anne’s smile, a moment later when she caught Catherine watching them, confirmed it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lady Wemyss must be beside herself with joy,” Lady Suffolk drawled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Beside herself?” Catherine frowned at the unfamiliar idiom.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Happy, Your Majesty. Young Monmouth gets a pretty fortune and, if what I hear is so, a girl both intelligent and good. But Lady Wemyss gains proximity—nearness—to the throne, and I’m sure she relishes that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Near to the throne? But Monmouth is not—he—” Catherine was too delicate to call the boy a bastard.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He’ll never be king, aye, but his children will be the grandsons of a king, and that generation might well marry above a Scots duchy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine thought of her own mother. “A woman must wish the best for her daughter, whatever her ambition.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk smiled and shrugged. “Even so, Your Majesty. Ah, look, here comes the king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles, the tallest man in the room, strode forward, acknowledging the bows of his court as he came. Monmouth was just behind him, looking pleased at his\n importance, and perhaps a little afraid. Catherine bowed to her husband, then took the boy’s hand. “I wish you joy, Your Grace.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Monmouth nodded, looking around him as he did. Then, after a nudge from his father, he blushed and bowed and offered his thanks.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A little overwhelmed,” Charles said, as he tucked Catherine’s arm into his own and led her to their seats at the head of the chamber. Those of Catherine’s\n ladies attending on her—the Ladies Suffolk, Plumstead, and Bath—took their places to the left of their mistress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then the bride was brought forward by her mother: tall, red-haired like that lady, with a coltish prettiness that could not match Monmouth’s beauty but was\n still charming. She wore a dress of green tissue and pearly satin, with a garland of pearls around her throat that Catherine knew had been the king’s gift\n to his new daughter-in-law. She did not seem intimidated by the room or even by the king and queen, who gestured her forward to give her kisses of welcome,\n but when Anna Scott turned to regard her groom, her face revealed curiosity and anxiety and a willingness to love that Catherine found both familiar and\n touching.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Bishop of London, who had blessed Monmouth’s creation as duke, now came to solemnize the marriage, putting Mistress Scott’s hand into James’s, and\n speaking the words that would make the two children one. When the vows had been exchanged and rings given, the Duke and Duchess of Monmouth looked at each\n other for a moment, until his uncle James called out cheerfully, “Buss her, boy!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Monmouth colored to the roots of his dark hair, but leaned forward and kissed his bride. The new-wed duchess stood as straight as a halberd, but when the\n kiss was done and Jamie had taken her hand to lead her in to dine, she followed him readily enough. She was barely twelve yet; Catherine marveled at her\n self-possession.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At table, under the king’s canopy, the new Duchess of Monmouth and Buccleuch sat between Charles and her husband, and Catherine sat on Monmouth’s other\n side. Charles talked with his new daughter-in-law, and more than once threw his head back and laughed with characteristic pleasure at some trifle the girl\n had said. For her part, Catherine would have spoken with Monmouth, but the boy seemed restless, looking anywhere but at his new bride or his father’s wife.\n He drank, and ate, as one platter was taken up and another put down before him: venison and veal, lamb and pheasant, with great bowls of grapes and\n pineapple, Charles’s favorite.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Monmouth said a word to the king and left the table, and Catherine had a chance now to talk to Anna. “This must all be strange to you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It took a moment for the girl to understand the words through Catherine’s accent, then she answered, “It is, madam. But exciting as well. It will be very\n strange to be back in my own house tonight.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But your new husband will be with you—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anna shook her head, her expression very wise for a girl so young. “I will be in my old nursery, and J—my husband in rooms on the floor above. The king\n himself has said we are too young—” Now she blushed again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There is time for that,” Catherine agreed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Monmouth had not returned to the table, but was making his way through the room, accepting congratulations, stopping when his health was drunk and drinking\n himself. He rarely turned to look at the new bride he had left on the dais, and when he did, Catherine found his demeanor troubling, as if having gained\n his prize he had no further use for it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When she looked at Anna, Catherine thought the girl saw it as well. The queen slid into Monmouth’s chair and leaned toward the bride.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He is young,” Catherine said quietly, and took Anna’s hand in her own. “And where is the man who believes that he is too young for anything?” She spoke\n teasingly. “Women are so much older than men. My mother told me this is so!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Older than men?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, daughter.” Charles put his cup down, let his cupbearer fill it again, then leaned forward to join their conversation. “’Tis all true. Women are\n wiser, and therefore in need of much patience with their husbands. Is this not so, Your Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine felt herself blushing. “All \u003cem\u003eother\u003c/em\u003e women, sire, and all other husbands.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles chuckled. “And is not this wisdom? Even a king may err, and even a queen may forgive—if only to set an example for all their subjects. Your husband\n will return shortly, child, have no fear.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Still, Catherine saw Charles look about the room for his son—who was head to head with Lord Rochester in deep conference.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king sighed. “I had hoped that would not be the boy’s \u003cem\u003eonly\u003c/em\u003e friendship in London.” He leaned back and spoke a word to Michael, one of the pages who waited behind the throne. At once, Michael threaded his way through the crowd until he reached Monmouth, bowed, and said a few words. Monmouth looked\n toward the dais, frowned, bowed to Rochester, and in a few minutes he was returned to his place at his wife’s side.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your pardon, madam,” he said coolly. “And Your Majesty.” That was to the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine put her hand on the boy’s sleeve. “We are happy to have you with us again. You would not wish to leave your so charming bride—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Under her fingers she felt Monmouth’s arm tense, as if he might toss her aside. “I suppose I would not, madam.” Yet he did not turn to Anna, but looked\n stonily out at the courtiers dining in the hall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Over the heads of his son and daughter-in-law, Charles looked at Catherine as if to say, \u003cem\u003eWhat can one do?\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine spared a prayer that the circumstances of the marriage would not become Jamie’s excuse to ignore or neglect his wife. \u003cem\u003eWhat can one do?\u003c/em\u003e\n The answer, for now, seemed to be: \u003cem\u003enothing\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nA dramatic delegation from Muscovy caused much excitement throughout Whitehall—particularly with Barbara, who fell into a drunken threesome with James Crofts and the Earl of Rochester. Charles hosted a gathering of academics – and dismissed the idea that he ever married young Jamie’s mother. Catherine’s distress at not getting pregnant was seen in stark contrast against the happy family unit Charles has with Barbara. While initially holding to his resolution not to visit Barbara’s bed, Charles finally broke his promise to Catherine and took up again with his mistress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e \n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames Crofts\u003c/strong\u003e: Charles’ acknowledged but illegitimate son.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eEleanor Plumstead\u003c/strong\u003e: One of Catherine’s Ladies of the Bedchamber.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eThom Hamed\u003c/strong\u003e: Tailor’s apprentice in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDon Francisco de Mello\u003c/strong\u003e: Conde de Ponte, Portuguese ambassador to England.\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Madeleine Robins\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.54","slug":"whitehall-8","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP8.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall8serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall8serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall8serialbox.pdf","share_url":"false","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ed98ada6e22ac9d178f8","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":9,"title":"The Marriage of True Minds","released_date":"2016-08-03T11:27:06.994+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"Grey days and bright dawns.","byline":"Barbara Samuel","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall9.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-08-03","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eJuly 1663\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Clarendon, you must calm yourself,” Charles said. He gestured for a servant to pour a glass of claret for the old man, who limped in gouty fury around the\n privy chamber. Rogue paced beside him, back and forth, back and forth, tail in the air. “And od’s fish, man, sit down and rest that foot.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I cannot, sire! How dare he? I have served this crown with honor and devotion since—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sit,” Charles ordered, and Clarendon dropped to the chair. His complexion had gone violet, his cheeks so red they were apt to burst into flame. “None will\n seriously consider these charges against you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the House of Lords, only this morning, Lord Bristol had impeached the Lord Chancellor on charges of high treason. The crimes included conspiring to\n injure England, along with a series of frivolous charges and insinuations. The entire assembly of Lords had been taken by surprise, none more so than\n Charles.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “All \u003cem\u003eknow\u003c/em\u003e I did not conspire to marry my daughter to the Duke of York!” Clarendon cried, slapping his hand against his thigh. He gulped claret,\n leaving his lips wet with wine, and spluttered, “I was against the match and tried to \u003cem\u003ehalt\u003c/em\u003e it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, yes,” Charles said, and accepted a cup of claret for himself, taking a more mannerly taste. He’d forced the marriage himself, as all knew.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Gossip! The court is lousy with it! Gossip, gossip, gossip! It is all the scurrying rats know to do, titter and whisper and spread lies!” Clarendon\n gestured dangerously with his cup and a few drops splashed over his hand. “’Tis true that I wished the match with Portugal and thought it wise, and never\n believed a word of the ills they spoke against our kindly queen, that she was a dwarf and disfigured and barren! Why would I wish to injure my own sovereign king in such matters?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You do not. You did not.” Charles gestured for his servant to refill their cups, and the lad moved noiselessly. “You must calm yourself, Edward. If you\n give yourself an apoplexy, they’ll have won.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All at once, Clarendon seemed to shrink. “What sin have I offered to give them call to hate me so? I have served with integrity and thoroughness.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In part, Charles knew, it was that Clarendon was an old man in a very young court, a traditional and blustery old man, at that. Ever it was the way of the\n world that the young found their elders to be irrelevant. Clarendon did himself no favors when his gout made him bad-tempered, when he failed to put on a\n new coat when the old needed brushing. “You must remember what it was to know all there was to know, as the young lords believe,” Charles said gently.\n “’Tis only age that reveals how little grasp any of us have on this business of politics.” He looked into his cup, thinking of his hungry days, his grand\n schemes. “Or life.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon scowled. “I suspect the lady’s mark will be on this when it all comes to light.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You ever suspect her of evil, my friend. Leave it be.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye.” He looked a decade older all at once, his face twisted in pain as he rubbed his knee. It was the foot that hurt, Charles knew, but to touch it would\n set the flame burning hotter. “But I will not be impeached, Your Majesty, on so thin a warrant!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, old friend. It will be well.” A page in a jacket growing too short for him came to the door. Charles seized the distraction with verve. “Speak!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty, the Duke of York wishes an audience.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Send him in.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon gulped the rest of his wine and clambered to his feet. He resembled nothing more than one of the fat robins who lived in the oaks along St.\n James’s Park, his belly pushing out his coat, his body rocking. Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “Fret not. This will all blow over like a summer\n storm.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Looking glumly toward the rain-dark windows, the earl shook his head. “Not like this summer’s storms, I hope.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles allowed a chuckle. “Go home, have a rest. We shall talk again soon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James came in as Clarendon left, and looking after him asked, “What madness is this charge of impeachment? Treason? Had you word it would happen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Rumblings, no more.” Charles offered the bottle, and James waved it off.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am on my way to the theater, but wanted to deliver the news that the East India ship is in. Cotton, indigo, tea, opium.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good.” Perhaps it was a sign of shifting tides, the coffers filling rather than emptying.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It could not come quickly enough.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine sat by the fire in her chamber, cloaked in a thick shawl. She despaired of ever finding physical comfort again in this damp, cold land. Had she\n not developed such deep love for her husband and people, she might have been tempted to flee back to the lemon-scented groves of her homeland. The bitterly\n cold winter had melted into a dreary wet spring, and even now, as summer progressed—midsummer!—the days had not particularly warmed or brightened. The\n walls mildewed. Her skirts and sleeves drooped in the damp.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was hardly alone. Dona Maria complained about the weather daily, and there was more than one lady discreetly sneezing into her handkerchief at regular\n intervals.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Lord Treasurer has refused your request,” Lord Aubigny, her almoner, said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine had just dropped a lump of rough brown sugar into her tea, and now she stirred it, spoon whirling round and round in a delicate, hand-painted\n cup. Aubigny waited, hands in tight, nervous fists at his sides.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Refused?” she repeated, and lifted the cup.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Er, yes, Your Majesty. The coffers are low, the spices have not sold, the hearth tax is slow to be collected—” He rolled a hand in the air, “One thing and\n another and another.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes.” She scowled, mustering up her reserves, ever aware of the listening ears of the court, who leaned in her direction. Her mother would have stiffened\n her spine and gathered the glare of a deadly spider. Catherine hadn’t the strength. She said calmly, “I am the Queen Consort of the King of England and my\n physicians have ordered me to take the waters at Tunbridge Wells for the purposes of my health. It shall be done.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He has offered two thousand pounds, but I think that a paltry sum for so arduous an undertaking.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you for that wise counsel.” In truth, she had no way to calculate the costs of such a journey—how many servants, what sort of guard, what lodging\n she would require. She took a delicate sip of her strong, sweet tea, finding heart in it as she gave herself time to consider what she might do next.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will this weather never break?” she pondered aloud. “I well remember bright days last summer. Surely England is not so dull as this all the year?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The almoner’s spectacles flashed with light as he turned his head. “No, Your Majesty, it is most unusual. There is great concern that the harvest will be\n poor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A poor harvest would bring misery to the land. Catherine meant to be strong in case it came to that, pray God it did not. She raised her hand automatically\n to cross herself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Call together my godfather and the Royal Physician. Bring them to me here this afternoon and we shall decide how to proceed.” She gave a nod, dismissing\n him, and turned her attention back to the window.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her health had declined along with her spirits. She was pale and thin, and her strength waned daily. More, there had been no quickening in her belly, no\n heir for the throne yet growing in her womb. How could she catch a child in such a state?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her physicians, alarmed by her growing weakness, had ordered her to take the waters at Tunbridge Wells. Some said Bath was far superior, and Bourbon\n perhaps better than that, but even the consideration of so long a journey exhausted her. The Queen Mother, Henrietta Maria, had taken the waters at\n Tunbridge Wells in her youth, and it was only the journey of a day. It would do.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But now the Lord Treasurer had refused her. She’d been promised an annual income of four hundred thousand pounds, but had seen barely a shilling of it over\n the course of the year she had been in England. Her requests were met with feints and excuses. To avoid calling attention to the trouble, she’d indulged\n few accoutrements of a queen, deeply aware of the land’s empty purse, though Charles tried to hide it from her. He did not always economize as he ought—it\n was rumored that he’d repeatedly paid the gambling debts of his extravagant mistress—but no matter. Some battles were left to other generals.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In this, however, Catherine would have her way. She intended to travel to Tunbridge Wells, and that was that. She imagined her mother by her side, fierce\n and commanding. When her council assembled, she would order them to procure the funds, whatever it took.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Lady Castlemaine and the Lady Chesterfield sat near a long window in the queen’s chambers. Barbara leafed through a collection of loose botanical\n drawings, admiring particularly the rendering of a primrose in precise detail. Lady Chesterfield embroidered the fluttery feathers of a peacock on the\n linen in her frame. Pinning down the triad of ladies, Lady Buckingham read aloud from the sonnets of Shakespeare in her even, bell-toned voice.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Beneath the gauze of chatter and poetry, Lady Chesterfield commented, “The queen does not thrive.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen, who was ensconced next to the hearth, allowed herself to be amused by young Frances Stuart, who built a card house on a small table, one of her\n endless—and endlessly simple—pastimes. In contrast to the sunny, clear-skinned loveliness of the girl, Catherine’s complexion was wan. All through the\n spring, she’d fared poorly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara watched the gilded Frances, who’d caught Charles’s eye of late. Charles took care not to show his attraction before his mistress, and even less\n before his wife, but Barbara knew the signs. The slide of his eyes over the girl’s form, the jokes he cast out to her like bait to fish.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His attention was drifting.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She frowned now at the windows, where rain sluiced down the glass, obscuring the view of the river. Only gray upon wet upon gray. “Who could thrive in such\n damp dreariness?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I attended her when her physicians ordered her to take the waters at Bourbon,” Lady Chesterfield said. “I wonder that she has not embarked.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The treasurer has not even approved a trip to Tunbridge Wells, I hear.” Barbara jumped slightly as a foot or a fist lodged itself abruptly beneath her\n rib. She rubbed a palm over the round of her belly, imagining a bottom that needed patting, but the devil only kicked her. She added, “But even if the\n treasurer should give leave for Bourbon, I doubt such a long journey to Europe would improve the queen’s health.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, I would think not.” The older woman pierced the fabric with her flashing silver needle, tugging woad-dyed blue silk behind it, a new delicate layer\n over the feathers first sketched in green thread, laid in a silken stitch. Tugging the thread upward, she glanced at Catherine by the fire. “What else\n might we try?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps possets?” Lady Buckingham chimed in. “Broth?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She only wants her own foods, and little enough of those,” Lady Chesterfield said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n One of the servants to the chamber, Jenny, picked up a dropped ball of silk from the floor and settled it on the table. “Thank you, Jenny,” Barbara said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The girl bobbed. Barbara glanced at her briefly and grunted again over the babe.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If I may be so bold, my lady,” Jenny said, “you should walk.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara glanced at the queen, then back to Jenny, frowning with a slight shake of her head—it seemed unnecessarily unkind to draw attention to the babe.\n Her pregnancy had made her feel softer toward the queen, especially in her current barren state. The child kicked upward, upward, upward until Barbara fair\n could not breathe, and the discomfort made her sharp. “Advice from a virgin on how to nudge a babe?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny lowered her eyes. “My apologies, my lady. Perhaps there is some other way I may assist you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All at once, Barbara had to stand, and reached for Jenny’s hand. “Oh, help, girl. You call the thing rightly. I cannot even breathe.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny took her hand and hauled Barbara to her feet with surprising strength. Just the shift made the babe settle, moving its fist back to where it\n belonged. Barbara rubbed the place in relief. “Thank you,” she said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Across the room, Lady Frances laughed. The sound rang out like sweet music, and Barbara found herself admiring the girl’s glossy yellow hair, the creamy\n décolletage, her soft pink mouth. Every man in the court had reputedly tried to seduce her, but she’d thus far proven incorruptible.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps we should urge the queen to nap a little,” Lady Chesterfield suggested.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara was about to retort, but the child slammed again into her ribs and she grunted, shifting abruptly sideways to give the babe space. As if she’d\n heard, Catherine glanced over. Her sober dark eyes rested on Barbara’s belly, showing naught of her emotion, but Barbara knew it must rankle. She dropped\n her hand, and straightened her spine, trying to ease the crush of the child without doing so overtly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen looked back to her own embroidery frame. Resolutely, she took a delicate stitch.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Poor dear,” Lady Buckingham said under her breath, in a voice that held no sympathy at all. “It must be misery to behold the king’s sturdy seed in his\n mistress’s belly when she cannot hold it herself.” She glanced under her lashes toward Barbara to see if this won her approval.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hold your tongue,” Lady Chesterfield barked. “It does you no honor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Flushing, Lady Buckingham stepped back and picked up her book and began again to read aloud:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eLet me not to the marriage of true minds \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAdmit impediments. Love is not love \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWhich alters when it alteration finds, \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eOr bends with the remover to remove.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Aware of a strange, sad ache somewhere between the shape of the baby and her heart, Barbara looked again toward the small, dark queen. She sat straight,\n shoulders thin beneath her shawl, chin held high, her focus entirely on her handwork.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Poor dear,” Lady Chesterfield murmured.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After overhearing the ladies’ discussion about the queen in her chamber, Jenny had written to her mother about the trouble, asking for ideas to help the\n queen regain her strength. She sent the letter with a party going to prepare the Duke of York’s lodgings for their return. A reply came in only a week,\n written in Jenny’s father’s hand, as her mother had never learned to read or write.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mrs. Martin had ever been known for other knowledge—her healing tisanes, her broths and stews and cures. Though she’d never been a midwife, she was\n respected for her healing ways.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now her mother had replied with a sturdy list of possible things to try, and Jenny went to speak with the Portuguese cooks. The air was fragrant with\n joints roasting on the hearth and herbed pies baking for dinner. Jenny ducked around this body and that, past a shining knife slashing through the skin of\n a duck, next to a pair of girls cutting new potatoes into quarters, their jackets so young as to be nearly ruby.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At last, she came to the Portuguese sector. Senhor Barbo was a swarthy man with blackest hair strung with silver and enormous, powerful hands.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Senhor?” Jenny asked. “A word with you, for the queen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Senhor Barbo wiped his hands on a cloth. “I feed her well,” he said in English.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, yes. \u003cem\u003eSim\u003c/em\u003e, of course! It is only that my mother is a healer and I wrote to her.” She held up the return letter to show it. “She has sent me a\n few ideas to help build the queen’s blood and strength, to see if it might help make her strong for a babe.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A healer?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A good one, too. One of the best.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The man leaned with one ham-like hand, reddened from years of cooking, on the table. “I will listen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh!” Jenny smiled. “Oh, good!” She patted her chest in relief, and then looked at the paper. “Oxtail soup,” she said, “eggs, fresh greens—particularly\n purslane, hogweed, and sow thistle—tisanes of raspberry leaves and dandelion, but only the young leaves.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The cook listened with more receptiveness than Jenny had expected, nodding to himself. Over her shoulder, he barked out something to the second cook, who\n scurried closer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mostly,” Jenny finished, “she should have as much clear bone broth as she will drink, to strengthen her blood, her womb.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Senhor nodded. “A good girl, you are. We will try, no?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny hurried back to her duties, heart lightening. It was not so much, but it could do no harm for the queen to take more broths and stews. She had grown\n ever so fond of the queen. It would be such a joy to see her finally quicken with child!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As if the sun had heard Catherine’s prayers, a few days later the clouds parted like curtains to reveal a sky mild and blue and clear. Charles ordered a\n review of his guards to celebrate the bright weather, and the entire court dressed in their summer finery, hungry beyond reason for fresh air and exercise\n taken in the open.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Enlivened by the bright sunlight, Catherine dressed gaily in a white-laced gown over a scarlet petticoat, and left her hair loosely curled on her slim\n shoulders. Feliciana sat in her lap, cheerfully peering out the window. Catherine and the Duchess of York, heavily pregnant, rode to the park in a gilded\n coach, accompanied by the king and the Duke of York on horseback, dogs racing ahead. The men were splendid to look at together, hearty and long-legged,\n though Catherine thought Charles far more the handsome brother. He wore a red velvet coat embroidered with gold, and black breeches that clung to his\n thighs. His hair shone like mink.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine closed her eyes, reveling in the honeyed sunlight that fell on her face and shoulders. Against her breast, Feliciana panted. “I could stretch\n like a cat on a window,” she said. “Purr and sleep in the sun all day.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is a delight indeed.” Anne’s belly swayed almost comically to and fro as the carriage rocked over cobblestones on the way to Hyde Park. Her face was\n flushed, a line of perspiration shimmering on her lip. “Though I fear I am too warm for such.” She waved a fan, and the wind of it set the pale pink\n feather in her hat alight.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Allow me, sister.” Laughing, Catherine leaned in and clasped her hand around Anne’s wrist, letting the cold speak for itself. “You need no fan!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Goodness!” Anne laughed, too. “We shall find a hot pool of sunlight for you, cat.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine smiled. Of course Anne would not realize that Charles called her Cat in private, his secret pet name for her. In truth she loved the image of\n herself as a sleek, graceful cat. It made her feel beautiful and elegant. She had no vanity to speak of, but it was not unpleasant to think of herself in\n kinder ways than her life had thus far allowed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The carriage trundled into the park. Crowds had gathered along the avenues of thick green trees within the walls to watch the spectacle of the guard.\n Shopkeepers and merchants, fathers with children perched on their shoulders, tanners with their orange fingers, bankers and gentlemen all mingled.\n Catherine waved to them cheerfully.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When they halted, Catherine allowed her footmen to take the dog and help her out of the coach. As she stepped onto the ground, a little girl with loose\n black hair broke free of her mother and flew the short distance across the grass to press a battered daisy into Catherine’s hands.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “For you, Your Majesty!” she said with an impish smile and dashed back into the crowd. Charmed, Catherine laughed and held the flower to her nose, waving\n cheerfully.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king spoke from his horse, above her. “Well done, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She inclined her head, smiling as she held out her arm for Anne, who near waddled as she moved deliberately, carefully. They crossed the grass to an array\n of chairs beneath a pavilion painted with the royal crest. Anne settled with an “oof!” and Catherine joined her, hands in her lap, dismayed to realize that\n she felt slightly weary from such a short jaunt.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Around her the crowds of people all seemed so vigorous, their faces ruddy and happy. Across the green, the child who’d given her the flower pranced along\nthe road, skirts kicking up, braids dancing. Catherine turned the square stem in her fingers, sending up a cry to the heavens. \u003cem\u003eHelp, Mother! I must have a child, this you know to be true.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A girl with such exuberance would be a mighty gift. A son would be an heir, but even a girl would prove her fertility.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A child. She only wanted a child.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It seemed her entire world had narrowed to this single idea. A child, a child, a child. An heir to be king, pregnancy to prove fertility. It seemed at\n times the only thing she thought on at all, even to the exclusion of her faith!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003ePerdoe-me, Mãe Maria\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From her pocket, she pulled out her rosary and looped it discreetly around her wrist, the crucifix hanging into her palm where she could clasp it without\n anyone noticing. A reminder that all blessings came from God, and naught could transpire without His blessing. She would prove herself devout enough that\n she would be worthy of that child she so wished to bring into the world.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A bouquet of ladies made their way over to the pavilion, spilled by carriage after carriage. Adorned in summer colors, with feathered hats—all the fashion\n this summer—their happy chatter and ringing laughter led the march. A young courtier, his own hat adorned with an ostrich plume as long as a lady’s arm,\n tagged Lady Frances, who was resplendent in yellow silk. As he dashed away, Frances laughed robustly, lifting her skirts to run behind him, slapping his\n shoulder before she returned to the group.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Look at all of them stare at her,” Anne said, gesturing toward a line of men, courtiers and pages, watching Frances run. She was tall for a woman, blessed\n with high energy and an otherworldly grace of movement. “Married, the lot of them.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is pretty, you must admit. A butterfly, yes?” She grinned, nudging Anne to tease her. “A little fluttering thing with hair like butter.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Mmm. Who needs to be married off before she ruins herself.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is virtuous to a fault, I hear.” Charles, off his horse to watch the guard, paused to offer a word to Frances. Her cheeks flushed as she listened,\n then she gave another burst of laughter. Charles, pleased, smiled at the girl, then lifted a hand and strode away, his dogs swirling with him. “I like her\n very much.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A new coach arrived, led by a team of enormous Flemish horses with their shaggy legs. The door was flung open and Lady Castlemaine came into view.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Speaking of ruination,” Anne said sourly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was most unlike the duchess to be unkind. “Are you feeling quite well?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She waved the fan. “Well enough. It is only that I am weary of this child within me, kicking and tossing and stomping.” Then she flushed. “Oh, I am so\n sorry, Your Majesty. You know I did not mean—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n“No matter.” Catherine covered Anne’s hand and focused on the carriage. Barbara’s thick hair was arranged in a tumble of curls that trailed over her bosom— \u003cem\u003etits\u003c/em\u003e, Catherine thought in English, and laughed to herself. Lady Castlemaine, too, carried a babe beneath her skirts, this one not so far along as\n Anne’s, but it gave her a kind of pearlescent sheen, like the halo in a painting of the Madonna.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Curiously, despite a knot of courtiers beneath a tree, none rushed to help the lady down. Her own men scurried forward to help her, and she snapped at one\n who knocked her hat askew.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The gossips spread the rumor that Barbara was not in full favor with the king. She had reputedly stormed off more than once of late, to sulk in Richmond,\n perhaps expecting Charles to follow her. She could be imperious and demanding, and just now, Charles had more than enough demands and pouting from the world around him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Just then the trumpets sounded and they all rose to their feet to watch the soldiers and horses march up the lane in formation, soldiers young and serious,\n their arms and legs moving in unison, then the horses clopping proudly. Like the horses of her youth, but these were leaner, sleeker, smaller than the\n Flemish giants who’d pulled Barbara’s carriage. “I do love a beautiful horse,” Catherine said to Anne. She pointed to a glossy black mare with a white mane and tail. “That one is fine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is very pretty indeed,” the duchess returned, and squeezed the queen’s hand. “Forgive my ill humor, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no. Done before asked.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My condition has put me in a bad temper, I’m afraid. I shall retire to Portsmouth as soon as the babe arrives, but I did not wish to miss this day with my dear sister.” She blotted her lip with a handkerchief. “When do you leave for Tunbridge Wells?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That I do not yet know.” She squared her shoulders. “But I mean to win this skirmish.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah. So you will, madam.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles watched the display with approval, standing with his retinue in the dense shade of the chestnut trees that graced the parade route. The soldiers\n were crisp, the horses well-fed and well-muscled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ready for battle if needs be,” James said beside him. “Unlike our navy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “We do what we must, in the order we must.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Dutch rumble and rattle their sabers even as we stand here on this fine sunny day.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles gave him a quelling glance. “Why speak of war? We’ve had less than a week of fine days this summer, and there will be no corn if it does not\n change. Empty bellies make restless subjects. That is far more the trouble on my mind than war that may or may not arrive.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Dutch care not if the weather be poor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have done what I might, with the outfitting of the ships we have. No more of this. Tell me what you found on the House of Lords. Is Clarendon’s case\n gaining supporters?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No.” James shook his head decisively. “It is a great foolishness that none can figure, though the earl does not make friends with his strong opinions and\n old man’s ways. He’ll not be impeached this round, but he must learn to mind his tongue.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is not his ill humor they mind,” Charles remarked, hands laced behind his back as he admired one particularly fine chestnut, its tail high. “Jealousy\n ever makes enemies. There is jealousy among the lords over his lands and estates and his holdings in the New World.” He pursed his lips. “The old rumors\n fly, that he stood to gain from your marriage to Anne.” He shook his head. The entire matter was a bewilderment, and if he could have waved a hand and made\n it disappear, he would have. Instead, it was a matter of the House of Lords and then the courts. He could offer opinions, but not erase the matter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But he mean to discover who had orchestrated the impeachment, and why, and seek retribution.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye. Be that as it may, sire, he’s made too many enemies. Only your friendship has propped him up, and the way he badgers you, it is a wonder that you’ve given him that friendship for as long as you have.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles waved a hand. “He can be critical, but he has stood beside me through all. I would reward such loyalty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James half-bowed. “As you wish.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Most members of Catherine’s retinue wandered out of the shelter of the pavilion once the parade was over, to play bowls or flirt with the courtiers or\n parade their naked shoulders and half-naked bosoms to the world. Lady Eleanor had feigned weakness to stay behind in the shade of the tent, watching from\n afar games she had never learned to play.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nShe was most heartily homesick. On such a sunny afternoon at home, she would be engaged in her prayers, or perhaps reading in the back garden from \u003cem\u003eThe Beatitudes\u003c/em\u003e, published only two years ago by Mister Watson. The readings challenged her, both in soul and thought, and she longed to immerse herself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Instead she was surrounded by sin, in all its variations. The excesses made her slightly ill, giving weight to her claim of weakness.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Around her, the ladies had curdled into twos and threes to gossip, as ever, while the queen and duchess engaged with their husbands beneath the shade of a\n chestnut tree. She was not alone in the shelter; two young maids of honor glowered at Lady Frances on the green, their voices low and venomous with\n jealousy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Close in, the Ladies Castlemaine and Suffolk gossiped about the entire assembly, and it was just for this purpose that Eleanor lingered where she did. The ladies had already dragged the duchess and her unfaithful husband through their muddy mouths, tsked over the smallpox scars that newly marred the face of a\n young actress.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny and Samuel carried in baskets of food and Eleanor stood up to move out of their way, taking the opportunity to sit ever so slightly closer to the\n other two ladies. She pretended to take an interest in the contents of the basket, watching as Jenny lifted out a clean, ironed linen tablecloth and shook\n it. Eleanor found a small moment of pleasure in the tidy action, the soughing of the fabric riding currents of air down to the table. Jenny took out wooden\n dishes and filled them with fresh red radishes, a host of bacon and butter sandwiches, chunks of white cheese and late strawberries, delayed by the damp\n weather. They had hoped for cherries, but they’d not yet ripened in the courtyards.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “—married?” said Lady Castlemaine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor listened more closely, berating herself for losing the thread.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nay, nay,” Lady Suffolk protested. “That was his wedding to the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor held herself completely still.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The king? \u003cem\u003eOur\u003c/em\u003e king?” Barbara laughed, that offensively sensual sound. “Married in a secret Catholic service?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I swear it,” Lady Suffolk replied.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The king is liberal in religious matters,” Lady Castlemaine said, “but I cannot believe he would indulge in something as forbidden as a Catholic rite of\n marriage.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The queen is Catholic, dear friend. You have observed her devotion. Would she truly forgo the blessing of her own faith?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For the first time, Barbara sounded unsure. “She is faithful,” she said slowly, “but it cannot be believed. He is not a fool.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course not. But what of the other rumor, that he wed Monmouth’s mother?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Where in the world are you hearing such madness?” Lady Castlemaine protested. “You’ve let yourself be carried away by the whispers of the court.” She stood, waving a fan, the feather on her hat bouncing. “Come, let’s walk awhile. I find this babe in me quiet enough to allow a stroll.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor sat quite perfectly still, repeating the names carefully to herself, then she stood, pressing her fingers to her temples as if she had a headache.\n It was no lie if others only drew their own conclusions.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She whirled away and hurried from the pavilion, heart swelling. Charles had married Catherine in a secret Catholic service!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was the confirmation she had been waiting for. As soon as she told Lord Russell what she’d heard, he could use it to punish the king by revealing to the\n world his secret popish wedding. And then her reward: Russell would give her back her brother’s letter, written in reckless rage after their father’s\n execution and fallen into Lord Russell’s hands—that treasonous letter that hung over their heads and forced her to do Russell’s bidding. A snatch of it\n flashed into her head: \u003cem\u003e. . . and shall we, free men of spirit, submit to this licentious tyrant’s sway?\u003c/em\u003e Lord Russell had threatened to use those\n words to destroy what was left of her family—oh, how she trembled at the thought of her brother’s danger! But all that would be over now. She would get\n this news to Russell, be freed from her odious life as a spy, and go home at last.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After the outing to Hyde Park, Jenny busied herself in the queen’s privy chamber. She knew she hovered, but the day had been long and wearying, and the\n queen had looked quite wan when she returned to her rooms. Jenny coaxed her to sip a little bone broth Senhor Barbo had prepared from beef haunches and\n duck wings, seasoned after a Portuguese fashion, with strong spices the English did not often use that turned the broth a deep yellow. The steam smelled\n heady and rich. Her Majesty managed a little, but only wanted to sleep.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Leaving her ladies to tend to her, Jenny carried the tray with broth back into the main rooms, heading for the back stairs and the kitchen. Her heart was\n heavy—would the queen never recover? Her strength was as thin as a kitten’s!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her head was down as she made her way toward the stairs, so Lady Eleanor’s sudden appearance startled her. “I have a message for Lord Russell that needs\n delivery,” she said. “Will you see to it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny did not like Lady Eleanor. The woman seemed to always be hovering in places she did not fit, and then skittering away like a cricket caught in the\n light. Jenny had twice seen her talking with Lord Russell in odd places, too, once outside the gates of the palace, where no lady should have been\n lingering, and another in the garden on a most inclement day.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Something was afoot, and Jenny did not think the woman acted out of a sense of devotion to the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The note hung between them. Across the front was Lord Russell’s name in a thin, spidery hand. Jenny bobbed. “Of course, my lady. If you would slip it in my\n pocket, to avoid getting it soiled.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor made a disdainful face and dropped the note on the tray, as if she would be soiled by touching Jenny’s skirt. “Thank you,” she said stiffly,\n and rustled away, her cricket arms covered in a black shawl.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The letter burned itself into her head as she carried the tray down the stairs. The contents teased her, whispering and insistent, and although she knew\n she should not, when she came to a wide section of the staircase, she set the tray down and plucked up the letter, putting it in her pocket. She told\n herself she was only stowing it there for safekeeping, but even as she told herself this tale, she knew it was a lie.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She continued on to the kitchen and deposited the tray in the keeping of a scullery girl, then turned to hurry back out, but Senhor Barbo stopped her. “She\n no eat?” he asked, tapping the side of the pot that held the broth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Very little,” Jenny admitted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Senhor Barbo pursed his lips, shaking the pot a little. He bent and sniffed it, shaking his head. “No eat much.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny wondered at the strong scent of the food. “Maybe,” she said in Spanish, “pollo?” Chicken was milder, easier to digest.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, \u003cem\u003esim sim\u003c/em\u003e.” The man clapped her on the shoulder and Jenny barely kept herself from coughing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny dipped her head. “\u003cem\u003eObrigado\u003c/em\u003e.” She had learned from her queen how to say \u003cem\u003ethank you\u003c/em\u003e in Portuguese.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Out in the courtyard between two buildings of the palace, Jenny clasped her hand over the note, wondering what to do. She wanted to read it, but she’d be\n dismissed immediately if she were caught. The corner poked her palm, almost burning. What could Lady Eleanor want with Lord Russell?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Across the courtyard, the door to the king’s chambers opened and a pack of dogs spilled out, ears flying as they ran ahead, yipping and barking to announce\n the king or, more likely, themselves. Behind them stepped the king, flanked on the right by Lord Buckingham and Lord Bath.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Did she dare give the king the letter?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n If there was no trouble, the king would assume the stupid servant girl had only misdelivered it in her ignorance. If the letter held knowledge that would\n harm the queen, he would know that, too.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Gathering her courage, Jenny held the note with the address facing downward and walked straight toward the king. When he was only a few footsteps away, she\n bowed deeply, holding out the note. “For you, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He frowned in surprise, but a dog leapt on him, as if the note might be a treat or a toy, and the king lifted it out of reach. Jenny hurried on her way,\n heart in throat. But no shout called her back, and she returned to the queen without incident.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the end of July, the queen’s party set out for Tunbridge shortly after daybreak. It was a misty morning, but not raining, for which they gave thanks.\n Catherine, bundled against the damp, rode in her coach with Lady Buckingham and Lady Frances, along with Dona Maria, who shivered in her cloak, rubbing one\n hand and then the other to loosen her stiffened fingers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you allow me?” Lady Frances asked, reaching for Dona Maria’s hand. “My granny suffered the rheumatism and she liked me to rub her fingers.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The old woman hesitated, but the girl’s intention was clear. After the space of a breath, she allowed Frances to take her hand in her own and begin to\n methodically rub the joints, the wrist. Her young hands were smooth and sure, and in a moment, Dona Maria’s shoulders dropped in relief. Catherine bent to\n kiss Feliciana’s head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After the long tussle with the Lord Treasurer, Catherine’s advocates had at last wrested the funds for her journey. It was a small party, given the\n circumstances. Only the three ladies, a small guard to protect them from bandits on the roads, and a retinue of servants—Jenny and a trio of lady’s\n attendants, two pages, the queen’s Portuguese cooks, and a handful of others. They rode in wagons, which were piled with tents and furnishings, dishes and\n candles, all the necessary items for their stay. The Wells had not yet become the center of industry that Bath boasted, and the party had to be\n self-sufficient for several weeks. The king would visit when he was able.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eObrigado, menina\u003c/em\u003e,” Dona Maria breathed to Frances.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The countryside showed rolling hills, glimpsed through thick stands of trees that made tunnels over the road, green and dense and mysterious. The rocking\n of the coach over the rutted roads was neither restful nor comforting; each slam of the wheels into a runnel knocked Catherine’s tired bones. She felt a\n hundred years old. She prayed the waters would improve her health.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lady Buckingham,” she said, “will you read to us, please?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It would be my honor, Your Majesty. I have brought with me \u003cem\u003eThe Fairie Queene\u003c/em\u003e or the Countess of Montgomery’s \u003cem\u003eUrania\u003c/em\u003e, which is the tale\n you requested.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Written by a woman.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, madam. Shall I begin?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine settled back, resting her eyes as Lady Buckingham began to read. It was good for her English, for even when she did not quite understand a\n passage, she could catch the idea, and it was good for her ear to hear the words. And truly, the tale was just the thing, an adventure and a romance to\n entertain them over their long day of travel.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire, I object most strenuously! It is unconscionable for you to make this trip just now.” Clarendon hobbled alongside Charles as he checked his provisions. The man was still half-crippled by his gout.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles, his physician Mister Charleton, and the scientist John Aubrey were preparing horses at last for a trip to Avebury, where Aubrey wished to share\n his discoveries at an ancient site. “It is precisely because of all the madness that I must escape,” Charles said. “I will return by Monday next to hear\n the charges.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty! I must insist—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Enough.” Again Charles kept his voice mild. “The impeachment is ludicrous, and even your detractors in Parliament know this is only a grab for your lands\n in the New World.” He settled his hat on his head. “My advice to you, Edward, is to take some rest whilst I am away. The furor has done no favors for your\n health.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mister Charleton said, “Cherries are in season at last, my lord. I would recommend the juice to address your gout.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon nodded irritably and made one last attempt. “Sire, the treasury—“\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles swung himself up to his saddle. “When Parliament convenes, I will defend you, though it will hardly be needed. Meantime, find you some rest and\n cherry juice. For my part, I am in need of adventure.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the rhythmic quiet of the ride, Charles did find the peace he sought. The struggles with the treasury, quarrels in Parliament, and complaints over the\n hearth tax from householders who objected to strangers entering their homes were worry enough. Added to those burdens was the worry over Catherine’s\n health, which had continued to decline over the wretched summer, and the heavy threat of a poor harvest if the weather did not improve immediately. In\n truth, he knew it to be too late. Parliament held a fast to bloody petition the heavens or some such, but nature would not be swayed by prayers. There\n would be hunger in his kingdom come winter unless some plan could be made.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And his mistress had stormed away to Richmond again only days before, miffed at his lack of attention.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There were times a man needed respite. A few days in the countryside would do wonders for his spirits.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara returned to Whitehall after a few days to find the palace quiet in the absence of the king and queen. It seemed just the time to make a visit she\n had been considering for some time.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the dank morning, she made her way through the passageways of Whitehall to the offices of Father Patrick. She found him with his greenery, a\n pharmacopeia of herbs he made into tisanes and tinctures for all manner of ills. He was said to be quite talented.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do I disturb you, Father Patrick?” she asked, pulling the hood from her hair.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He raised a brow. “That depends, my lady. Am I to be drawn and quartered?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, that.” Barbara waved away the threat she’d made when he’d baptized little Charles for Roger. “I spoke in fear, Father. Forgive me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I see. Well, then, of course.” A long-faced man with sober, pale eyes and a lilting manner of speech, he stepped backward, gesturing for her to enter.\n “Please, come. How may I assist you? Have you a wart that needs—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, no.” She swept in, smelling peppermint and tansy and moist earth. Aware that his eyes touched her loose hair, her slim white hands, she plucked a\n tendril of chamomile and held the tiny daisy to her nose. “I have come on a matter of faith.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Faith? Pray tell.” The twitch of his lips showed that he well understood his play on words, and this evidence of his sense of humor eased her a little.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In truth, she had been aware of Charles slipping farther and farther away from her all through the spring and summer, his attentions intent on his waning\n wife, and even more on the gilded young Frances Stuart, who’d suddenly bloomed before their eyes and become a woman of great beauty. Despite the fact that Barbara carried his child once again in her womb, he had not been often to her bed. Or perhaps he’d wearied of her pregnancy and longed for the unmarred\n figure of the young Frances? She fretted, morning, noon, and midnight, trying to find some answer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It had come to her late in a lonely night that perhaps Charles found the devout virtue of his wife to be appealing. Perhaps he would more admire Barbara\n should she take up the faith his wife defended.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Or so she told herself. In truth, she had found genuine comfort in the rituals, the Mass over the past months. They spoke to her more deeply than the\n rituals of the church she had known in her life. The litany of the prayers, the song of the Mass. She longed for a rosary of her own to carry secretly and\n run through her fingers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And unlike the harsh laws of the Puritans, Catholics had rituals for ridding themselves of the weight of sin. That alone could provide comfort over time.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She took a breath. She could not very well tell the priest that she hoped it would capture Charles’s attention. “In these many months attending Mass with\n Her Majesty, I have found within me a new light,” she said. “Comfort, and peace.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The ritual carries power, it is true.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I find I wish to convert.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Convert,” he repeated.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Please forgive me, Lady Castlemaine—may I speak freely?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Twill not please many, and the faith is rigorous. What brings you to such a path?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara studied his face for a long moment. She sensed, in his steady calm, an ability to see through to the truth of things. Had she not felt something\n true when the queen so devoutly prayed her novena to the Madonna? “The queen’s devotion to the Mother of God moves me, Father.” She touched her round\n belly. “I wish to learn to commune so with such a holy woman.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment more, he searched her expression, but Barbara had spoken with honor, and there was no lie to be found.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As a priest it would be my great honor to assist you, my lady. Perhaps we can begin with a few discussions.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara’s heart lifted. “Of course!” As she sat with the priest, she imagined telling Charles, imagined his reaction. “I’m impressed, Babs,” he’d say,\n stroking her thigh. And their connection would be even deeper than before.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A small village had sprung up around the well that gave Tunbridge its name, a well discovered by a young man on his way home with a blistering hangover.\n The village was little more than a scattering of cottages and a single rickety inn, not nearly enough to provide for the retinue of the queen. The party\n from Whitehall engulfed the area, erecting colorful, embroidered tents on a mostly dry rise, and made themselves self-sufficient. Hunters found deer and\n rabbits, and they’d brought supplies of other sorts with them, small beer and sack, aromatic vegetables and squawking chickens, some for eggs, some for the\n pot.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n According to the regime her physician had ordered, Catherine took the waters morning and night, beginning with a pint each time, and slowly increasing each\n day. The taste was not especially pleasant, but she did her duty. After downing the waters, she drank the broth her cooks had brewed for her, heavy brews\n swimming with herbs, and light yellow chicken stock floating with parsley and thyme. She ate lentils and white beans along with the sow thistle, nettles,\n and hogweed they foraged in the local meadows. She stuffed herself with every boiled, stewed, or fried green they offered, some bitter, some tender.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She walked, too, most often with Lady Frances, who kept up a stream of empty chatter, as easy as birdsong. She proved to hold a catalog of odd bits of\n information—identifying feathers and birdcalls, flowers and trees. It was good English practice, learning all the words. Often, in the afternoons, she\n would sketch the very plants and birds they’d seen in the morning. She wrote letters and received them, played cards with the ladies.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Waited. To feel better. To start the next portion of her life. To heal and be well and then—she hoped—bloom with a child her husband would plant.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles rode into the camp at Tunbridge Wells near dusk. It had been a damp day, but now the clouds had moved off and the sun glowered along the hills,\n throwing grassy ridges and trees into sharp shadow. The tents, painted and festive, glowed with light from within, and the air was redolent with wood smoke\n and a joint of meat roasting and spitting over the open fire. Someone played a stringed instrument in one of the tents, and a woman’s voice, sweet and\n mournful, sang along. His men took his horse and a servant pointed him toward his queen’s tent. He first went to piss on a tree, then washed the travel\n dust from his face and hands. The air was cool but not cold. His stomach grumbled, and he looked forward to a great mug of ale.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As he headed back up the path to Catherine’s tent, a laugh rang out, the unmistakably robust—if often frivolous—laugh of Frances Stuart. It moved on his\n skin, that sound, calling up her lively ways, the grace of her long limbs, and he glanced in the direction of the sound. Against the fabric of a tent, her\n silhouette showed plainly. A shift outlined and obscured her figure, revealing the curve of a hip and the clear outline of her long neck, her graceful arms lifting her hair.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The always-lurking sin of lust bloomed beneath his skin. She was barely more than a child, her lips so fresh they seemed new-made, her breasts high and\n light. That robust and ready laughter led a man to believe she would find delight in other things.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For long moments, Charles stood watching the silhouette, then shook his head. Ever a fool he was for women, but best one mistress be lost before another\n took her place.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In truth, he’d been looking forward to seeing Catherine, and now walked to her tent. Over the time she had been his wife, he’d learned that she could\n provide a center of quiet and peace in the maelstrom of the world.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Where is my wife?” he called out, approaching. “Can there be a little Cat in this place?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The tent flap billowed backward, and Catherine ran out in her slippers, her beautiful dark hair loose on her shoulders. “Your Majesty!” she cried, and\n rushed over to meet him. His heart lightened as he caught her, lifting her and swinging her about. In the dark there was no one much to care, and it made\n her laugh, loose and free. In his arms, she was as slight as feathers, her ribs too close beneath her skin. He set her gently back on the ground and kissed\n her, holding her cheeks in his hands so he could see her face. Her eyes, so large and dark, shone in the low light, but the shadows remained there below.\n “How do you fare, dear wife?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am well to see you, sire. Will you come inside?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So I will, with you in your slippers. You’ll catch cold!” He scooped her up, holding her by the waist so her legs swung back and forth, making her laugh.\n Inside the tent, he bent to let her down again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Jenny, will you fetch ale and supper for His Majesty? Bring small beer, too, and tell Samuel we shall need his help with His Majesty’s boots.” She took\n his cloak and shook it out. “Have it brushed and bring it back with you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny bobbed and ducked out, which left only Dona Maria sitting by a trio of candles, holding a rosary.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles asked, “Can you send her on an errand?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine looked up at him, grinning. “Perhaps.” In Portuguese, she rattled off a long string of something. Dona Maria gave him one sour glance, then\n gathered her things and departed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As the woman went out, Catherine pressed into him, turning up her face for a kiss. He obliged her, but his belly rumbled with hunger and they both laughed.\n “Come, sit with me,” Catherine said, curling up with a blanket on the bed. “What news do you bring?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He rested his hand on her slim thigh. “Happily, I have no news. And you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Unless you care to hear the score of our ongoing card games, I have naught to share either.” She leaned on one elbow, looking like a very young girl, her\n hair tumbling over her arm in ropes that shone in the soft light. “Did you sleep in tents during your exile, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, tents and cottages, within a tree, a ditch. Many places.” The never-distant sense of melancholy tugged at him, and he forced himself to give her\n grin. “It made me hale to know such. A man of the world.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her answering smile held a tinge of sadness. “And here I am, as frail as a spring bloom.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not at all.” He tugged her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her palm. “My land has not been welcoming to her sun-kissed queen, but I wish you to know\n that I have ordered a shift in the heavens on your behalf. Sunshine and soft breezes only for my sweet Cat.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She pulled his hand back to her, holding his eyes as she shaped his hand to her breast. A ripple moved beneath his skin and he held her gaze, rubbing his\n thumb over the tip. “Are you well enough, sweet love? There is plenty of time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n With a soft, sly shrug of her shoulder, she said, “I long for the vigor of my king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He chuckled and bent down to kiss her, tasting forest and grass and summer on her lips. “I would be more than happy to oblige you, sweet queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Outside the tent, Jenny coughed politely. King and queen arranged themselves more decorously, exchanging a glance of promise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of crickets whirring in the grass outside the tent. Next to her on the bed, the king slept, a\n soft snore rattling out of his lips. One arms was flung over her chest, as if anchoring her to the world.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She did not move away, only lay in the dark with insects singing just on the other side of the fabric. Perhaps there were bears or wolves or foxes there,\n too, beneath the stars so high and sharp. A wild world, full of dangers and beauties both.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His hand moved, covering her shoulder, then his fingers touched her chin. “Are you all right, love? Did the stallion ride too hard?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not at all,” she said with a low laugh, and curled close. “I am only content to lie here and listen to crickets. I have not slept in a tent before this\n trip, so close to nature.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you like it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do. ’Tis peaceful, away from the court and all the people and dramas there.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You may come as often as you like.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not if the Lord Treasurer must be petitioned.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He grunted. “Sour fellow.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She chuckled, running her hand over the hand on her middle.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I wished to sleep on the grass at Avebury,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow, “but it was too wet.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Too wet in England? Imagine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was rewarded with his laughter, low and deep, rumbling through his chest into his arm. “Indeed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why did you wish to sleep on the grass?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is a strange place, and there is some magic about it. There is a great stone circle Aubrey has mapped out, and grand standing stones, and a most\n magnificent tree that almost seemed enchanted.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine listened, seeing the place in her mind, and her husband before her as he told the tale, his hair loose on his broad shoulders.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He continued, “Aubrey used a dowsing rod to illustrate how the energies drive through the stones—and it was quite powerful. I could feel it, pulling the\n rod this way and that, according to the direction we moved. I wanted to know what it might feel like to sleep in the midst of that energy, what I might\n dream.” His mouth lifted on one side. “Like King Arthur, I suppose.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She knew the tale because of the musical performance she and Charles had arranged to showcase her musicians; it was one of the most beloved of the history\n of her adopted land, a king who drew a sword from a stone. “Was it fairies who made the circles?” She made her voice light.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No one knows. Aubrey has mapped a circle of stones and monoliths there, and he thinks they might have been used in rituals of some sort. Until he maps it\n completely, it will be hard to know what the shape is, but it is quite enormous, as large as Whitehall.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What do you think, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled, his hand moving on her belly. “It is left to us to imagine. Perhaps wizards and witches and dragons, like the old stories.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How fanciful of you,” she said, resorting to Spanish for the words. “Magic and fairy tales.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The tales must have come from somewhere. Perhaps there were dragons once upon a time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps,” she whispered, smiling, the peacefulness spreading around them, thick as the mists over the Thames, impenetrable and comforting. Here, in the\n marital bed, they were not king and queen, but only man and wife, hoping for a child, building their understanding of one another. “In my country, dragons\n guard the caves where maidens are hidden away.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am most grateful that there was not one to keep you in a cave, my lady,” he murmured, threading his fingers through her hair.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As am I, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment, he only continued weaving his fingers through her long hair, over and over, making her sleepy. “I did not know, until you, that time with a\n woman could be so rich and quiet.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “You are as rare as any dragon, my love.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You are the dragon, I think,” she said, laughing, and moved her hands in ways that let him know she could love him again. They tumbled into each other,\n easy and happy, and slept tangled once more.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To Catherine’s pleasure, the king remained at Tunbridge Wells for several days, though after the first night, he did not make any physical demands. She’d\n awakened the following day wan and coughing, and Charles apologized profusely.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She almost wished for Barbara’s presence to take this dish from her until she was more hale, herself. It seemed every small thing—and every large\n one!—stole her strength, and it was the work of days and possets and bone broths to gain it back again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Doctor Pierce shook his head on the third day of Charles’s visit. “I do not think the benefit is found in these waters, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She tugged her shawl more closely about her. If anything, the weather in Tunbridge had been worse than in London. It was no help to sleep in such rough\n conditions, with a good bed but only thin walls for shelter. “Nor do I. But what next? I cannot make the trip to Bourbon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No,” he agreed. “We shall send you on to Bath. I have analyzed the waters and found them to be more than equal to Bourbon’s, and the accommodation there\n shall be much more substantial.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king took her hand. “I must return to London for Clarendon’s impeachment hearing, but I shall meet you in a fortnight, when we join the court in\n Bristol to attend a state dinner. By then your sister the duchess will have returned.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I shall enjoy that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Doctor Pierce said, “I humbly offer my own house, Your Majesties. It cannot compare to the grandeur of your own lodgings at Whitehall, but perhaps you will\n find some comfort there.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How kind of you, Doctor Pierce,” Catherine said. “We accept. And”— she held out a hand to a steady, small drip—“there will be a roof, no?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In the dreary evening after his speech to Parliament, Charles made for Barbara’s chambers. She’d sent a note to let him know there would be supper for him, and after the long journey and long day, he was more than happy to find retreat in her arms. After a contentious month or two, she’d finally settled into a good humor once again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A fire burned on the hearth, and a decanter of wine awaited as Barbara’s girl opened the door. The dogs rushed through, in a tizzy after his absence,\n nearly tripping him repeatedly as he made his way into the chamber.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good evening, Your Majesty,” Barbara said, curtsying deeply. Her hair had been arranged in the natural way, tumbling around her creamy shoulders, and the\n pregnancy had made her magnificent breasts all the more ripe. Her eyes caught the light of the fire, and he halted to admire her. “You are more beautiful\n every moment you pass on this planet, my dear.” Closing the gap between them, he bent to press his mouth to her cleavage. “I have missed you,” he sighed,\n and made his way up to her lips.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her hands came up to his head, pulling him into her. “Oh, sire,” she whispered, “I am ever your servant.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He laughed. “I doubt that, but come here, Babs.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then he was lost in her, as ever. She had been his lover for years now, and the bond between them ran deep. At times, her temper and pouting caused him\n grief, but he could never leave her for very long. He smelled some magic in her breath, some erotic fragrance he could not resist, a power as mysterious as\n the force that bent the dowsing rods at Avebury. He tumbled her in her bed and she made him cry out, and even now, with a six-month babe in her belly, she\n was as vigorous as in their first pairing. He loved her. He loved his queen, too, though it surprised him to know it. One did not take from the other.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When they rose after a time to drink wine and eat the food that had been prepared, Barbara asked, “How fared the Lord Chancellor at Parliament, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles tore a hunk of bread from the loaf. “You will be unhappy to know he fared well. It was a foolish stand—he would not be impeached. There are no true\n grounds for it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara shrugged. “I mean him no more ill than he means me. But I am glad for your sake.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He sopped up the last of the meat juice with his bread and wiped his hands clean. Behind him the fire crackled, warming his back and sending a scent of\n applewood into the air. His belly was full, his seed spent, and his mistress, made all of light and curves and shimmer, gave him a sloe-eyed blink. Leaning\n back, he carried his wine to his lips. “What other gossip fuels the court in my absence?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Hopes for the health of the queen, of course.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No doubt,” he said drily. “For which you have as much care as for my Lord Clarendon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not at all, sire. While I shall never be fond of her, there are . . . bonds between women at times that a man cannot understand.” She plucked peas, whole\n and round and green, from the sauce, and ate them from her fingers one by one, artless and sensual, and he never knew if she staged all for his benefit or\n naturally lived in the world this way. He suspected a bit of both. With a slight shrug, she added. “You must have your heir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He nodded. “Now, what gossip need I know?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She filled in the missing tidbits, a jockeying for position between two courtiers, a lady who’d taken a new lover, the rumors that Charles would tire of\n Clarendon and the secret duel between two young men who both missed their targets out of drunkenness.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles studied her, remembering this, too, was part of her value. She had long been inside the court and knew its players and where the rivers of\n information flowed. “Thank you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She smiled, her cheek dimpling. “My pleasure, as always.” Something about her posture alerted him to something still looming.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “More?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of small import, but perhaps you will be pleased to know that I have begun my conversion to Catholicism.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He gave her a perplexed look. “Why on earth?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Unless he missed his guess, she blushed at that. “It calls to me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He shrugged, standing to take her hand and lead her back to bed. “The spiritual lives of women are of no concern to me,” he said, and pulled up her skirts. “As long as we are in accord in other ways.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So vigorous,” she murmured with laughter, and would have said more, but he cut her off with a kiss.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On the night of the mayoral dinner in Bristol, Catherine felt much revived. After several weeks at Bath, soaking in and drinking the waters, she had gained\n weight and a sense of solid health within herself. As Jenny dressed her hair in the rooms at Abbey House, she met the girl’s eyes. “Senhor Barbo visited me\n today.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Did he, Your Majesty?” Jenny wove a small braid.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It seems that you wrote to your mother for advice on rebuilding my health?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh.” Jenny’s hands stopped moving. “Aye, Your Majesty. Do you mind?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do not. You see I am in far better condition than I was before we left.” With a tiny smile, she said, “I rather suspect it is your broths and greens\n that improved my health, rather than the waters alone.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny pressed her lips together but could not entirely hide her smile. “I hope it was some help, madam.” The braid was laced through another and curls\n draped through it. From the table she lifted a strand of pearls and rubies and wove it through the braid. “I am ever so glad to you see you feeling\n better.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you, Jenny.” She stood, looking at the gown she had worn many times before, a deep red velvet with gold embroidery on the bodice and hem.\n Nonetheless flattering for all that it had been worn. The Bristol assembly had not seen it. Her reflection pleased her very much, and she descended to meet\n her husband.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the city of Bristol, they met the Duke and Duchess of York, along with the young Duke of Monmouth, who always startled her a little in his resemblance\n to his father. The boy was softer, his cheeks not yet hard, his chin still round, but that only added to his prettiness.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Too bad the child was so plainly sullen. Ungrateful, Catherine thought, but she dismissed his ways as those of a young man who should learn better manners,\n as had often been true of her own brothers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king took her arm. “You look remarkably beautiful, Your Majesty,” he said in his rich voice.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The event was nearly as elaborate as when the Muscovites had come, only the king and queen were the guests of honor. The mayor greeted them at the gates of\n the city, and a volley of shots was fired—very noisy and somewhat alarming. She glanced up with quivering nostrils to her husband and he patted her hand,\n his ribs shaking ever so slightly with laughter. An entire procession took them to a great house, where a vast feast was served and speeches were made.\n Charles knighted four men.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They ate and drank and more speeches were made. A great display was made over a purse the mayor presented to Catherine with ceremony, and when she accepted\n it as graciously as she knew to do, she felt the great weight of it. Sitting back in her seat, she peeked inside and saw piles of gold coins. Dozens of\n them—perhaps a hundred.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Hiding her glee beneath the pleasant, kindly expression of a queen, she reached for Charles’s hand and put it in the purse. He gave her a quick, amused\n look and she had to swallow to avoid laughing aloud.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was the most wonderful day.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Even more delightful when, late that night, after making love to her husband with the vigor he deserved, she fell over on her back and pulled that same\n hand over her belly. “Do you feel your son there?” she asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Son?” he echoed, and sat up, his dark hair tumbling down around his broad shoulders.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She nodded, and although it was foolish, she could not halt the trickle of tears that slipped from the corners of her eyes. “I am at last with child,” she\n whispered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, love,” he murmured, and captured her face, kissing her mouth and the tears on her cheeks, and then sweetly and with great reverence, her belly. “I am\n so happy. For you. For me. For all of us.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He settled next to her, pulling the coverlet up around them to make a cave that shut out the rest of the world, and allowed husband and wife, who had so\n long wished for a child, to celebrate the planting.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So am I, sire. I have never been so happy as I am right now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They kissed, tenderly, a promise for the future, the dynasty they would build.\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCatherine’s good nature went unrewarded by fate as she remains barren through yet another pregnancy announcement from Barbara, and Jamie’s ill behavior went unchecked while he gained rank, land, and a wife from his father the king. Through it all, a cold spring descends upon Whitehall that nevertheless sees affection blossom between Jenny and her paramour Thom, and continue to grow between Charles and Catherine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eClarendon\u003c/strong\u003e: Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor. Father-in-law to James and advisor to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e \n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eEleanor Plumstead\u003c/strong\u003e: One of Catherine’s Ladies of the Bedchamber.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames\u003c/strong\u003e: Duke of York and brother to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAnne\u003c/strong\u003e: Duchess of York, wife to James, and a Catholic.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJohn Aubrey\u003c/strong\u003e: an eager naturalist and member of the Royal Society.\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Barbara Samuel\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.55","slug":"whitehall-9","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP9.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall9serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall9serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall9serialbox.pdf","share_url":"http://serialbox.com/episodes/5710ed98ada6e22ac9d178f8","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"true","number_display":null},{"id":"5710eda9ada6e22ac9d178f9","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":10,"title":"Our Hope Alone","released_date":"2016-08-10T11:52:03.162+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"Whispers behind closed doors.","byline":"Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/WHITEHALL10.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-08-10","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eJuly 1663\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Eleanor Plumstead lay wakeful in the milky dawn light. On the other side of the bed, the queen slept, her breathing soft and even.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor had scarcely closed her eyes all night. “My mind is full of scorpions,” she had once heard some courtier quote, a line from one of the old plays\n these idle folk so admired. She scorned the immorality of playacting—despite having been forced to play a false role herself, all this time at court—but\n the words had lingered with her. She was tormented by scorpions in her own mind, scuttling and prickling and keeping her from comfort or ease.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Two days since she had sent her message to Lord Russell and still she had heard nothing from him. Why did he not answer? Would not the information of the\n king and queen’s secret wedding be enough to satisfy him? When would she be free to go home? She’d had a letter this past week from her mother, the usual\n jumble of pride in her daughter’s high position, hope that their family fortunes had turned, anxiety for Eleanor’s soul amid the temptations of court—and,\n simply, that she missed her. Her brother had added an ill-spelled scrawl of a postscript, saying all was well and asking when would she return. His nose\n was to the grindstone; they couldn’t afford a steward and he must oversee the home farm himself. He didn’t like it, but Eleanor thought hard work—and a\n great deal of it—was the best way to keep him from getting into more trouble. Young men, she thought, like young dogs, needed to be run to exhaustion.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The thought of her brother brought her back to Lord Russell, and the scorpions stung once more. She couldn’t bear to lie still another moment. Slipping\n carefully out of the bed, she went into the closet, where her clothes lay draped across a chair. She dressed quickly and gave her hair enough attention in\n the looking glass to be presentable. Shoes in hand, she moved silently past the woman asleep at the foot of the bed and out of the queen’s bedchamber.\n There was a little time yet before the arrival of more ladies and maids, the business of dressing and breakfasting and starting the day, time enough for a\n rare few minutes of solitude. She would slip out to the garden, hear the birds, pretend she was home, and pray.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She put on her shoes and went out into the hall, where she was surprised to see a young page yawning against the wall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He straightened and said, running the words together, “Good morrow my lady are you my Lady Eleanor?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She nodded, and he sketched a bow. “I am sent to bid you follow me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “Follow you where? Who sent you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I was not to say, my lady.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Russell. It must be. He must have chosen to meet her elsewhere than his Westminster offices, and sent this boy to bring her, rather than risk putting\n anything in writing. It was like him. She nodded curtly, and followed the boy as he set off through the maze-like palace. They walked on and on, up and\n down stairs, outside and in again, until finally, he stopped before a door, opened it for her, and let her go through. The room was empty. She turned, but\n the boy had closed the door, leaving her alone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked about her. The room was far from the royal suites, in one of the most ancient parts of the palace; perhaps from old King Edward’s time. A musty\n smell spoke of centuries of flooding and drying. The plaster was patchy and discolored, the embroidered drapes threadbare, the only furnishings a clean\n table flanked by two fine leather-upholstered straight chairs. She sat in one of them, trying to calm her uneasiness. She prayed for Russell to appear and\n say, “You’ve done well, my lady; you may go home, and fear nothing the rest of your days.” Yes, he would release her, and she would go home, please God,\n and never stir a foot abroad again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Footsteps sounded in the hall, a man’s heavy tread. She stood, her heart juddering in her breast.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The door opened. And through it came not Lord Russell, but the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He saw her there, turned back and murmured to the boy behind him, “Good. Wait here, Ned.” The door closed, and they were alone together.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor sank into a profound curtsy. The king said, “Rise, my lady,” and she rose, and stared at him in a kind of blank despair. He had not moved, and his\n gaze upon her was both interested and repelled, as though he were attempting to categorize a new species of insect. “My lady,” he said, “I must ask you to\n satisfy my curiosity in the matter of a note written in, I believe, your hand.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He held out a paper. Even from this distance, she recognized her message to Lord Russell. Her hands clung together, trembling. The king was waiting for her\n to come forward and take it from him. He was waiting for her to speak. He was toying with her, hoping to prove her a traitor, like her father, so that she\n might be hanged and drawn—no, not that, she would be burned, that was the sentence for high treason for women. Her father had found no mercy, no more\n should she . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her vision grayed; there was a roaring in her ears. A hand took her elbow, and a deep voice said, “Sit.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She found herself sitting. The king was at the door, speaking to the boy outside. He returned, looked down at her. She made to rise—she must not sit while\n the king stood—but he waved her back and sat himself in the second chair. “I have sent for food and drink, to revive you,” he said. “You cannot have broken\n your fast this early.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was not kindness, she thought bitterly, but merely expedience. He could not question her if she fainted. Her mind was numb. But she must think. If there\n was yet any way to protect her family, she must find it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The page returned, laid a tray on the table—a pot of chocolate, a plate of cold meats with bread and butter—and left. The smell of the food turned her\n stomach, but she poured a cup of chocolate and drank it as quickly as its heat allowed. Charles waited in silence until she’d finished it, then pushed the\n note toward her across the table.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Forgive my insistence, my lady.” His voice was cold, but courteous. No doubt the man would be polite to the devil if he met him. He went on, “Will you\n tell me why you are in correspondence with my Lord Russell about the queen, your mistress? And why the question of her marriage ceremony should concern\n you, or him, or anyone save we two alone?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nThe chocolate had cleared her mind. \u003cem\u003eHe did not have me arrested\u003c/em\u003e, she thought. \u003cem\u003eHe is questioning me alone, himself—because it is true, and he wants no one else to know.\u003c/em\u003e That gave her some cause to hope. But only if her answer\n pleased him. How could she explain the note in any way that would excuse her?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor licked her dry lips, tasting chocolate. “If I have offended, Your Majesty, I am grieved and sorry for it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He only looked at her, waiting. She pictured her family destitute, turned off their ancestral lands, her brother in the Tower or, at best, fleeing abroad\n to die a mercenary fighting in a foreign land. She had been a fool. There was never going to be a way out for her. If she did not speak, she stood already\n damned by her own hand. If she spoke and betrayed Russell, he would hand the king her brother’s intemperate letter, and disaster would follow. She pressed\n her hand to her mouth to keep from moaning aloud.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lady, pray do not be so distressed,” Charles said gently. “My word upon it, deal openly with me, and I shall deal mercifully with you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Fear and fury gave her back her voice. “Mercifully? As you did my father?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He stared back, amazed no doubt at her presumption, but she was beyond caution, her roiling grief and anger driving her to her feet, the words tumbling\n from her lips.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sir, you know whose daughter I am, you know the mercy he was shown. How much should I rate your promise to me now? I know I condemn myself, but I must say\n it to your face before I die—it was not well done, and I cannot forgive you for it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles stood abruptly and strode away from her, raking his hair from his brow. He turned back with an awful look. She thought, \u003cem\u003eHere it comes\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your father signed my father’s death warrant,” he said. “He killed an anointed \u003cem\u003eking\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They stood confronted for a moment, then he released his breath in a great exhalation, and gestured wide and helpless with both hands. “Of course you mourn\n him. But was he not guilty of the crime he died for? Would he not have condemned another on the same grounds, had he been required to judge? Did he not, in\n fact, condemn \u003cem\u003emy\u003c/em\u003e father on grounds he considered right and just?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She cried out, “You argue like a lawyer!” And heard herself, and held up her hands in supplication. “I crave your pardon, sire. I know I am so far beyond\n all right behavior I am near to seeming mad. But I would . . . I would beg you to answer the question that haunts me. Your act—the Indemnity and, and\n Oblivion Act—gave hope to all who’d fought against your father. A general forgiveness, to heal the nation. But it did not save my father, nor the dozen\n other men who died the death for doing what they believed to be righteous and necessary.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She waited for the king to roar with anger at her presumption, to have her dragged off to the Tower and torments unnameable. She did not expect him to\n return to the table where she stood and—leaning both hands upon it—speak with urgency across it, as though she were an equal, a thinking, feeling being\n worthy of engagement.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And so we did pass that act,” he said. “We gave a free and general pardon to a \u003cem\u003egeneration\u003c/em\u003e, we \u003cem\u003eerased\u003c/em\u003e the interregnum and freed England\n to look to the future and not the past. But it did not, it \u003cem\u003ecould\u003c/em\u003e not serve to pardon the men who directly, personally, and deliberately signed the\n king’s death warrant, dragged him outside the Banqueting Hall— a place I pass near every day—and publicly cut his head from his body.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n An involuntary look of pain crossed his face. She felt a stirring of confusion. It occurred to her that she had never thought of \u003cem\u003ehim\u003c/em\u003e as a\n thinking, feeling person, but only as an effigy to be blamed and hated.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He began to pace again. She had never known a man with such overflowing physical energy. One could almost see the lashing tail of a great cat. And as he\n paced, he talked. “Do you not see,” he said, “that by trusting to your fealty and allowing you to serve the queen herself, I have given you a great sign\n that the past should be laid to rest? That our fathers’ wars must be over, and for the country’s sake we must have reconciliation? You know I had many more\n enemies than the scant dozen of whom your father was one. Thousands more. I did the least that was necessary, to satisfy justice.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He stopped by a window and stared blindly through the glass. “For the rest, I must live with it. I must work with men who a handful of years ago were\n pleased to benefit from treason. The country must be governed, and it must be governed peaceably. I have made my own peace with that.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His voice was low, as though he’d forgotten his audience. But then he turned and she understood he had been speaking to her after all. “And so must you,”\n he told her. “Or do you wish for another civil war, with all the suffering and death that would bring?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She hardly knew what to think. Where was the wicked, cruel king of her long understanding? Who was this man speaking with both passion and reason, opening\n his mind to one he could crush like a beetle under his thumb?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her furious hatred drained from her, leaving behind only exhaustion. “No,” she said, “as God is my witness. I want peace. Peace, above all, for my family\n and my country.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He crossed to her. “There. So. Let us begin again. I hope you will trust so far in my honor to know I would not stoop to a lie. If I say you will be safe,\n you may believe it. If you answer my questions honestly; if you swear an oath that you will never speak of any of this to the end of your days; if you have\n done nothing worse than spy upon the queen, as grievous a fault as that is—if you can deliver all this, I shall grant you a free and complete pardon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She gripped the back of the chair. Was this possible? Could she in truth believe him?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles went on, “You must leave court, of course. The moment you give your oath, you shall be put directly into a coach to Bedfordshire, and your\n belongings sent after you. The queen will be told that you were needed at home, too urgently to even have taken your leave. This purse contains the forty\n pounds due you for your service, and a bit over for expenses. I trust you will see that exile is not the worst that could befall you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor could almost have laughed. Exile? A blessed escape was closer to the mark.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then she thought of her brother, and her heart fell. She hesitated, said, “Your Majesty. I am . . . I am amazed by your forbearance. And grateful—most\n grateful. But . . . I must, I am sorry, but I must ask for one thing more.” She fell silent. Merely by asking for amnesty for her brother, she would be\n announcing that he needed it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ask, my lady,” Charles said kindly. “If it is in my power, I will grant it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She breathed deeply, found she had wrapped her arms around herself to contain a tremor. It would all come out, she thought, one way or another. Better to\n reveal all herself. “Will you grant amnesty, not only to me, but to all my family, no matter what may emerge?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles’s eyes narrowed. “Does this concern the hold that Lord Russell has over you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She nodded.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He looked grave. “I cannot grant amnesty for murder, you understand. Nor for deliberate acts of high treason.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She thought of her brother’s youthful, high-flown rodomontades against the crown. And she suddenly realized: They had never truly risen to high treason.\n She had been a fool. Russell had played on her fears. Her horror of her father’s terrible death had rattled her wits and made her believe that the ravings\n of a stripling lad, half-mad over his father’s death, weighed equal in the balance to regicide. Discovery of his letters would never have resulted in more\n than—what, a fine? A royal rebuke?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She exhaled shakily. “No, my lord. Nothing but foolishness, in the end.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you swear it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do, sire. On my hope of salvation.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “Very well. I will overlook any faults or small crimes your family may have\n committed in the past, though not, look you, the future. Will that satisfy you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, then. Kneel now, and swear to me that you will never say aught to anyone that could do the queen harm, in reputation or person, nor will you ever\n speak of anything that has passed between us today. What will you swear by?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She knelt. “I swear by my mother’s life, my father’s memory, and by my duty to our righteous Lord and Savior and to you as my sovereign liege, that I will\n never utter a word to harm the queen in any way, nor will I ever speak of this conversation between us for the rest of my days.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Very good. You may rise.” She rose and he seated himself, gestured to her chair, and waited. She sat, smoothed her skirts, gathered her thoughts, and\n began. “Lord Russell instructed me to gain the queen’s confidence, and find out whether she has broken the law in any respect, by seeking to proselytize or\n convert any in her household, or whether, as a rumor has it, she was wed secretly by a Romish priest to Your Majesty. Two days since, I overheard a private\n conference between my Ladies Suffolk and Castlemaine, and this rumor was confirmed.”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What, by Lady Castlemaine?” Seeing the king astonished, she found herself briefly tempted to do that wicked, supercilious creature damage with her lover.\n But Lady Eleanor Plumstead was not a liar, or not by choice. She would trust to the truth now to set her free.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, sire,” she said. “It was Lady Suffolk who knew of it, and told Lady Castlemaine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah. But Lady Suffolk did not say there was a priest?”\n \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor frowned, thinking. “No . . . only that there had been a Catholic rite.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How exactly did Russell intend to use this intelligence?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I was not privy to the details of his plan, sir, but . . . to make it public, make it a scandal, see the queen formally accused, force you to divorce her\n . . .” She trailed off, seeing the thunder in his face.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After a pause, he spoke again, quietly enough. “Why did Lord Russell do all this?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked at her folded hands. “He dislikes the queen’s religion, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He waited as though expecting her to say more, but when it was clear that was all, he said in an exasperated tone, “Well, what a lot of fuss about\n nothing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She dared to lift her eyes. “\u003cem\u003eNothing\u003c/em\u003e, sir?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There was no priest,” he explained patiently, as to a child. “What sort of a fool do you and Russell take me for? No Romish priest, no law broken. For the\n queen’s comfort, a Catholic ceremony in private, presided over by a layman.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh.” Eleanor thought for a moment. “Yet it would be a great scandal, if it were known. The people would not like it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He studied her, as though reassuring himself he did the right thing in trusting her. “It is as well, is it not, that they shall never know,” he said\n firmly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not from me, sir,” she said. “I will keep my oath till I die.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He nodded once again, stood, stretched, and turned briskly toward the door. She rose hastily and a wave of dizziness engulfed her, as though she had nearly\n fallen from a great height and caught herself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At the door, the king turned. “Sit, my lady. My man will fetch you when your coach is ready.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She curtsied unsteadily, and king and reluctant spy regarded each other for a moment.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you hate her so?” Charles asked. “She was ever kind to you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Eleanor felt a pang at the simplicity of it. “I thought I did . . . I did not know her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He nodded.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then he was gone and she was alone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She sank back down into the chair and felt a great lurch of hunger. Turning to the table, she fell upon the meat and bread like a woman starved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara licked the tips of her fingers like a cat and wiped them on a linen napkin. Nearly seven months great with child, she reclined against the bolsters\n on her bed while she entertained some friends to breakfast. She was far enough along to be now excused from many of her duties to the queen, and she was\n glad to play the ancient Roman and breakfast reclining.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Outside, a ray of morning sun shot through high clouds to glitter on the river, while within, the king’s circle of madcap lords known as the Merry Gang\n found their usually glittering wit much dimmed with the effects of too much wine the night before. For all that, they had most of them been to chapel\n already that morning; despite the court’s louche (and well-deserved) reputation, they obeyed the social norms nonetheless, and would have been shocked at\n the idea of missing services. Barbara herself had attended early Mass in her new religion, which she was enjoying much as she did a new gown: a rich and\n novel fashion she felt looked extremely well on her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Apart from her maids there were few women in the room; the queen’s other ladies, though they certainly took their pleasures where they found them, found\n the king’s boon companions a little too rakish for the safety of their reputations. But Lady Elizabeth Chesterfield—not Lady Katherine Chesterfield of the\n Bedchamber, but her son’s wife—was there to give Barbara countenance. She was Barbara’s exact age, great fun, and, rumor had it, in rather too deep with\n the king’s brother, the Duke of York.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Buckingham was droning on across the room (about additions to his already immense country house) to Lord Dorset and Sir Charles Sedley, a couple of\n young libertines who made no attempt to look even slightly interested; the poet “Easy” Etherege sat so low in a settee that he was nearly horizontal,\n eating macaroons with his eyes closed; Lord William Crofts sat squarely at a small table and applied himself to the demolition of a pair of roast pigeons.\n Barbara found the baron’s wit rather slow for this company. But Charles liked her to take some notice of him, being ever appreciative of his having\n fostered his son as a child. Monmouth himself didn’t seem to have any fondness for the man, to judge by his eagerness to throw off the name of Crofts in\n favor of his wife’s name. Which reminded her . . . “Sir,” Barbara called to Crofts, “what do you hear from Monmouth in Scotland?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Crofts looked up, his lips glistening with pigeon fat. “Why, nothing, madam; the boy never was one for writing, and what should he have to say? Not much of\n a honeymoon when the bride’s too young to bed!” He guffawed vulgarly and returned his attention to his plate.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester sat next to the bed at a little table, scratching out a poem and drinking wine already. There were blue shadows beneath his lovely, heavy-lidded\n eyes, and the morning light picked out the blond stubble on his pale face. Barbara could smell last night’s debaucheries on him. Had he even been to bed?\n Or to sleep, she corrected herself. No doubt a bed had figured somewhere in last night’s adventures.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Rochester, will you not eat something? Or must you drink your breakfast like a sot?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her friend finished a line, put the quill down, and picked up his glass, raising it to her in an elegant gesture. “Medicine, dear Barb’ry, medicine; I was\n bit most savagely last night, and I must cure it with a hair of the dog, you know.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She frowned. “Is that not a low expression?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not at all. Aristophanes, I believe.” And he tossed off his dose airily.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara picked up her glass of sage ale and sipped with her nose wrinkled. Her midwife had ever praised it as strengthening to the womb, but she thought it\n tasted distastefully weedy, and use had not improved it. “Well, you are the one with the classical education. I have nothing but a jackdaw learning; I pick\n up such pretty trifles as others drop in my way.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Crofts leaned toward her from his chair, and leered, “But are not \u003cem\u003eyou\u003c/em\u003e a pretty trifle dropped in others’ way?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara raised her eyebrows, and Rochester turned in his chair to give Crofts a look of mock surprise. “Oh, was that meant to be wit? Remind me never to\n fear giving you offense, for if your rapier is as ill-aimed and without point, I should ’scape harm by standing still.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The baron opened his arms in appeal. “Now, now, I protest, I meant it as a compliment, pox take me if I did not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester raised his voice just a bit, to be sure of the room’s full attention. “A compliment, to call a goddess a pretty trifle? What compliments must you\n pay your own mistresses, if your compliments are so trifling? Are they the prettiest bits of dung that ever you brought inside on your shoe?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Everyone laughed, drowning out Crofts’s protests. The stout man rose and swept a satirical bow in Barbara’s direction, saying, “The devil take me if I\n meant offense—I will aim higher: Are you not a very paragon of beauty and . . . and lush fecundity?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mocking laughter greeted this attempt. He waved it away like a cloud of gnats and sat back down to his plate and cup. “I am done, I am done, chatter on\n without me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “La, \u003cem\u003efecundity\u003c/em\u003e, what a word!” Lady Elizabeth drawled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Round-faced Dorset drained a cup of small beer. “An execrable word, but a happy condition.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sedley added, “And enough of it to go round, it seems.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What, do you mean the queen?” Dorset inquired. “She’s well along, by all accounts.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sedley smiled slyly. “Our king takes to heart the admonition to be fruitful and multiply—did he think it was meant for him personally?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They both looked archly at Barbara. She smiled, unembarrassed, and raised her glass. “You remind me, sirs, of a pleasant duty. To the queen’s health!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In honor bound, everyone echoed her, and drank.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “An heir at last,” Crofts grunted, his mouth full.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, hush,” Lady Elizabeth chided. “She’s not yet even showing. Count not thy chickens that unhatched be.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Weigh words as wind, till thou find certainty,” Etherege chanted the rest of the adage, his eyes still closed. Dorset chucked a bun at him. Etherege\n opened his eyes, picked it up from his lap, and nibbled at it good-naturedly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sedley glanced around with the avid look of an inveterate gossip. “Well, from what I have heard, there’s an heir already, ripe for the plucking.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham, who’d seemed lost in his own thoughts of lintels and wall hangings, pricked up his ears. “Do you mean—?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes,” said Sedley. “Had you not heard—?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham waved his hand. “Well, we all know who he \u003cem\u003eis\u003c/em\u003e, but how do you make out \u003cem\u003eheir\u003c/em\u003e? He’s no more the heir than is the king’s favorite\n spaniel!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dorset waded in. “No, but that’s the rumor—that he’s legitimate, you know.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Never!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sedley echoed his friend. “That’s the rumor—that he has proof the king and Lucy Walter were married.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham appealed to Crofts. “You were the boy’s governor, what do you know of it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I? Why, nothing. I took the lad into my household for the king’s sake but I know nothing to the purpose. Though I will say, why should Charles have\n married the whore? He was young but he was never so foolish, even when he was still in skirts.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Poor Lucy,” Lady Elizabeth sighed, who was too young to have known her, but who found her story a warning.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Poor Lucy,” agreed Buckingham, who thought Lady Elizabeth was very pretty when she sighed. “\u003cem\u003eWhore\u003c/em\u003e is harsh, Crofts—a harsh word, you know.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Crofts shrugged. “Well, say what you will, I don’t believe it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dorset persisted, “But what if there’s proof?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Sedley leaned in, confidentially. “I’ve heard he has letters between them, revealing all.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Elizabeth gasped. “No!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have heard he has the marriage lines!” Dorset brought out triumphantly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n They began to talk over each other, embroidering, arguing, tossing the gossip back and forth among them as though it were a pretty toy. Barbara and\n Rochester locked eyes. He smirked, and she frowned. How the thing had taken on a life of its own—the very rumors they had started.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It had seemed like such fun—and more, a golden opportunity to discomfit Catherine, at the least, and set her quite down, at the best. Barbara’s own pet\n Monmouth actually legitimized and the acknowledged heir would have been all to her good, with Catherine relegated to providing spares.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But now . . . Barbara lowered her eyes and sipped at her ale, feeling an unaccustomed pang of conscience. What was it? A kind of sisterly sympathy, from\n one bearing woman to another? And it was Catherine’s first . . . Barbara remembered how apprehensive she’d been, carrying her first. It was a dangerous\n business, there was no doubt. And in any case, it was plain enough that if Monmouth had not produced his so-called proof yet, it was unlikely to exist. The\n pathetic boastings of a confused and ambitious youth. Anyone with a motive to believe, no doubt would, but it was hardly creditable.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In short—all the story could truly accomplish was to bring vexation to Catherine, and now Barbara regretted it heartily. She could not pretend any great\n liking for the woman, but she thought they’d come to a kind of balance. Where Charles was concerned, they were learning the virtues of sharing; why should\n she want to upset this new and no doubt precarious peace with malicious troublemaking? What good did it do her? None at all.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Elizabeth’s voice rose above the chatter, calling out to her, “Barbara, didn’t you tell me—?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No.” Barbara sat up and spoke firmly, and everyone looked at her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Elizabeth cocked her head, puzzled. “But I’m sure I remember you said—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And I am sure I did not. In fact . . . I don’t believe a word of it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester raised his eyebrows at her. She looked back, daring him to contradict her. After a little pause, the others concluded she had nothing interesting\n to add, and went back to their chatter. Rochester leaned nearer and said quietly, “Well. What a volte-face. I wonder what you are about.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara sank back down on her bolster, turning toward him and cradling her belly in one hand. She gave a little wriggling shrug and said, “Nothing; the\n game is played out, that’s all. I don’t see the point anymore.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t you? I think it is immensely amusing to see it spin out of control. Where will it end, I wonder?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She reached out and ran a finger along his cheek. “You are a very devil, you know. You called me a goddess before, but I think \u003cem\u003eyou\u003c/em\u003e are a god of\n chaos.” He was still, his eyes half-closed, like a cat who likes being petted, but who might scratch at any moment. She withdrew her hand. “Was there one?\n A god of chaos, I mean?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Dionysus, I suppose.” He leaned back in his chair and took up his glass again. “God of wine and ecstasy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There you have it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He cocked his head at her. “And are you now a model of morality and decorum? What a bore. I thought you only converted for attention. Is this what your new\n religion has come to—hypocritical piety?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara wondered if her conversion did have anything to do with her reluctance to make further mischief. All religion repeated the same words over and\n over, goodness and mercy and salvation and all; it ceased meaning anything. But had the priest’s instruction, her confessions, the novenas she’d said in\n penance, the whole particular experience of undergoing conversion, in fact sparked those words to life in her? Had she, in truth, changed? \u003cem\u003eDid \u003c/em\u003eshe\n want to be good? She spoke aloud the simple truth, “It hardly seems likely, does it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, and it would be a great waste if it was true. You’re far too beautiful to be good.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nFlippant as that sounded, she thought there was a veiled expression in her friend’s eye, of what—a kind of vulnerability? She thought, \u003cem\u003eHe’s not ready to reform, and he wants my company.\u003c/em\u003e She gave him an affectionate look, and said, “All the same, there’s something in it, you know.\n For one thing, it gives wicked sinners like us the chance for absolute forgiveness, which you must admit would come in handy at the end. Or should you not\n like to get into heaven?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, I don’t know. The dullest people always seem sure of going; I suspect I’ll be happier in hell.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles and Catherine were alone in a boat. It was a very small boat, closely surrounded by a flotilla of other small boats filled with friends, servants,\n palace guards, picnic hampers, and a good deal of noisy cheer. Still, alone in a boat felt more like being alone than they nearly ever were. With an expert\n twitch, he adjusted the dinghy’s single sail, letting the breeze fill it, and shot their craft ahead of the rest by several yards before tying off loosely\n and letting them drift on the current. They were on a tributary just upriver from the city, and the banks were lined with the greenery of high summer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Wrapped in furs nearly up to her eyes, Catherine reclined in a thick nest of cushions in the stern, where she’d been placed with as much care as if she\n were made of porcelain. The baby had not yet quickened, and it was of utmost importance to keep her safe, warm, inured against all shocks and\n unpleasantness, and as happy as could be. The doctors had reminded Charles of all this—the future health and even the nature of the child depending on it.\n One of them compared the royal womb to a “rough sea, full of dangerous rocks,” but he had not needed cautioning. He loved all his children. But this child\n . . . this child was important—not only to him, but to all England.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n That worthy gorgon, Dona Maria, indeed had remonstrated against the outing. If her duenna had her way, Catherine would lie abed—perfectly still, cocooned,\n and surrounded by hushed voices and sweet music—for the entire nine months. Catherine, however, had let it be known that such an approach might yield a\n healthy babe but leave its mother a raving madwoman, fit only for Bedlam. Further, Pridgeon, the Royal Physician, had agreed that excessive immobility was\n not advised.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n So when, after days of rain, the skies relented, Charles had suggested she go out on the river with him. If it was true that what the mother experienced\n while she carried would imprint itself onto the babe, Charles thought such an outing might encourage a maritime disposition. He sniffed the air. The breeze\n was westerly, bringing a distant sea tang upriver. It smelled to him of freedom. He had ever been happiest aboard ship. His roving days were over, but\n perhaps when this babe was safely delivered, they might take the royal yacht and go a-cruising.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine trailed a finger in the water, watching the little fish that rose to it. He said, “How do you, Cat? Warm enough?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She smiled at him from her nest of furs. “I thank you, but is that not a peculiar question to ask in midsummer?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was right—even for England, this summer was chancy. It was as cold as early spring, and a low fog drifted over the water.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, the English climate, I freely own, is the maddest thing. But you must have grown accustomed by now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed, it is as mad as its monarch, to whose madness I am never . . . quite . . . accustomed.” She tilted her head and flirted her eyes at him\n mischievously. Charles laughed, and she laughed too.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As though to confirm its madness, the breeze shifted direction. Charles untied the sheet and adjusted the sail, to keep them centered between the banks.\n Here in the clean riverine air, peaceably alone with a happy, hopeful Catherine, he felt something coiled tightly within him relax.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It had been a good morning’s work, but not a pleasant one. The interview with Lady Eleanor . . . he had gone with a cold, hard anger settled in his gut,\n prepared to run her down as a warship would run down a fishing boat, leaving wreckage bobbing in its wake. That she had dared to pretend friendship, that\n she had received the queen’s kindnesses and returned them with betrayal—these were not noble deeds, these were the actions of a base and dissembling\n nature. He would find out what she thought she knew, and tramp down any danger of her doing harm with it. Or so he’d intended.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But when he’d been alone with the spy . . . How soon his anger had drained away, replaced with pity. She hated him, to be sure. But in all justice, she had\n cause. And she had suffered much, poor lady. The real villain here was Lord Russell, who had practiced so shamelessly upon her fears. He thought of her now\n upon the road to Bedfordshire, and hoped she would find peace there. He knew at least that while he lived, she should never return.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine had leaned her head back upon a cushion and closed her eyes, a faint smile on her lips and one hand resting lightly on her still unswollen belly,\n the picture of contentment. A thin sunshine had struggled through the haze and she had loosened the furs. He would not tell her of Eleanor’s confession. It\n was not safe; the slightest shock could imperil his heir, and this betrayal would shock her indeed. Revelation was not necessary, he decided. The thing had\n been managed, and efficiently, in two more tense interviews he’d had that morning.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After conferring with Clarendon, Charles had gone to Barbara. Her rooms had been full of company as usual, but they’d tactfully ebbed away at his look. He\n had sat on her bedside and spoken gently, mindful—despite her robust health—of her condition. He told her something of Lady Eleanor’s confession, and how\n she’d overheard Barbara’s conversation with Lady Suffolk. He’d explained what he was confident she knew already, that the Catholic wedding rite could do\n harm if it came to light, ending with the hope that he could rely on her to keep the secret safe despite the strife that had been between her and the\n queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Having expected her to bridle and exclaim, he’d been a little surprised when she vowed without reservation that she would never dream of doing the queen\n any harm, especially now she was with child. Neither was she surprised at Lady Eleanor’s treachery, for she had never quite liked or trusted her; a sly\n creature, she had thought.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then, with a look of pensive sorrow, she said, “Do you think so little of me, that I might ever knowingly do you or the queen harm? Ah, but I would not\n blame you. I have been intemperate. I hope you know it was for love.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Utterly disarmed, he had kissed her, and left her assured of his own love and trust. Her tempestuous nature had always been part of her allure, but this\n new thoughtfulness, while puzzling, was rather a relief. He wanted no more storms. Not something any man, let alone a king, had any right to expect in\n life. But at least in his domestic affairs, he could aspire to it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After that, his conference with Lady Suffolk had been brief and businesslike. He had not really feared her—he knew her for an ardent monarchist and a\n sensible person. But her knowledge of the Catholic ceremony was a loose thread that must be tied off. As the boating party had walked down toward the\n river, he drew her aside under the pretext of asking her advice about a new garden plan. When he told her she’d been overheard (he did not mention Lady\n Eleanor; the fewer who knew of her part the better), she had looked appalled, forcefully expressed her shame at her scandal-mongering, and swore to never\n speak of it again. When he’d asked her how she had known of it, she only said she’d had her wits about her in Portsmouth, but that she was certain no one\n else could have guessed at it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Which left only Lord Russell to speak to.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles’s stomach tightened with anger at the prospect—a cold anger that did not cloud his thinking but only focused it more sharply. He knew that\n Russell—with the rest of a Parliamentary subcommittee—was meeting at Whitehall this afternoon with Clarendon and other ministers. Charles was not expected,\n but he might look in at the end and find a moment to speak to Russell aside. There would be nothing remarkable in that, Charles being known for his\n affability.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Affability! Charles gripped the tiller until his knuckles whitened. He didn’t want to \u003cem\u003etalk\u003c/em\u003e to Russell. He wanted to seize him by the throat and\n shake him as a bulldog shakes a rat. The sail luffed, and he busied himself adjusting the sheet to cover his expression. Alas, knocking Russell about was,\n however appealing, not politic. The man had many friends in Parliament; Charles must work with Parliament. Nor did it suit him to charge Russell with a\n crime, when that would be to bring talk of the secret ceremony into the open, exactly what he did not want. But—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine’s low voice interrupted his thoughts. “You are abstracted, my lord. Affairs of state?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had lifted her head and was looking at him with a smile in her eyes. It had become a joke between them, his excuse for his delay when they had first\n met in Portsmouth, and how instantly she had forgiven it. “Because you were dazzled by my beauty,” he had murmured in bed one time, in a tone of mock\n modesty.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had laughed against his chest and said, “You jest, sir, but you tell no more than the truth.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now he smiled at her, firmly putting Russell out of his thoughts. “For a wonder, no. I was lost in thoughts of a happy future and a healthy babe.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked down at her belly, and spoke low. “How I hope . . . how I hope . . .” Her voice faltered. He leaned forward, and clasped his hand around her\n ankle. The bones felt so delicate, she might have been a bird. He felt her pulse beating against his palm. He said nothing, but they looked at each other,\n both of them hoping, and fearing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Ripples from an upriver barge reached them now, and the boat rocked from side to side. Catherine’s face paled. She reached for the side, leaned over it,\n and vomited into the river. She fumbled for a handkerchief to press against her mouth, and lay back again, eyes closed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles felt a stab of self-reproach. “I have kept you out too long. We will go back.” She nodded, her lips pressed together. He pulled the sail up, leaned\n on the tiller, and got the boat hastily underway, pointed back to Whitehall, and the rest of the flotilla followed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Russell stood in a closet at Whitehall, pissing into a chamber pot. A high small window let in both light and a draft that made him shiver; a damned\n chilly day, for all it was July. The meeting had ended rather early. As soon as he’d relieved himself, he thought he would have a servant bring Lady\n Eleanor to him in the gardens; he had not heard from her in some days, and it was time he reminded her who held her reins. It would be a visible meeting,\n but it was no secret that their families were connected; what would be more natural than a friendly stroll?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Or would it be thought a sign of courtship? He considered. Would it be to his advantage to be seen courting a Lady of the Bedchamber? Or, indeed, to wed\n her? That union would bring him within the queen’s inner circle, and give him a reputation of influence that might do him good. And yet . . . apart from\n her court position, she had nothing to offer; her father dead, no money, no strategic power. For his own inclinations, he was in no hurry to wed; there\n were whores enough in London. The lady had attracted him when they were young, he’d not deny that. But her misfortunes had taken off her looks.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Russell shook off the last drops and adjusted his clothes, nudging the lid onto the pot with the toe of his boot. He was two steps into the hall before he\n looked up and saw, just before him and approaching rapidly, the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He stopped short. Charles came on, smiling with immense cordiality.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, Russell, just the man. I want a word with you. Let us be sure we shan’t be interrupted; step in here, will you? There we are, very snug.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Before Russell had quite understood what was happening, before he’d even had time to bow, he found himself steered back into the closet by Charles. Even\n when he pressed himself against the wall, there was no more than an arm’s length between them, and Charles loomed over him by half a head at least. Russell\n found his heart beating hard, as though his body knew he was in some danger his mind could not understand. He had never been alone with the king before.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The tiny room stank of piss, his own and that of other men who’d used the closet. Charles stood easily, looking down at him with an unreadable expression.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty,” Russell stammered. “You, you honor me—but surely, that is, I protest, this is hardly—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles cut in briskly. “Our conversation will be brief, my lord, and then I shall release you. No, you need not speak; only listen. Lady Eleanor has left\n Whitehall and will not return. You will do me the favor of leaving her in peace.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Russell’s heart lurched agonizingly. Clearly, he was being accused, but of what, exactly? His neck ached from looking up to meet Charles’s eye and his face\n was stiff with the effort of maintaining an expression of polite curiosity.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’m well aware,” Charles went on, “of what you have been about, and I must tell you plainly, I am . . . displeased. I have dealt with one spy, but I know\n you must have others. You would be very well advised to curtail any such activities, or you may find yourself in closer and even more noisome\n accommodations than this. Do you understand?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Though the king had not raised his voice, Russell felt the force of Charles’s anger vibrate through his bones. He found himself panting like a coursed\n hare. “Sir,” he said breathlessly, “I must say I do not know how to understand you, nor do I know how I have deserved such . . . such imputations of blame.\n If the Lady Eleanor said aught to damage me in your eyes . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles’s lip curled with what looked like disgust. Russell swallowed uncomfortably. “The . . . the fact . . . the fact is, my lord, I meant only to assist\n an old friend of my family when I had her brought to court, and I, I have only just come to understand how . . . unstable she is, far more disordered in\n her wits than I knew. I am glad, heartily glad, if she has chosen to retire again to the country; may she find ease there. But any faults of hers, I\n protest, I do not own—” He stopped short as Charles held up his hand to silence him and closed the small gap between them, standing nearly chest to chest\n with him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “One day, you will go too far.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His voice was low and steely, his face adamant. In the silence that followed, Russell heard a canine whining and scratching. The king flung open the door\n and stepped out of the closet. “I will be keeping my eye upon you, my Lord Russell,” he said, his tone superficially genial once more. “Have a care.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Russell’s throat was too dry to speak, but he bowed submissively. Charles nodded, scooped one of the spaniels into his arms, and strode off down the hall,\n followed by the rest. Russell heard him say, “What, little man, shall I not have a moment’s peace? Shall we find you a pretty bone, then?” And then he\n turned a corner and was gone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n In Catherine’s chamber, Jenny held the basin for the queen to retch into, then stepped away as Dona Maria helped ease Catherine back on her pillows and\n Feliciana curled protectively against her side. The curtains had been mostly drawn across the windows to dim the afternoon sun breaking through the clouds,\n but a spill of light lay across the queen’s pale face as she murmured, “I am well, Godmother. Pray do not make a fuss. I am sure it is no more than all\n women have to endure.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny put the lid on the basin and slipped from the room.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The outer chamber was, rarely enough, empty, save for the pages who stood by the door and the necessary woman who kept the fire. The Ladies of the\n Bedchamber had been told the queen suffered merely from the common malaise of ladies in her condition, and would be best served with quiet. They would all\n come flowing back shortly, Jenny knew. She was crossing the room when one of the pages opened the door at a scratch from without, and in came Thom.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She stopped and felt her face warm. She had found herself thinking of him often. They were both too busy with their duties to plan an encounter, so every\n time they met was a kind of treat and surprise. She smiled up at him, the basin held in both her hands. She thought his face was the handsomest she knew\n even in repose, but when he smiled like that—well! Her own smile brightened in response, and she looked down and gave her head a little shake, trying to\n hide her foolishness.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom came closer and said, “Good afternoon, Jenny. Have I come before my time?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Draped across both arms he bore a large, soft bundle wrapped in clean white muslin, and she remembered that he had been expected, to fit a new gown for the\n queen. “Oh!” she said. “I am sorry for it, Thom, but Her Majesty cannot see you. She is not well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He looked concerned. “Is it—is she—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, no! It is only . . . That is, she is with child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His eyes widened. Jenny remembered that it had not been publicly announced yet, though of course all the court knew, and rumors were beginning to get out\n even in the city. Thom was no gossip, however, and had clearly not heard. “She has not yet quickened, but that cannot be long,” she added to keep talking\n with him. “I am sorry you have come for nothing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The young man said softly, “Nothing? I would circle the globe barefoot for the sight of your smile. I am well satisfied with my nothing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She ducked her head and laughed a little. “You speak like a courtier!” Noticing the pages listening, and smirking at each other, she assumed a more\n dignified expression. “Pardon me, I must get on with my duties.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom’s glance darted to the pages and back to her, full of understanding. “Of course,” he said in a more formal tone. “And I will not keep you. However, I\n had hoped to discuss with you some matter of the trimming of the new gown. I know the queen trusts your taste, and I would benefit from your opinion, if\n you would be kind enough to share it with me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Relieved, Jenny nodded graciously. “I will be most glad to help. If you will wait, I will just go and . . .” She could not think of a dignified way to\n refer to cleaning puke out of a basin, and after a hesitation, finished, “I will be back directly to attend you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom seemed to consider. “Allow me to accompany you, Mistress Martin, and so we may confer on the way as well. I will just . . .” He looked about for a\n place to bestow his bundle, and she nodded at an inlaid chest along one wall. Laying his burden upon it, he followed her out the door and down the stairs.\n Now they were alone, though, he did not flirt and banter, but looked serious, so that Jenny did not know herself what to say.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This uncomfortable silence lasted until they reached the kitchen yard. Jenny was tipping out the vomit and taking the basin to the pump to rinse it when he\n reached out as though to take it from her. “May I help?” he asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, thank you, it is for me to do.” She set the basin down on the stones, primed the pump handle until the cold water flowed out, and set herself to\n cleaning the basin while Thom stood by, looking ill at ease. She wondered why, if he had been so glad to see her at first, and spoke so sweetly, did he now\n seem to wish himself anywhere but here?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The basin rinsed, she dried her hands on her apron, and looked directly at him. He paced back and forth, his arms folded across his chest, stopped, and\n turned to her. “How old are you, Jenny?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Surprised, she answered simply, “I have turned sixteen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He nodded. “And do you like me, Jenny?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She laughed, astonished. “What a question! If you do not know the answer, I think there is no hope for you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She would have expected him to laugh too, and tease her in return. Instead he came to her. “I have great news. My master is more than pleased with my work,\n and I am to be promoted—I am to be made journeyman.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh! How wonderful, Thom—I am that happy for you!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I hope it is happy news for both of us.” He gathered her hands in his. “Jenny, my dear Jenny. You are young, but you are free to choose, I think. My way\n leads upward from here: from journeyman to master, with my own shop, perhaps. With the queen’s favor, I have no doubt, with all due modesty, of good\n success. I will be able to support a family.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The warm fingers tightened on hers. “Jenny, you must know how I feel. You are hardworking and sensible, a good wife for any man. My father will approve the\n match, I am sure. And more than that, more than all, you are the sweetest, kindest, most lovely girl I’ve ever known, and I want you near me forever. Will\n you join your life to mine, and be my wife?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Throughout this speech, Jenny had stared up at Thom, her mouth a little open and her eyes very wide. Now she looked down, gently withdrew her hands from\n his, and sat on the stone lip of the pump. Too surprised to think clearly, still she was aware of a strange tumult in her mind. When she had understood\n what he was asking, a thrill had gone through her and her heart had beat fast. But was it joy and love that caused her agitation? Or was it fear? And if\n fear, what was it she feared?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom had sat down beside her and put his hands on his knees. She turned her face to him, very serious. “I suppose I should have expected this. But I\n didn’t. Thom, I’ll be honest, I am all in amaze.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled and took her hand again. She stared at the smooth brownness of his wrist, where his sleeve had ridden up. She wanted to lean her cheek against\n it. What would it be, to have the right to do that, to stroke his skin, to lie with him? To have him all for her own, and keep his house, and bear his\n babes?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She felt her heart lurch. If she married Thom, she would never dress a fine lady’s hair or have charge of her hare’s foot and her scent box. She would\n leave Whitehall. She would leave Queen Catherine. Of course, she would have her own home, and if Thom did as well as he thought—and she thought—he would,\n it would be a proper house, with chambers for eating and sleeping and servants of their own. And she would have babies, and nurse them, and teach them, and\n stay at home while Thom went to his shop and to the court, and the cook and maids went to and fro. Jenny thought of her mother, worn and thickened with\n childbearing. Even with all the work of housekeeping upon her own shoulders, she’d never complained. She’d loved her children.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But when Jenny had played with her doll, it was not as her sister did, as though it were a baby to nurse. Jenny had sewed little spare scraps of cloth into\n gowns, and dressed its yarn hair in elaborate plaits. She’d listened to the news from town when the adults talked and dreamed of a bigger world than their\n muddy lane. It was as she’d said to Mavis: Babes were sweet, but there would always be someone else’s babe about if she wished to cuddle one. A husband and\n babe of her own had seemed remote, something to decide in the future, years from now. But here was the moment upon her. And she didn’t know what to say.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She pressed Thom’s hand, and looked at him shyly. “It is a great thing you offer me, Thom. Will you be hurt if I ask for time to think?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled. “Of course not. It is right that you think. I know you are not an impulsive girl; you must take as long as you need.” He slipped his arm around\n her waist, and kissed her temple. She felt the warmth of his body along her side, and closed her eyes. “I will trust you to make the right choice,” he said\n happily, and she thought, \u003cem\u003eHe is sure I will say yes. And why not? Why would I not?\u003c/em\u003e And she did not know the answer to that.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine finished the concoction of steeped chamomile, mint, and dried winter savory that Jenny had brought her, and lay as still as she could in her bed,\n hoping not to have to vomit again. She felt the strangest sense of depletion, of being exhausted without having exerted herself. The candles had been lit,\n the fire stirred up, and the curtains closed against the chilly evening. The weather had turned again—for the only reliable thing about this climate was\n its unreliability—and rain was crashing down outside.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine imagined for a moment what it would have been like to be carrying this child at home. In Portugal, it was high summer. Lisbon would have been\n broiling, and the royal family would be at the Palace of Sintra, high in the hills, where the air was scented with pines and, when the wind was right,\n ocean airs came all the way across the plains. Her room, covered in hand-painted tiles, would be open to an enclosed terrace and the soft night. And her\n mother . . . her mother would be there, in her rightful place, a wall to lean against, a fortress to be safe in, an indomitable reassurance that all would\n be well, for Mamãe would see to it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And yet. Without moving, Catherine surveyed the scene before her. Could she wish herself elsewhere, truly? Her room was full of the scent of wood smoke and\n sweet herbs. The pretty porcelain teapot and cups gleamed on the table and Feliciana slept against her, paws twitching slightly as she dreamed. It was a\n sociable scene, peopled with pages and maids and attendants. Father Patrick read in a corner while her godfather Dom de Mello sat and talked with his\n sister, Dona Maria, and Anne, Duchess of York, who had become her dearest friend. Her ladies read or chatted or sat embroidering by candlelight; some even\n drank tea, with every evidence of enjoyment. Seeing how all this activity centered on her well-being and that of her babe-to-be, she became aware that,\n while a part of her would always long for home, for Portugal, this too was home. Truly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n All her ladies were present this evening, except for Lady Eleanor—she should send a page to inquire after her, she thought. Last night the lady had lain as\n rigid as a corpse, clearly troubled with thoughts she did not share. And Lady Castlemaine, of course, whose pregnancy excused her from attendance. But\n Catherine was surprised to realize that she wouldn’t have minded her company. After all, the two of them had much in common just now. Barbara had been\n through this very endeavor twice before and might have useful wisdom . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine twined her fingers in Feliciana’s silky fur and suppressed a gasping laugh. Was she mad? Feeling a commonality with the woman with whom she must\n share her husband? This must be the unpredictability of mood that she’d heard pregnancy made one prey to.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nShe stirred experimentally, feeling that her nausea had subsided for now. Dona Maria came up to her bedside, felt her brow, and frowned. “You are warm, \u003cem\u003eAlteza.\u003c/em\u003e”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine smiled, amused. “How should I be otherwise, when you keep the room like a hothouse? I am feeling much better, I promise.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her devoted duenna took her arm and helped her to sit up, throwing a glance at the maid Jenny, who hurried to plump up her bolster and pillows. In truth,\n she was perfectly capable of sitting up without assistance, but she felt their attentions as signs of love, and was grateful.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny said, “I’ll bring more tea, but may I fetch you aught else, Your Majesty? I know my mother always craved brined onions when she was in the family\n way.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria frowned awfully at the girl, and said in Spanish, “Do you compare the Queen of England to your—” And then, for a wonder, she caught herself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny blushed and began to apologize, but Catherine forestalled her. “Thank you, Jenny, that is kind of you. The fact is, I have a great longing for\n apricots, if any might be found.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny’s eyes lit up—a quest! She said, “I’ll inquire of the gardener, Your Majesty,” curtsied, and darted from the room.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine said to Dona Maria, “You like the girl. No, do not shake your head, I can tell. When did that happen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The gaunt-faced lady gave a shrug. “The devious child has wormed her way into my good graces with hard work and heartfelt devotion to you. Who am I to\n resist such blandishments?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine gave a little surprised laugh. “Why, Godmother, that was near to being a joke.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nonsense, I speak nothing but God’s plain truth.” Dona Maria spoke with great dignity, but Catherine thought she was suppressing a smile.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Having taken notice of the queen being more present, the members of her household turned toward her or drifted closer. Dom de Mello gave her a godfatherly\n kiss and a small cloth-wrapped package: by the size and heft, a book. “A new Lives of the Saints,” he said. “In English, to practice the language. I think\n you’ll enjoy it, when you feel like reading.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Father Patrick approached, and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for her restoration to full health. She found his low, lilting voice comforting; it was\n the music of her devotions. Both gentlemen withdrew to a window enclosure, where they sat with their heads together. She wondered if they were speaking of\n her brother Alfonso or some new threat to Portugal—she knew Father Patrick was trusted by her mother, and sometimes had letters from her, as did, of\n course, her godfather the ambassador. But then she thought they were as like to be planning a game of bowls.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Duchess of York drew near the bed; Catherine reached out and said, “Sister, come sit by me.” Anne gracefully lifted her skirts and climbed up, sitting\n upright in her stays and holding Catherine’s hand. Catherine smiled around at the ladies, and they felt the invitation, drawing their upholstered stools\n nearer. An intimately feminine atmosphere settled around the bed; it felt comfortable to Catherine, an echo of the convent. She knew many here thought it\n sounded terribly drear and dour, a convent education. But she had been happy there: sewing at her sampler while one of the sisters read scripture; playing\n at hide and seek with her companions in the cloisters.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk leaned forward and said, “How do you feel, madam? Not too sick?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “At present, well enough. It comes and goes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne nodded sagely. “So it does, and different with each babe. My last had me miserable from dawn to dawn, and then popped out as easy as kiss-your-hand!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed, there is no telling,” Lady Suffolk exclaimed. “My first was so quiet, I hardly knew I was carrying till I was nearly done, and then! Oh, I hate to\n say how dreadful it was getting him out—fully three days, and they nearly gave me up for dead.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Murmurs of horrified sympathy all round, and Lady Chesterfield, her hair as much silver as brown, piped up. “Oh, yes! My Philip nearly killed me; I recall\n the midwife crying, ‘Now must I pull him out or my lady is lost!’ And the next thing I knew, a red-faced creature was making the most awful noise and my\n husband had rushed in to weep in my arms with relief.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Buckingham raised her fingers to her mouth, her eyes wide in the most genuine expression Catherine thought she had ever seen in her. “God protect us,\n I have not borne yet, but it cannot be long before I face it too. How brave you all are!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Bath laughed. “Well, we have no choice, have we? Turn papist nun or brave our fate!” She flushed and turned to Catherine. “Oh, dear, madam, I beg your\n pardon, I intended no insult, I promise you; only a habit of speech.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine said reassuringly, “I know it, my lady.” And was glad to see the lady look relieved. Catherine would not want any accidental lapse to mar this\n comfortable mood. More, she was secretly pleased at being able to understand and be understood in English; all her hard studies flowering into easy\n discourse at last!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is true enough,” Lady Suffolk said. “We women must forego the company of man or go into battle, all unarmed!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Bath sighed in agreement, and the general mood, already confiding, seemed to draw in even further.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne said, with an unwonted somberness, “Men have no idea of it, at all. James was out hunting the very day after I lost my first babe.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I sometimes think,” Lady Suffolk said, “they imagine we have no deeper feelings than a cow whose calf is taken from her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Chesterfield nodded sadly. “We are not meant to talk of it, and it’s true one must move forward, or one would spend one’s life in mourning.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A dry, warning cough drew the ladies’ attention to Dona Maria, who gave them all a look full of thunder. She had little more command of English now than\n the day she’d arrived, but her glare spoke clearly and they looked abashed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, how foolish of us,” Anne cried, “to be frightening Her Majesty! Dear sister, do not heed us. You know how people love to burnish trouble until it\n gleams!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A general murmur of agreement and dismay broke out among the ladies. Catherine threw a grateful look at her duenna and held up her hands. “I know you mean\n no harm, my ladies. But perhaps we should speak of something else. For example, I would ask those of you who have carried, if there be remedies for the\n sickness? I would be glad to find a cure for that!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As she thought, this shifted the topic instantly, as everyone either had a sovereign remedy or had heard of one.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A boiled hen’s egg,” said Anne, “taken upon waking.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A gill of blood let from the vein of the left ankle,” said Lady Suffolk.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My cousin,” Lady Buckingham chimed in, “swears by wine in which the dung of a lark has been well-seethed, taken warm.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was with considerable relief that Catherine saw Jenny enter, triumphantly bearing a salver of apricots. As her ladies continued trading stories and\n medicinal recipes, Catherine sat up and nibbled the juicy, sweet fruit. Feliciana pranced down the satin quilted coverlet to sniff at Jenny’s hands, and\n Catherine smiled to see the girl kiss the little dog’s head, and then glance about quickly to be sure she had not overstepped.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She beckoned Jenny closer, and said quietly, just to her, “Thank you, Jenny. As ever, you bring me just what I need.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny’s eyes glowed. “You may rely on me, Your Majesty. I hate to see you sick. I saw my mother suffer it all too often.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine looked curiously at Jenny. “Will you like to have babies too one day?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny reddened, and cast her eyes down. “I . . . I do not know, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Never mind,” Catherine said kindly. “You are too young to think of it yet, I know.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny curtsied. “I will bring fresh tea, if you please.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine nodded, and Jenny hurried out again. Well, no one could ever know what went on in another’s heart. But she hoped the girl was happy in her service.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She leaned back against her pillows and listened to the conversation, glad enough to rest and not take an active part of it all. Dona Maria had joined her\n brother and the priest, and Catherine overheard a scrap of Portuguese, something to do with their hopes for her younger but steadier brother, Pedro. Anne\n played laughingly with Feliciana, drawing a ribbon from her sleeve to make her leap, and the other ladies marveled at the terrible weather—the worst summer\n in anyone’s memory. Perhaps it was only the fact of her carrying a possible heir that had softened her ladies toward her, but in any case, she felt buoyed\n by their warmth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The fire leapt and crackled; Catherine found her eyes gently closing. Supper would come in soon; she hoped the toasted cheese would not bring her nausea up\n again, but if it did, Jenny would bring her another settling tisane. And then Charles would come to look in on her, not to stay—for she tired easily these\n days—but as a loving courtesy, to see how she did. She would sleep well, with the lingering sensation of his kiss on her lips. The thought of all the\n perils that could shipwreck her hopes gave her a moment of uneasiness. She knew how dangerous this work was, that God had given wives to undertake. But she\n felt too safe just now to let that danger daunt her. Hopefulness was just as easy, she thought, as she fell into a doze. She would be hopeful.\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nAccusations of treason were waged publically against the Lord Chancellor by the land-greedy Lord Bristol, and privately against Catherine by the desperate Lady Eleanor – a harsh contrast to at least one Whitehall resident’s continued loyalty: Jenny the chambermaid. Inspired by her mistress and the affection the queen engenders, Jenny grew courageous in finding—and using—her own voice. Meanwhile the long-awaited summer proved unseasonable and unkind to the queen, whose health suffered alongside the fortunes of the kingdom. To escape their woes, both Charles and Catherine took respite outside the palace, and found solace and healing in marital sport. In the end, grim beginnings led to joyous ends as Catherine is finally with child. \n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e \n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eThom Hamed\u003c/strong\u003e: Tailor’s apprentice in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eEleanor Plumstead\u003c/strong\u003e: One of Catherine’s Ladies of the Bedchamber.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara. \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAnne\u003c/strong\u003e: Duchess of York, wife to James, and a Catholic.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.56","slug":"whitehall-10","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP10.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall10serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall10serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall10serialbox.pdf","share_url":"http://serialbox.com/episodes/5710eda9ada6e22ac9d178f9","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710edbaada6e22ac9d178fa","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":11,"title":"A King and No King","released_date":"2016-08-17T11:59:33.228+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"A desperate dance of love and loss. ","byline":"Sarah Smith","featured":false,"coming_soon":false,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/Whitehall11.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-08-17","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eOctober 1663\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There were no daisies for Michaelmas.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Condessa de Penalva had brought harvest fruits from the offerings in the Chapel Royal. They made a fine show, Dona Maria whispered, but the fruits had\n been put on boxes and in cornucopias to disguise how few they were. The apples in the enameled bowl were small and rust-speckled. The dogs huddled\n miserably in a corner, and down in the Pebble Court, water pooled and turned the humped cobblestones into archipelagoes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “At least we have the Muscovites’ furs!” Charles said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Muscovite coat was dyed and painted leather, lined with thick fur. The garment dragged Catherine’s shoulders down, though it helped to take away the\n chill. The beaver hat pushed down her curls and weighed on her head like a crown.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Better, my wife?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine had forgotten the worst thing about winter: Winter comes round every year.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I cannot get warm.” She spoke from under the ridiculous hat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Build up the fire; Her Majesty is cold,” Dona Maria called to the chambermaids.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There is no need,” Catherine replied, but she was shivering, truly. She turned to Charles. “Will you share fire and supper with me, my husband?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I must sup elsewhere, wife; I have a harvest to bless.” He smiled at her, touching his hand to her stomach. “And may the harvest you prepare us bless all\n England.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He kissed her and took his leave. The room was smaller, colder, with him out of it. “I will sit,” she said. “These weigh so much.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you have them off, ma’am?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was cold all the way to her bones. The warm baths and long rides of the summer seemed a thousand years away. “Not yet.” She gestured to Feliciana.\n “Come to me.” The little dog nuzzled under the furs with her, a warm, comforting weight against her belly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was tired, tired. In Lisbon, there would still be sea-bathing on St. Michael’s Day; the days would be short now but the twilights would be long,\n butter-yellow. At the convent she would have been walking in the gardens with nothing over her shoulders but a shawl. Here in London, beyond the tiny\n blurred roundels of glass, the rain runneled down, and she was cold in furs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam, do you choose to dine in the presence chamber?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are there suitors?” There were always suitors here at Whitehall, looking for favors or curious to see her. Whitehall was closing round her again:\n Whitehall of schemes, Whitehall of enemies, Whitehall of lies.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A few to see you, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e, but no petitions.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And now there was this gossip that her husband had actually married Monmouth’s mother. Charles would not have done so. She rubbed her aching stomach,\n disturbing little Feliciana. She must show herself to them unconcerned. She had made her husband lie and bend the law; she had lied herself and denied the\n Faith by denying her Catholic marriage. She must show herself pregnant, triumphant, carrying the heir to the English throne. No matter how she felt.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She tried to rise; her shivering and the warmth of the fire made her sink down. “No, we will eat by the fire, here. Tell them to come back tomorrow. Tell\n them to disturb my husband the king instead.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n One of the maids of the bedchamber tittered. Dona Maria hushed her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her women bustled around her, bringing a table, chairs. She leaned back, away from the nauseating smell of stewed chicken. Saliva came up in her throat and\n of a sudden she was feverish hot. She knew what the laughter meant. \u003cem\u003eDisturb my husband. A harvest to bless. \u003c/em\u003eHer husband was not at some English harvest feast; he was with Barbara.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She asked Dona Maria in Portuguese, “Has she had her child?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yesterday, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine snatched up her napkin and held it over her mouth. There was nothing to fear from Barbara; her children might carry their father’s image like\n new-minted coins, but Catherine had a child too.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eYou, my little one, you who sit so imperiously in my body, calm yourself. You will be king. You are your father’s heir.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She put down the napkin. A queen always controls herself. “Bring the harvest fruits to our table.”\n \u003cem\u003e\n Next year, sweet little king-to-be, you will see the harvest in its abundance. Next year there will be a glorious autumn, with sweet rains only, with\n yellow suns and long sunsets\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Bring me my mother’s flowers,” she told Dona Maria. “We must have flowers to grace the table.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria brought from its place on her prie-dieu the enameled spray of flowers that her mother had given her. Catherine took it, the gilded stems and\n bright petals, and held it next to her body.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The royal family of Portugal owned three sprays of golden roses from the Pope, the Pope’s blessing to a faithful servant of the Church. When she was a\n child, Catherine had been fascinated by the ever-blooming golden blossoms. She had wanted to climb up on the altar, to pull them down and smell them. She\n had thought that they would smell like real roses, that they would be soft-petaled and waxy-leaved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Before Catherine had left Lisbon, her mother had sold some of her jewelry and had an enameled bouquet made for Catherine. Purple jacaranda nodding on its\n wiry stem, prickly lavender, and a single golden rose for faith. “You will have your own golden rose from the Pope when you bring England back to the True\n Faith,” her mother had said. Catherine held the bouquet up to her nostrils, trying to smell her mother’s love, to smell home and the strength of her faith.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This would be her only golden rose. She had lied. She had denied her Catholic marriage had even happened.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Tonight the petals scratched her fingers. The metal jacaranda and lavender gave no fragrance. The rose was cold as the icy rain. She shivered uncontrollably.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had lost the summer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I know there’s proof he married my mother!” Monmouth said. “More wine, girl.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nThe rain spewed down Mother Ross’s chimney into the fireplace like a vomiting drunk; the coals hissed. \u003cem\u003eLike half-drowned fires hissing the whores off-stage\u003c/em\u003e, Rochester thought, toying with the line. \u003cem\u003eWine and poetry\u003c/em\u003e, he mused, \u003cem\u003erefuges from a mad, sad world\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But where is this famous proof, Jamie?” he asked patiently. “Have you seen it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie’s claims to the throne? Dangerous now the queen was quick with an heir. Time to give this up, but Jamie didn’t seem to know it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The serving girl had long, curling auburn hair, skin like rich cream, rose-petal cheeks. She’d do for a distraction. But Jamie snatched the tankard away\n from her, oblivious to her charms, and downed it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’ll see the proof soon,” Jamie said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Which means no.” Because there was no proof. \u003cem\u003eBoy, this whole story was mine.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am his trueborn son. I have known ever since I can remember that I was born for the throne.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Jamie,” Rochester warned, glancing at the serving-girl. She was pretty, but she wasn’t deaf.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie scrambled up on the table, unlaced himself, and stood. The table wobbled dangerously, but he reached into his smallclothes and pulled out . . . “Tell me, girl, is this not the cock of a king?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eJamie\u003c/em\u003e,” Rochester said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The boy stepped down from the table just as it collapsed; he balanced on the chair as the table-top went crashing. \u003cem\u003eThat’s Jamie right there\u003c/em\u003e,\n Rochester thought, \u003cem\u003estepping away from his follies while his friends fall, until one day he won’t step away in time and they’ll call it treason\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis a kingly rod, indeed,” the serving wench said, smiling. She had retreated neatly from the ruins of the table, and was holding the candle and the\n serving jug not quite in front of her, but as the slightest sketch of separation between herself and this farce.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Kneel before your king!” Jamie said, waving his tackle in the air.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What do you say, girl,” Rochester asked. “Will this boy’s famous proof be as persuasive as his tarse? Prognosticate for us, and then go to Mother Ross and\n ask Triffena to come to us.” Triffy, Jamie’s favored whore.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This was her cue to get away, but she didn’t. “In a twelvemonth,” the wench said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What? We shall have no Triffena for a twelvemonth?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis nothing will happen now, me luds, not while the queen ’as a baby coming.” She was right; was Jamie listening? “In a twelvemonth?” The girl smiled, a wicked promising smile. “In a twelvemonth I’ll be a whore, and a good one too, better than Triffy; and I’ll be as worth waiting for as any throne—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The girl was interesting; she knew how to stop Monmouth’s tongue.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I don’t want to wait for anything,” Jamie said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Patience is a kingly virtue,” Rochester said. \u003cem\u003eOd’s fish, listen to me—patience on a monument.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But me lud,” the girl said to Jamie, “are you sure you want to be king?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This stopped both of them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A king must mount a queen,” the girl said, “and a queen must be a placid horse, fit for the parade field and for show. But there’s horses for riding at\n night, wild horses for a bit of highwayman-work. Which do you fancy? A placid mare, me lud, or a wild horse? Which are you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I’m a highwayman. \u003cem\u003eAnd\u003c/em\u003e a king. Nighthorse, shall I be your king?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester dropped a gold coin between the girl’s breasts and pushed her toward the door. “For your silence.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked up at him. For a moment her look met his, perfect understanding. “You pays me for a night a twelvemonth from now, me lud. You ’as me silence for\n free.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Clever girl. What’s your name?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nell, me lud.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Clever Nell Nighthorse,” Jamie said. “Wicked Nell Nighthorse. Let me ride you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You won’t be in a place like this a year from now,” Rochester said, wondering if he meant it as a promise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, me lud, and you’ll want me name to find me again. ’Tis Gwyn. Nell Gwyn.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Everything was serene. The remains of the perfectly rare beef were on the sideboard where old Rogue was panting up at it longingly, the hearth fire purred\n calmly in its new marble fireplace, and the room was fragrant with glasshouse roses. Barbara lounged in bed with her day-old baby boy suckling at her\n breast, like Venus and Cupid incarnate, and her royal Charles was sitting on the floor, playing with his daughter and son.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Papa, can you make it stop raining?” Anne said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why, how shall I do that, Anne-child?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Because you are king,” Anne said solemnly. “‘The king’s majesty hath the chief power in this Realm of England.’ That’s \u003cem\u003eyou\u003c/em\u003e, Papa.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ah, my Annie, if it were so easy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Papa, shall I be king someday? Or Charlie?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Little Charlie reached up and tugged at his father’s long curls. Charles made a face and laughed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Papa, can I feed Rogue?” Anne asked, distracted already from her question.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That you can, love.” Charles disentangled himself from Charlie’s little grasping fingers and went to the sideboard, cutting a slice of beef like any\n serving-man. “Hold it to him on the flat of the hand, like this.” Anne solemnly balanced the bit of meat on her palm and held it out to snuffling old\n Rogue.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara noted greedily how much pleasure he took in his children. If Jamie showed himself the rash fool Nature had made him, then perhaps her children—?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne giggled, tickled by the dog’s tongue. Charles wiped his fingers on a napkin and came to sit on the edge of Barbara’s bed, putting his arm around her.\n Even though she was sore below, Barbara’s skin tingled and heated at his touch.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Child, you know not how many men yearn to be in your place,” Charles said to the baby.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What place is that?” What place would he give the child?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why, here,” said Charles, cupping her full breast with his hand, “and drinking such nectar.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Oh, Heaven, she could take him right here.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What name do you consider for him?” Charles asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Henry,” she said. “If it pleases you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A good name,” Charles said. “Harry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A Protestant name.” A family name, honored. A name for a king; but she looked up and saw her king smiling wryly at her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I can do so much and more for them,” he said, “but not the one thing.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then pray Heaven the queen gives you a son,” Barbara said, “and her so ill.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen was sick. She had taken to her bed on Michaelmas night and had not risen since.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis the spotted fever,” Mavis whispered. She and Jenny were in the laundry, crouched in the corner by the great copper boilers for bucking. Jenny was\n heating water by the fire.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis not; she has no spots on her, and none else are sick,” Jenny said. “I must make her tea. Grate this ginger for me.” She handed her friend her wooden\n bowl, her grater, and a knob of ginger root.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eA measure each of eucalyptus, hyssop, and sage\u003c/em\u003e; Jenny added the precious herbs to the pot. Decoction of willow bark for Her Majesty’s aching head. Licorice root for cough; ginger, fresh-grated, for fever . . . And for the child, sturdy common thyme, to guard the womb against mischance.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis, though,” Mavis said to old Nan, who was sitting on her haunches, smoking a pipe by the fire.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye.” Nan blinked her gray-veiled eyes. “’Twas the same with the young prince, when I was but a girl. Coughing and coughing, ’e was, and couldn’t get his breath, and then the spots come out all over on ’im, all but face and ’ands and the palms of ’is feet. Thought ’e was fighting the Turks, and then ’e\n died.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He were a good one,” Black Meg, the linen-bleacher, said. “Move away there, let me get at the water taps.” As she filled her buckets, steam rose from the\n hot water, smelling of soap and urine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If Prince ’Arry’d lived,” Nan said, “we’d ’ave no Catholics in the country now. Let the Port-a-gee die, I say, she’ll make nothing but Catholics.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You shush!” Jenny hissed at her. “Leave the queen be.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They do say she made the king marry her in front of a priest,” old Nan said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Mavis shoved bowl, grater, and ginger root back at Jenny and stood. “I’m not staying where there’s spotted fever. We’ll all wake up dead.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis none sick round her, and the fever won’t start with you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You’ll stay where you’re put, girl,” Meg said, “or starve on the streets with ’alf of London this winter.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Rather starve than die,” Mavis muttered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was afraid; they all were. Jenny’d seen it before, the family drawing back from a sickbed. She didn’t have time to be mad at Mavis, though, any more\n than she had time to think of Thom; she snatched up the grater and added a good hot measure of ginger root to the pot.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n From the laundry to Catherine’s bedchamber, up back stairs and down corridors, she carried the tea in an iron pot, wrapped in an old piece of sacking to\n stay hot. From outside the bedchamber she could hear sobs and moans from the Ladies of the Bedchamber. \u003cem\u003eLet that not be\u003c/em\u003e— Jenny halted in the\n corridor for a moment, dreading what she’d see; and then went in.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The barber was shaving the queen’s hair.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n On her right side, all the queen’s long, beautiful dark hair was straggling out over the pillow. On her left side she was bald. She was tossing her head\n back and forth, and the barber’s shears and razor had nicked her skin; her head was blue and bloody like the chin of a man ill-shaved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e, you must,” Dona Maria said. “It is for the fever.” The barber went round the other side of the bed and began to shear off the rest of the\n queen’s beautiful curls.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now \u003cem\u003eas reliquias\u003c/em\u003e,” Dona Maria said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Condessa de Penalva’s Catholic maidservant, even older and more skeletal than she, entered the room with a huge dusty casket, rubbed gilt and velvet\n and covered with dim knobs of jewels. Behind her came Father Patrick, the queen’s confessor. Dona Maria crossed herself and bowed, her farthingale\n creaking.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Relics are all very well, m’lady,” Jenny said, “but—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Father Patrick said something to Dona Maria’s maid, and she clasped her beads and began to murmur. \u003cem\u003eAve Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum\u003c/em\u003e . . . A\n couple of the ladies and chambermaids began to murmur too, one counting off on her fingers because she had no rosary.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “—But she needs tea,” Jenny continued loudly, “and sponging with cold water to keep the fever down.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n No one so much as looked in her direction. Dona Maria pulled out from her bosom a golden chain with a key on it. She crossed herself again and fit the key\n into the lock of the casket, murmuring prayers. From within the casket she brought out something lumpy and flat, wrapped in scarlet velvet. She set it down\n and unfolded it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny almost choked with disgust.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was a filthy beggar’s hat, ancient heavy sailcloth, dark and greasy, and with \u003cem\u003ethings \u003c/em\u003esewn to it: clinking metal, little boxes of silver or\n gold, each with its tiny label, its rock-crystal window, and inside a bit of bone, a tooth, even—ugh—something flat and white. A fingernail? Skin? Dona\n Maria handed the hat with its reliquaries ceremoniously to Father Patrick. The barber sheared and scraped the last of the queen’s hair away. Then Father\n Patrick fit the foul thing over the queen’s bare head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eAs relíquias\u003c/em\u003e,” Dona Maria said, “\u003cem\u003etudo bem\u003c/em\u003e, \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e,” and her hands scrabbled at her beads. \u003cem\u003eAve Maria\u003c/em\u003e . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eThis is not true faith\u003c/em\u003e, Jenny cried inwardly. Donkey bones. Teeth from the nearest tooth-puller, bits of flesh from the gibbet. A parchment and a daub of red candle wax to make the whole authentic. To shave the queen’s head against the fever and then to burden her with this—!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lady Penalva,” Jenny said firmly. “The queen must sweat out the fever. I have all prepared.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria pursed her lips, but Jenny stepped forward neatly and held the queen’s little flowered teacup in front of her eyes. It was no bigger than a\n rose. The queen’s eyes followed the teacup thirstily.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh yes,” she whispered in English. “I would drink.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria’s stays creaked threateningly, but Jenny knelt at the queen’s bedside, filling the brightly-flowered porcelain cup. The queen reached out both\n hands to take it; dear heavens, how her hands trembled. “There, now, ma’am.” The queen drank, spilling half the tea down the front of her night rail.\n “Never mind, ma’am, ’tis nothing; let’s fill it again.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny spooned the mixture into her mouth bit by bit. The licorice seemed to soothe her coughing, but the queen frowned at the taste. The Condessa de\n Penalva prayed and squinted suspiciously at Jenny.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A maid brought a candle. The queen whispered something; her breath rasped in her throat, a tiny scratchy sound like mice scurrying in rushes. “No light.”\n The queen turned away from the candle. “No light. It hurts.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The maid spat on her fingers and pinched the candlewick. There was no light in the chamber now but the red glow of the fire.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Shall I bathe you and change your robe?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No,” the queen whispered. “I am hurting.” She shook her head and moaned. Dona Maria’s eyes snapped open.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What will ease you, ma’am?” Jenny asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen’s small hand crept over the bedclothes. “Flowers.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Flowers?” There were no flowers; the rain had ruined them all.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eO buquȇ\u003c/em\u003e,” Dona Maria ordered. Her maid scurried away and came back with a spray of flowers, like a fairy tale in this sad autumn. Even without\n the candle light they glowed: a cornucopia-shaped bellflower Jenny’d never seen before, one golden rose like something from a changeling’s garden, and in\n the midst of them, a stalk of rough, homely—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why, ’tis lavender,” Jenny said, delighted. But it didn’t smell; the bouquet dropped from the queen’s fingers and Jenny, momentarily frightened, picked it\n up to give it back to her. It was heavy, and in a moment she saw why: All the flowers were mere metal, cunningly wrought.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “From her mother,” Dona Maria’s maid said. “To remember home. She has—\u003cem\u003esaudade\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny had an idea. “Your Majesty, will you have lavender to smell? I’ll make a lavender tisane to rest you, and thyme to strengthen the child. It will make\n you dream of summer, when your child will be here. But you must drink deep and strong.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will drink it. For the baby,” the queen said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dried thyme and lavender were easy come by, with honey and more willow bark; Jenny poked up the fire, laid another log, and planted her iron pot among the\n coals. The queen’s Catholic Ladies of the Bedchamber were praying the rosary. New chambermaids had come on duty; it must be past midnight. Jenny picked out\n the strongest and most competent. “Try to change out her sheets and robe, Tamsin; she’s sweated them through,” Jenny said, low-voiced. “And find a chamber\n pot to put underneath her; when she drinks this, she’ll want to make water.” Tamsin bobbed her head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And put Feliciana with the other dogs.” Spotted fever spread in dirty places or where there were animals. Feliciana barked as Tamsin scooped her up and\n carried her out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thyme and lavender and willow bark in a linen bag; Jenny stirred the fragrant mix over the queen’s bedroom fire, then dipped the little rosebud cup into\n the tea and held it to the queen’s lips again and again. She could smell the stinking reliquary hat, like the smell of bear grease, heavy and rancid, over\n the lavender and thyme.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Is it better, Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen said nothing, simply looked from side to side as if she didn’t know where she was. She managed, “I have thirst.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The cup wasn’t giving her enough at a time. “Where is the queen’s silver cannikin, Your Grace?” Jenny asked Dona Maria in Spanish. Dona Maria squinted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is in her eating room,” she said. “Why do you give her so much tea?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She must drink and drink.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To get the cannikin, she had to rouse a sleepy kitchen boy, who must go to find the queen’s butler, who must find the key to the silver chest. Jenny waited\n for him to come back, fuming. It seemed as though she had waited hours when Tamsin ran into the eating room.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Come, come quick.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The queen—?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Tamsin tugged her back into the queen’s bedchamber.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen was breathing harder, coughing uncontrollably and moaning.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e—” The Condessa de Penalva had pulled all the covers off her and put her night rail aside, so that the poor little queen was naked. She\n looked so small, so young in the big chill bed. Her breasts were a little girl’s, tipped with pink; her belly hardly stuck up over her thin ribs. Her head\n in the dreadful nightcap seemed as large as a starving beggar’s.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And all over her pathetic bump of belly, all over her chest and arms, red splotches and freckles covered her skin.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Cover her!” Jenny gasped, but the queen sat up suddenly, crying out, and held her belly with both hands. She drew up her legs and planted her bare feet\n square against the mattress, moaning. “I am sick,” she panted. “Give me . . .” She could not find the word in English, and Jenny, forgetting all decorum,\n forgetting everything but her poor sick lady, caught up the silver slop bucket from the floor, held it in front of the queen, and sat behind her, on the\n queen’s own pillow, to support her while she vomited.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eNão, não\u003c/em\u003e, the other—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The pot,” Jenny said. Tamsin held it out at arm’s length. “There, ma’am, come, just sit on this, no shame, I’ll slide it under you.” She held the queen\n up. Catherine panted; her thin back tensed; her stomach went rigid, but she could make nothing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have given her too much tea!” Dona Maria said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine pressed both hands flat against her stomach; under her breath she was groaning and panting. The fit passed slowly. She drooped back down, her\n head hanging under the weight of the nightcap. “\u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e,” Dona Maria said, pulling Jenny out of the bed and easing the queen down. The queen was\n shaking; her eyes were half-closed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is your tea!” the Condessa de Penalva hissed at Jenny. “It is bad!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I never—” Jenny said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen shrieked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She shrieked and sat bolt upright again, clutching at Dona Maria’s arm. She went rigid, every muscle of her poor thin body standing out, her belly suddenly\n protruding, a clumsy unripe fruit between her hips. “Where?” the queen said. “Where? Oh, help! Virgin!” Somehow she got to her knees; she staggered across\n the feather bed like a penitent and clutched at the bedpost. She banged her head against the bedpost. The night rail slipped down from her shoulders; the\n rash was all over her, covering her back, her legs. Jenny held her fists against her mouth. A pillow, she thought, to put between the queen’s face and the\n wood, but she couldn’t move. Queen Catherine seemed to relax a moment, falling forward onto the carved bedpost, and Jenny moved to catch her; but then the\n fit took her again. Her back arched, agonized; convulsions of muscle slid across her belly like snakes under her skin. Somehow she stood, holding onto the\n bedpost, her legs braced apart, her head thrown back, screaming.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Water was running down her thighs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Suddenly she collapsed down onto herself, almost falling onto the floor. Jenny caught her and eased her into the bed. “Oh, ma’am—there, ma’am.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen’s cheekbones stood out on her sweat-pale face. “The pot,” she said, “please. \u003cem\u003eMe borrei. \u003c/em\u003eI am soiling myself.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But it was not that.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Behind Jenny, Dona Maria was sobbing. “Go!” she shouted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Grace, I must look after her—“\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria caught Jenny by the arm and propelled her out the door. “Go, go! You have poisoned \u003cem\u003eAlteza\u003c/em\u003e!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The queen has spotted fever,” Jenny said dully to the laundrywomen. “And she has lost her child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her apron was splashed with blood. “Put that in the fire,” Old Nan said, “’Tis nasty. Get another from stores, and wash yourself.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The fever’s not caught by blood,” Jenny said, but she went to stores and got an apron. The stores master shrank from her. Mavis brought Jenny a pottle of\n vinegar.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Scrub yourself. The queen’s dead, i’n’t she?” Mavis asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No!” Jenny sat at the edge of the fireplace, in the ashes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No good your herbs now,” Mavis said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My herbs would help.” Jenny nodded at the vinegar. “Basil and vinegar and keeping clean are true remedies for these fevers. I’ve got to get back to her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Naught helps, love, she’ll die. . . . That Penalva, I heard she sent down to the kitchen for pigeons, split, to put against the soles of the queen’s\n feet.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “To draw the fever out.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A sob caught Jenny unawares. “She’s got to be kept \u003cem\u003eclean\u003c/em\u003e.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Better she dies if she can’t keep a child,” Mavis said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis the fever lost her the child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But the king lay with her long and long before she caught.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye,” old Nan said, “and ’im only ’avin’ to look at a gel to get a child on ’er.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Black Meg sat on the bench and handed Jenny down a mug. “Here, put that inside you. ’Tis good wine, not gone off, and I put saffron and cinnamon in and put\n the poker in to scald it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Condessa de Penalva put relics on her head,” Jenny sobbed, looking up at kind Meg with swimming eyes. “It would have turned your stomach to see them,\n and she blamed \u003cem\u003eme, \u003c/em\u003esaid I was poisoning the queen!“\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What’s that, then?” Meg said shrewdly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I didn’t do anything!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ducks,” Meg said, “don’t matter what you did. She’s dying. The duke and duchess have been sent for, on account of the duchess is her bosom friend, and\n they say Her Majesty’s lawyer’s been sent for, to draw her will—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why are they tormenting her with that?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Meg snorted. “This is a queen and she’s dying; you think she’ll be left to do it in peace? The Frenchy ambassador’s coming too—him and the Penalva’s\n brother, I shouldn’t imagine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Old Nan chuckled wheezily. “’Aven’t ’ad a good deathbed ’ere in England since old King James as was. Me mum said you couldn’t ’ave swung a cat round the\n bed’ead without scratching a duke.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e“She can’t die!”\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She can, same as any flesh, and what’ll happen when she does?” Meg said impatiently. “You’ll be blamed. Drink your wine and find your boy and the two of\n you get away. You’ve been giving her to drink, and you’re ’alf Spanish, and your Thom’s darker than both of us together and no Christian besides. I don’t\n fancy seeing your and Thom’s ’eads tarred on Traitors’ Gate, but that’s where you’ll be if you don’t get away from White’all.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then we’ll go,” Thom said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny had found Thom in his garret, working on the new dress for the queen. The stomacher and skirt panels were still at the embroiderer, but he was\n basting the bodice and underskirt together on the queen’s wooden form. Jenny stared at it, the upright wooden-and-satin ghost of her lady.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You don’t have to go, just because you said you wanted to marry me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I said I love you,” Thom said gently. “So \u003cem\u003ewe\u003c/em\u003e’ll go.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nUnder his clever fingers the skirt billowed out like summer clouds. \u003cem\u003eShe would have looked so grand in it, \u003c/em\u003eJenny thought, \u003cem\u003eand Thom would have made his fortune. . . . She will look grand in it, \u003c/em\u003eshe thought determinedly. \u003cem\u003eShe will. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She won’t die,” Jenny said. “I’ll go back to her and make them let me dose her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom gazed at her dark-eyed. He didn’t look away, but he didn’t say anything.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Why are you still working on her dress if you don’t think she’ll live?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He looked down at his own hands helplessly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWhy is he still working on the dress?\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eBecause he is a tailor. It’s what he does. \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAnd I . . . All my life I have wanted to serve the queen. This is what it means. This. Now.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You should get away,” he said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rage and determination exploded in her. “She won’t die!” she said. “Everyone thinks she will, and she will if I leave her; but I won’t. You go. Get away\n from here. Go the other side of the river; Meg’s brothers live by the bleaching-green past the archbishop’s palace; you can say you’re their cousin. I’ll\n come to you if—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eIf the queen dies. If the Condessa de Penalva doesn’t arrest me\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom stuck his needle carefully into his needle pillow, stood, and took her in his strong arms. For a moment, she let herself melt into his kiss.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Go,” she said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom shook his head.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I don’t want to have to worry about you too!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You’re going to save her,” Thom said. “And then she’ll need her dress.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You’re a fool!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She ran back through the streets toward the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There were guards in the queen’s corridor and a crowd waiting outside her presence chamber. Jenny spied a face she knew: one of the king’s pages, Edmund,\n red-haired and freckled, the son of some Scottish knight. Edmund adored his hunting dog more than all the world; last spring she had physicked the dog and\n sewn up its paw. “What’s happening?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Jenny! You didn’t poison the queen, did you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I swear I didn’t. Edmund, how does she?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Edmund shook his head. “They’ve given her the last rites, and the ambassador’s with her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are they mad? They must let her rest. Edmund, I have to see her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Condessa de Penalva’s letting nobody in, not even the Countess of Suffolk.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not \u003cem\u003eLady Suffolk\u003c/em\u003e?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lady Suffolk was trying to turn the Condessa de Penalva and them all out, but the Portuguese ambassador ordered Lady Suffolk out and the Condessa de\n Penalva’s barred the door. There’s no one in the queen’s room now but the Condessa and Father Patrick and the French ambassador, and he had to come in by\n the—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Edmund stopped, guiltily.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How, Edmund?” Jenny asked. “How did he get in?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Poor little Edmund shook his head. Against his pallor, the freckles on his cheeks were brown as fleas. “Och, Jenny, that’s more than my place is worth.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “There’s no secret in secret passages,” Jenny said sharply. The king and queen slept separately, as the Duke and Duchess of York did; but everyone knew\n that the duke’s bedchamber had a private passage to the duchess’s bedchamber. “The king’s bedchamber must have a privy passage to the queen’s,” she said\n impatiently. “Where is it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Edmund shook his head miserably. “I’ll be sent back to Scotland and I’ll never be a knight.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you refuse me and let her die?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king was in his great gilded Privy Council chamber, talking with his advisers. She and Edmund crept past mouse-footed, Edmund with a salver, Jenny with a napkin, disguised as the servants they were. As they passed the Council chamber, the door opened; Jenny saw the king himself, standing taller and more \u003cem\u003epresent\u003c/em\u003e than everyone else, in a gilded coat, with the light behind him. The inner rooms were deserted except for the bed-makers and cleaners,\n hurrying back and forth with linen and mops and pails. They sped through the withdrawing room into the king’s eating chamber. Jenny saw gilt columns, green\n velvet, beaten silver mirrors behind the candle sconces; a linen-swathed table set for one, a single golden plate, and a faint smell of dogs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Here,” Edmund said, pulling her into a velvet-curtained recess. He stretched up but couldn’t quite reach. “That Cupid—press its belly, there, where the\n gilt is worn away.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny pressed. Something clicked in the wall. Between the columns, a narrow green panel sprung open.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The passage to the queen’s bedchamber was stone plastered over, smelling of horsehair and straw and smoke; it was completely dark and so narrow that they\n had to go single file, Edmund first. Jenny wondered how the king managed it in his elaborate clothes, and then thought that he would not wear so many\n clothes as that when he was going through this passage. She put the back of her hand to her lips, overcome by nerves and inappropriate thoughts of the tall\n muscular king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Halfway down the corridor, a narrow staircase led up from below, one of the stairs between the walls that servants and secret visitors used. At the end of\n the corridor was another narrow door, this one with a spy hole barely the size of her little finger.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked through and saw nothing but brocade; then whatever man was blocking the door moved, and Jenny could see the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen was sitting in bed, propped up by pillows positioned on either side of her. She looked like a wooden doll, her face waxen and two rouged circles\n on her white cheeks. Her eyes stared straight forward, like nail holes in her face. Jenny wedged her knuckles into her mouth. At the right of the spy hole,\n between the wall and the queen’s bedside, a bearded man was standing, a stooped shoulder in tinseled brocade: the French ambassador. He was saying\n something ceremonious in French, which the queen spoke no more than Jenny did herself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The most horrible thing was that the queen was trying to stay conscious and gracious and like a queen. Her lips moved, though she could make no sound.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eThey will kill her\u003c/em\u003e, Jenny thought.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who could stop this? There were no English Ladies of the Bedchamber here, only the Condessa de Penalva and in the background, the few Catholic servants\n droning their Hail Marys.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The ambassador fell silent. His visit was at an end. He had come privately, by this corridor; he would return the same way. “Back!” Jenny hissed to Edmund.\n They turned and fled back down the narrow tunnel.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Only the Countess of Suffolk could stop this. Dona Maria was the sister of the ambassador from Portugal, but Lady Suffolk was First Lady of the Bedchamber—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Edmund, where’s Lady Suffolk now?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny found her in the Chapel Royal, praying like a common person in one of the bays underneath a window, head down over her clasped hands. Jenny paused in\n confusion. It was one thing to talk to the poor little queen; another entirely to approach the rich and stately Lady Suffolk, and at her prayers at that.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eBut the queen will die if I don’t.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Ladyship—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The countess raised her head. “She is dead?” Lady Suffolk asked. She had been crying.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, Your Ladyship, but she will be if she’s not kept quiet.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is the sickness that will kill her, child.” Lady Suffolk blinked back her tears.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, it’s not! Ma’am. Your Ladyship. I’m sorry.” She was making a mess of this. “Folk come back from the spotted fever. But she needs rest! Go back and\n throw them out of there!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You are the girl who makes teas for the queen, are you not?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Condessa de Penalva has got her sitting up, trying to tend to the French ambassador—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Maria de Penalva was chosen by Portugal to care for the queen.” The countess was kneeling, Jenny standing, but it was as if the countess’s cool gooseberry\n eyes were looking down on her. “I can do nothing. And you must not forget yourself.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Ladyship,” Jenny said. “She’ll die of being queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Suffolk closed her eyes a moment. “So do we all, child,” she said. “Our places here consume us. Go. Pray for her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny sketched a curtsy and a cross toward the altar, and moved back, but then—\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eYou must not forget yourself. \u003c/em\u003eJenny should have left already, but her feet would not move. \u003cem\u003eYou are only a servant. \u003c/em\u003eBut she saw for a moment all Whitehall, the grand gilded\n places and the famous people, the suitors crowding the presence chamber and the eating hall, the pages like Edmund who wanted to be knights—precious little\n use, any of them—and, skittering like mice, the servants, hordes of servants, Meg and Tamsin, Mavis and herself, bearing pails and mops and linen, dishes\n and food and clothes. Making everything run. \u003cem\u003eWithout us there would be nothing here\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had not forgotten herself. She was a servant. A part of Whitehall, the Court of England, a part of the whole that stretched from necessary-cleaners and\n stableboys to the king and queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was the queen’s servant.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She knew entirely who she was.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Ladyship? If you can’t throw out the Condessa de Penalva, ask \u003cem\u003ehim\u003c/em\u003e!” she said. “Ask the king to help the queen!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then she ran.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had left her iron pot, her chest of simples, everything in the queen’s chamber. Jenny begged lavender from Black Meg. “You’ll go through all my store,”\n Meg said, and looked at her shrewdly. “Decided not to take advice?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was far beyond taking advice. She spooned herbs and honey into a borrowed pot; her hands shook but her heart was steady.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eIf they don’t arrest me for poison, they’ll do it for simple cheek, and I don’t care.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When she went upstairs, the queen’s corridor was still filled with people. But something had changed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Dona Maria de Penalva was outside the door. She was hunched on a chair in the corridor, sobbing, with the horrible hat of relics in her lap. The Ladies of\n the Bedchamber were with her and Dona Maria’s maid, swaying and creaking in her farthingale like a ship foundering in a storm, was sobbing into a\n handkerchief.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eMy little queen\u003c/em\u003e, Jenny thought. \u003cem\u003eShe’s gone.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But the rest of the crowd wasn’t crying. Jenny saw Edmund in his scarlet uniform, eyes shining with excitement.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Och, Jenny, what did you do? Could it be you’ve saved her?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What’s happened?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Milady Suffolk came down the corridor with the king behind her and the king’s own doctor behind, and he threw them all out, the king did. It was grand.\n He’s with her now and he said he’s staying till she’s well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eA king’s touch is supposed to cure so many things\u003c/em\u003e, Charles thought. He held Cat’s hand, smoothed her hot fingers with his own. It seemed to quiet her. Servants brought a chair for him and a platform to\n raise it to her bed-height, so that he could hold her hand comfortably. He had been in this bed so many times, the two of them laughing, whispering,\n tangled round each other in the dance of getting a child.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The windows of Catherine’s bedchamber darkened. The bells spoke from Westminster, and spoke again. The windows lightened. The rain fell. He had no idea how\n long he had been here with her. She slept, mostly. The room smelled of lavender and fever, and of her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire, you must let her rest,” Doctor Pierce said, “and go yourself to rest; you must not exhaust yourself. You will sicken too.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He tried to pull his hand out of hers. She stirred and said something. “A little time yet. I will not sicken.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n How long had it been since he had been in so quiet a place, without advisors or suitors or crowds of servants round him? Since before he was king? No;\n since he had been with her in the tent at Tunbridge Wells, the two of them alone, this summer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n How strange that this sickroom should remind him so of love.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He remembered her in bed. When she cried out in their pleasure, she pressed her lips against his shoulder to keep the maids from hearing, and then she\n laughed, round-cheeked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He bent over her hand as he kissed it, beaten down suddenly by sorrow.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What made a king? Divine right, his father had thought. His father had died on a scaffold of rough planks outside the Banqueting Hall; Charles thought of\n it every time he passed the spot. Him? He was a king on sufferance. Charles the mountebank, charming to everyone, too tall, ugly, silly bugger in his\n lace-trimmed court costumes; glittering to every eye, generous to every hand, the fairy-tale king of pinched Parliamentary dreams, everyone pretending that\n he was the chief power in this Realm of England.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What made a king?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His heirs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She was not barren; this pregnancy proved it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eBut the babe is lost. And it took us a year to get it\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Was he at fault? He had spent his seed as profligately as gold. Jamie and Charles and Charlotte, Anne and Charles again and little Harry: his beloved\n children, but not his heirs. Was it his fault, that he could get children outside the blankets easily as lying, but give no child to his rightful queen?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her hand stirred under his. She opened her eyes. “Husband.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sssh, love. You must sleep and get better.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She held up her hand. “I have had the last rites,” she whispered in Spanish, as if English were too much for her now. “I speak the truth now. I die\n willingly—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No,” he said. “You must not.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am consoled,” she said. “I die so you will have a wife who may be more worthy of your love—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You are the one most worthy of my love,” he said. “It is I who is not worthy of yours, Cat.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She smiled suddenly, brilliantly. “My love of you has been my blessing! But to another wife, Heaven may grant the blessing that has been refused to me.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “We will have other children,” he told her. “You must not think otherwise.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No,” she said, closing her eyes. “I will die.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Pierce!” he shouted in a panic.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire,” Doctor Pierce said. “If she is to have any chance, you must leave her now. She must rest.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire,” Clarendon said, “how fares the queen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon was waiting in the corridor outside the queen’s rooms, at the front of a crowd that was watching for news.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is fevered.” \u003cem\u003eShe wants to die because we have no child.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I would speak with you, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Servants were already waiting for his orders. “I would have fresh linen,” he told the nearest servant, “and—” Was it morning or night? He didn’t know. The\n clock in the anteroom said six, but six in the morning and six at evening were equally dark in a rainy October. “And something to eat. I will come to my\n chamber betimes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He was stiff with sitting. Rogue and True and Cat’s Feliciana had been napping under an upholstered bench in the corridor; Rogue barked and the three of\n them scrabbled across the marble floor toward him. He knelt to pet them, then led the way, stretching his legs, toward the Matted Gallery. Clarendon puffed\n and limped along behind the dogs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n By tradition the Matted Gallery, with its recesses and concealing statues, was a place where the sovereign could talk half-privately. Rogue ran down the\n gallery in pursuit of some shadow and paused to lift a leg against a statue base. “Speak.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire, if we may talk more privately still.” Clarendon nodded at the door of James’s apartments. “His Royal Highness and my daughter are not at Whitehall.\n If you will, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eIf you will. \u003c/em\u003eThese were royal apartments; no one might enter them without James’s permission, not even his wife’s father. Except for Charles. Charles was king; he could do anything.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anything except get an heir upon his rightful queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Build up the fire and leave us,” he said to James’s servants.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James’s apartments were like James, stiff and overformal in red velvet, inexorably ducal. Over the mantel hung a large portrait of James and Anne, Anne in\n blue silk and James in full court costume. Charles leaned against the mantel, back to his brother. Unless some spy was hiding in the chimney, being roasted\n for his pains, he and Clarendon were far enough from the one secret passage in the room Charles knew about; no one would overhear.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The queen, sire,” Clarendon said. He folded his hands and cast his eyes down; now they were coming to the matter. “The Privy Council is concerned because\n she has lost the child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She will have other children.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The world—all through the court, through London, through the country—says that she was barely keeping the child before the fever.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And the world has said, Clarendon, that you married me to a princess you knew to be barren, and your daughter to my brother, so that your daughter might\n be Queen of England.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon’s face went the color of a slab of lard.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A mere calumny,” Charles said. “Like this against the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have always acted with your interest at heart, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So you have,” Charles said. “I do not doubt it.” \u003cem\u003eBut you must play my strings with a lighter hand, Clarendon, or I will cut your fingers.\u003c/em\u003e “Are we\n done with gossip? I am weary and would dine and rest.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire.” Clarendon did not want to go on; he looked like a man the instant before going into battle. “You have yet no heir of your body. Your Privy Council\n asks you to consider the matter of the Duke of Monmouth’s claim.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am sure the Duke of Monmouth claims nothing.” Charles didn’t use the king’s voice often. He used it now, light and forgiving but, if he were not obeyed,\n promising terrors. “He would not so presume upon my great kindness for him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon flinched. “Others might claim for him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No one would claim so without his consent,” Charles said, “or yours.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon went white. “No, sire, I swear. But it is said—” Clarendon had grasped the tiger-tail of his courage at last, and could not let go for fear it\n would rend him. “It is said,” he went on, “that when you and your mistress Lucy Walter were at Rotterdam, you took her hand before witnesses and told her\n that you took her as wife, and that she did the same with you and took you as husband.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “A prince does not marry like Will Goatherd and his Joan.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty,” Clarendon said, “if you did—I do not say it was so, but it would have been a true marriage, as your brother’s was. And the Duke of Monmouth\n would be legitimate, and heir before your brother.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n James and Anne.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His own little brother had married Anne by promise and witnesses. It was no marriage, James insisted later. Not for a prince. Not even after he got Anne\n pregnant.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles himself had insisted it was, and made James marry Anne.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n So our virtues persecute us.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Every man must wish an heir for England.” Clarendon looked as if he would piss himself from fear, but he could not stop talking.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have a brother.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I yield to no one in my admiration of His Royal Highness the Duke of York,” Clarendon said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Indeed,” Charles said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But the Duke of Monmouth is a promising young man. Young, and trainable.” Clarendon swallowed. “If the queen has no more children—Her Majesty herself has\n ever inclined to favor the Duke of Monmouth.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will not hear this. She will have other children.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will she? And when? Sire, the country likes not that she has given you no heir. She is distrusted because she is Catholic. The Condessa de Penalva says\n there is a plot afoot to poison her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rain spilled down the chimney; the flames jumped and shattered, then formed again, trembling. Charles said in almost a conversational voice, “Do you say my\n queen is being poisoned for Monmouth’s sake?” A gust of rain shook the glass. “This is treason.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire, it is not mine. But she is in danger until you have an heir. Speak to your council tomorrow about the Duke of Monmouth’s claim.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He went back to Catherine’s chamber. Whom could he trust to guard her but himself?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon was not the fountainhead of these schemes; Charles knew that. Clarendon was too old and gouty for such plotting.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who was behind this?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who not? His brother was a good enough admiral, but he’d never be a popular king. Anne was Catholic. Cat hadn’t told him who was the Catholic proselytizer\n in his household, but his money was on Anne.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jamie was Protestant.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A king must consider everything. His hand in Cat’s, he let himself consider Jamie.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Cat was murmuring softly, under her breath. “Hush,” he said, twining his fingers through hers. “Hush, love. Rest.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n If he legitimized Jamie . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A marriage between Lucy and himself could have happened, could it not? What drunken follies every man of them had done in their old army days. Henry Bennet\n said he’d married a pig once. In front of a priest he did it, he said, with the full rites, \u003cem\u003ethough the priest was defrocked, and the pig too\u003c/em\u003e, he’d\n said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAnd what afterward, Harry?\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eMy husbandly duty, sire!\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The country would believe it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n To have a boy, an heir, seasoned and properly trained to take the throne. His \u003cem\u003eson. \u003c/em\u003eHis legitimate \u003cem\u003eson. \u003c/em\u003eEngland needed Jamie. Wild like\n Gregory the fox kit, but the people loved him. He could be taught to rule.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eMy son\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And all that needed be said, at the Privy Council meeting tomorrow, was that he had once taken Lucy Walter’s hand before witnesses and declared her his wife.\n \u003cem\u003e\n My lord Clarendon and I have considered well the law of this matter. My lord tells me that this was a true marriage according to the law, and I am now\n certain of it, which I was not before.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n Letters patent to seal all, and Jamie would be Prince of Wales.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was a relief beyond imagining. A son for England.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n His son.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But not Cat’s.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Would that matter so much to her? He put his hand over Cat’s little fevered one.\n \u003cem\u003e\n You will be safe, sweetling. I know not whether there is some plot against you. But I will turn it aside. You will not need to die if you cannot give me children. If I cannot give them to you.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her hand stirred under his; her eyes opened.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Husband.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Calm, Cat. Sleep.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Husband.” Her huge brown eyes turned toward him. “How does our son?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He could not speak.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He is well?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She didn’t remember and he couldn’t tell her. “Yes, Cat, well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am afraid he is but an ugly boy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, Cat,” he said softly, “he is a very pretty boy. ’Tis his father who is ugly.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nay, if he be like thee, he is a fine boy,” she whispered, “fine indeed. I am very pleased with him.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Rest now,” he murmured, “mother of my child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She closed her eyes a moment. “Mother,” she murmured to herself contentedly. She opened them again, smiling at him. “Our daughter?” she said. “She\n resembles you greatly. So beautiful. We have \u003cem\u003ethree\u003c/em\u003e children. Three. All is well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes,” he said. “Rest, Cat.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Her eyes closed; she sank into sleep. He freed one hand from hers and pressed his fingers against his eyes. Why should the country not want brave, healthy\n children, as Cat did? He leaned against the edge of her bed, his hand over his eyes. Kings do not weep. Kings think, and find a way out.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire,” a girl’s voice said. He jumped. “I’ve come to give the queen her tea.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A servant, young and anxious, carrying a silver cannikin. She was brown-haired, olive-skinned, familiar, though he didn’t know her name. This must be the\n girl who had been dosing Cat for nausea. Rogue and True and little Feliciana had come in behind her. They snuffled at her and then trotted away, as if the\n girl were a smell they were used to.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n If Clarendon was right, Cat’s fate would come as someone like this, a servant.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Condessa de Penalva has sent you away from the queen,” he said. “She says you gave her poison.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I never would hurt the queen!” the girl said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The cannikin was Cat’s, one he had given her as part of her wedding presents. “Drink the tea yourself, then,” he said harshly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A guilty woman might have said \u003cem\u003eYour Majesty? \u003c/em\u003eand protested her innocence. The girl simply looked at the queen’s cannikin: silver, reserved for\n Cat’s royal lips; not for hers. “Yes. Out of that,” Charles said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She lifted it to her mouth and drank without hesitation.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then she offered it to him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It’s lavender,” she said. “Thyme, basil, ginger, vinegar, and honey; that’s all. I would give her willow bark for the fever, but she has been bleeding.\n ’Twill soothe her only. I am no poisoner.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He held out his hand for the mug. She gave it to him; he touched his lips to the warm silver edge. It smelled of summer green, of the lavender in the Privy\n Garden.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then he remembered her. The girl who had given him Lady Eleanor’s note.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He nodded and handed the mug back. “Give it to her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thank you, sire,” the girl said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment their eyes met. She had a direct gaze. Cat liked her, he remembered.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She needs to drink as much as she can,” the girl said, businesslike. “If you’ll move back, sire? The fever dries her.” She went round the bed and cradled\n Cat’s shoulders in strong arms. “There you are, ma’am, drink just a little, and a little more.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She has been speaking of children she believes we have,” Charles said. “She is wandering.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Folk in fever speak of their great desires, sire, and hers is to give you a child.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What’s your name?” he asked.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Jenny, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Who taught you the use of herbs?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My mother.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You shall have a great reward if you save the queen.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Saving her will be my reward.” The girl looked up and smiled. “Though I won’t say no.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have a sweetheart,” he guessed. “You shall have enough to marry on.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, sire,” but her open face lost its smile. “I can’t think of him now, with her to save.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Does he love you truly, Jenny?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Yes, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then think of him,” Charles said. “Save my Cat but think of him. I wish I had thought of her every day, every moment, so that I had not disappointed her\n as I have. All the world knows I am no faithful husband, I am a king for a Maypole merriment; she should have more.” He reached down and scooped up Rogue.\n “Faith, Jenny, is a sad and noble endeavor. Faith is what we give God, and what these poor fools give us.” He tugged Rogue’s ear. Seeing Rogue on his lap,\n the other spaniels whined up at him for attention. “When I was young, after Worcester, I had faith in England.” Faith had sustained him. Faith and women\n and his children. “Now, what an England we have! We English fight over our country like fishwives over a farthing, every man cares only to fur his own\n skin, and my Cat is like to die because her faith does not suit. Is this a country to believe in? Faith. I have none, and I am no king to mend it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The rain battered the windows. The fire was dying. The girl Jenny was paying him no attention; she was coaxing the warm herb tea down Cat’s throat, swallow\n by swallow. “There, ma’am, that’s good; one more now.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eIn what shall I have faith\u003c/em\u003e, he thought,\n \u003cem\u003e\n if not in England? England, the country I should have thought of as I should have thought of Cat? A country a better man might govern? Or was that\n England only a night-fancy and an outworn dream?\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n If faith were a dream, though, here were two who dreamed it, this girl and Cat. A wonder, faint as the firelight, but here: two faithful people in\n Whitehall. The Condessa de Penalva had meant this girl to be thrown in the Tower, and she had known her danger, but she had come back, for Cat. And Cat had\n always been faithful to the better king she thought she saw in him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What king did they deserve?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The council meant only to secure the succession. All they asked of their king was to say he had married a not-quite-whore in a drunken fit, and they would\n have the heir they wanted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But here was the truth of it. Brother James might do what he pleased, and he had; but even exiled and throneless, Charles had always been England’s.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Would he have given his word to marry Lucy Walter? Even green and lust-drunk, would he have forgotten himself that far?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n No.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n If he had, he would have been only the king that a mummer-England deserves. A king of whores and libertines. It was not that England was better than that,\n or that he was—he had long ago ceased thinking so. But England deserved a better king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What must the King of England do?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I leave you with my thanks, Jenny,” he said. “Come, dogs.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The spaniels followed him out into the hall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n By dawn, Jenny needed more ginger from the kitchen. Outside the king’s Privy Council chamber, the corridor was mobbed; she detoured round it, hungry and\n exhausted. In the royal kitchens, she snatched bread, cheese, beer. She was sitting in the corner, quivering from exhaustion like a horse, when Thom\n dropped down on his haunches beside her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The dress is finished,” he said. “For the queen to dance in.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You’re not gone.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Did you think I’d leave without you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He put his arm around her and she burst into tears.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Jenny, \u003cem\u003ehabibti\u003c/em\u003e, what’s this then?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The king loves her so much,” was all she could say.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course he does,” Thom said, and added in a whisper, “as I love you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I know,” she said, and blotted her tears with her apron. She looked up at his loving eyes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But ’tis that—Thom, I do not love you so much as that,” she said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He sat back on his heels—startled, hurt.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n“Last night the king spoke with me about the queen. He said, \u003cem\u003eI wish I had thought of her every day, every moment, so that I had not disappointed her as I have\u003c/em\u003e. He told me to think of you every moment, as he did her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You talked with the king?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “He has told Doctor Pierce that I am to be allowed to wait on her again.” Was it mere ambition that drove her? “’Tis not his fine words that dazzled me, or\n being talked to by the king. Thom, I know you love me as truly as the king loves the queen; but I . . .” she said. “I am her servant, and my place is with\n her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Make room in your heart for me too,” Thom said. “I will wait.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Ten o’clock struck from Westminster; the meeting of the Privy Council was about to begin.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester had casually strolled by and, as casually, had found himself a window ledge in a recess. (“No, Jamie, you will not come,” he had told Monmouth\n patiently this morning. “The world cannot see you like a dog with your mouth open waiting for Charles’s scraps. If aught is to be told you, I’ll send my\n boy Will.”) His boy Will was sitting on the floor, playing with loaded dice.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Near Rochester stood Waller the poet, scribbling one of his beastly little bleats onto a tablet. Rochester looked over his shoulder.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eFor when no healing art prevail’d,\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWhen cordials and elixirs fail’d,\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eOn your pale cheek he dropped the show’r,\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eReviv’d you like a dying flower.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That’s a foul line, that cordials thing. Is the queen better?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They say the king threw himself across her bed and sobbed over her, and that she wept too and her fever has broken. If ’tis so,” Waller tapped his pencil\n against his tablet, “no harm to be prepared.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eAnd this is how Waller grows rich\u003c/em\u003e, Rochester mused. Rochester got out his own tablets, but got no farther than a title—“An Ode, on Mistress Eleanor Gwyn’s Ascent into Whoredom”—before the crowd stirred.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king was arriving.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The council table was full and men were standing around the sides of the room. Clarendon looked at the king expectantly. Clarendon was pale and a field of\n violets bloomed under his eyes; he must have been up all night.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What business before us, my lord Clarendon,” Charles asked, “that concerns so many of my loyal subjects?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty—” Clarendon cleared his throat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The Newfoundland fishing, is it not? And this matter of the \u003cem\u003eBlessing \u003c/em\u003eat Plymouth? It is admirable to see such interest in our colonial ventures,\n which must bring us prosperity.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Even his old friend Harry Bennet was here. \u003cem\u003eCharles\u003c/em\u003e, Harry had said,\n \u003cem\u003e\n mock me not for my pig-wife. When you are king, you’ll must needs marry some German sow princess, who eats five chickens at a meal. Live while you can.\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eDivine right is divine responsibility.\u003c/em\u003e\n He’d always known that. \u003cem\u003eAnd even if God deserts us\u003c/em\u003e— Charles smiled round at his court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But before these matters, my lords, gentlemen,” he said, “I have a matter to touch upon with you. There has been a false and malicious report,\n industriously spread abroad by some who are no friends to England, to me, nor to the Duke of Monmouth, that I was either contracted or married to the\n duke’s mother. I am most confident that this idle gossip cannot have any effect in this age.” Last night, when he’d polished that phrase, he’d felt his\n mouth turn wry. Now he merely smiled at them: merry Charles, the king they wanted. “Yet I think it my duty in regard to the true succession of the Crown to\n declare—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And he dropped into the king’s voice.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “In the presence of Almighty God, I never was married nor gave any contract to any woman whatsoever but to my wife, our present Queen Catherine.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The whispers started at the doorway of the Council Chamber and ran down the corridor like fire along thatch. Rochester swore under his breath, tore a leaf\n from his commonplace book, and scribbled a note to Jamie; no comment, just the news. His boy Will weaseled away through the crowd. Nell’s epithalamium must\n wait; Rochester scratched down savagely what he would not say:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWe have a pretty witty king,\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eWhose word no man relies on;\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eHe never said a foolish thing,\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eNor ever did a wise one.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles left his councillors to disentangle the Newfoundland fisheries and visited Cat, who was sleeping. “Leave us,” he ordered Cat’s chambermaids. He sat\n in the chair by his wife, holding her hand. Feliciana gathered herself, hindquarters wriggling, to jump onto Cat’s bed. “Not now, duck.” He poked at\n Feliciana gently with the toe of his shoe and she curled up, sighing, next Rogue and True on the carpet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n What would become of the succession now? He was not a king for that better England of which he’d dreamed last night. He had saved Cat’s dignity, and given\n his court a thing to believe in if they would, but they wouldn’t—they’d rather have Jamie. Tonight or tomorrow he would go again to Barbara and be\n comfortable; he knew himself better than to think he would not; and if Cat died, why, ten to one he would marry Barbara and be once and for all what he\n was, a king of fools and whores.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now you must save us from my folly, love,” he whispered to his wife. “Give us a son.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She slept on; and the King of England sat by his wife’s bed, holding her hand, alone with the dogs.\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nCharles confronted Lady Eleanor Plumstead and Lord Russell about their plots against the Catherine – the former with empathy but both with firm determination. Lady Eleanor was banished from Whitehall and returned to her home, and Russell retreated in defeat. Barbara began to have second thoughts about supporting the rumor of Jamie’s legitimacy, and Thomas the tailor’s apprentice proposed marriage to Jenny. Catherine’s pregnancy left her bedridden, and her ladies a bit too much opportunity to chat about the potential traumas of childbirth. \n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e \n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJenny Martin\u003c/strong\u003e: Chambermaid in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eThom Hamed\u003c/strong\u003e: Tailor’s apprentice in the royal service.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eDona Maria\u003c/strong\u003e: Condessa de Penalva and Catherine’s Portuguese duenna (chaperone).\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara. \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames Crofts\u003c/strong\u003e: Charles’ acknowledged but illegitimate son.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eClarendon\u003c/strong\u003e: Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor. Father-in-law to James and advisor to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Sarah Smith\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.57","slug":"whitehall-11","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP11.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall11serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall11serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall11serialbox.pdf","share_url":"http://serialbox.com/episodes/5710edbaada6e22ac9d178fa","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710edd6ada6e22ac9d178fb","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":12,"title":"More Harmony in Her Bright Eye","released_date":"2016-08-24T11:37:40.144+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"A flood of change.","byline":"Madeleine E. Robins","featured":false,"coming_soon":true,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall12.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-08-24","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eNovember 1663\u003c/em\u003e\n\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine had been strong enough that morning to go to her chapel to hear Mass. Now, making her way back to her apartments through the chilly hallways,\n that strength waned. Was she still so little recovered, or was it melancholy that made her feel so? Lady Chesterfield and Lady Castlemaine flanked her,\n ready to offer assistance should the queen require, but Catherine would not ask it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She had done her best to give her attention to the Mass, but the roar of the rain that had been falling without relent had melded with the sound of Father\n Patrick’s voice. Catherine could barely remember a time when rain had not fallen, like the tears of God Himself. When the fever had ebbed and she had at\n last returned to herself there had only been the black emptiness of loss—her own and Charles’s, for he mourned the loss of their child too. But as the\n weeks went by and that pain became quieter, other fears had come to her, the worse because she could not bring herself to speak to anyone of them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Except for the Virgin.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Kneeling in the dim chapel that had become dear to her, Catherine found herself praying silently, “Please, Holy Mother, don’t let them send me back to\n Portugal.” Was it a great selfishness to fear the humiliation of being returned, like a bit of flawed goods, so that all the world would know of her\n failure?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Was it a greater selfishness to dread the leaving of this place she had come to as a stranger? The country in which she had found love and friendship and\n her place in this world? Was it selfishness to dread leaving so many she had come to care for—from her little page Samuel to Jenny, who had fought so hard\n to keep her alive, to brusque Clarendon, to her new sister, Anne? And Charles. As well to be banished from the sight of the sun or from the air she\n breathed. Today the Mass had brought her not peace but a feeling of doom not far off.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty?” Lady Chesterfield made bold to touch Catherine’s elbow, as if she would grasp it to bear the queen up. “How do you fare, madam? May we help\n you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine shook her head. “I fare well, lady. Thank you for your care.” They were almost to her apartments. It was too much to wish she might be left\n entirely alone, but at least she might have some quiet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Or not. When they arrived in her withdrawing room it was to find Feliciana chasing Samuel and Bacchus around the periphery of the chamber, while Lord Bath\n sat with his wife and Lady Suffolk, enthusiastically telling a tale. Another dog—not a spaniel but a large, brindled hound—leaned heavily against Bath’s\n leg and permitted its ears to be fondled. Not quiet, no.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty!” Bath sprang to his feet and bowed deeply; behind him the two ladies curtsied.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lord Bath, what brings you to us on so rainy a day?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam, His Majesty bid me come to ask if he might visit with you this afternoon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “His Majesty knows I am always his to command.” Indeed, Catherine was certain that Charles knew it; to ask permission—surely this meant something out of\n the ordinary. \u003cem\u003eIs today the day the king comes to tell me he must put me aside\u003c/em\u003e? Not by choice—every moment he had spent at her bedside spoke of his\n care for her. But he was a king, and a king must have a queen who can give him sons.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As a page departed at Bath’s gesture, Catherine sat heavily in a chair near the fire. The boy was taking her answer to the king. The king would come—what\n then?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Almost immediately, as if he had been waiting, there was a clamor from the hall and the doors to the withdrawing room opened to disclose a small parade led\n by the king himself. Charles entered smiling broadly, Amity, Rogue, and Babette capering at his heels. Behind him, three liveried men followed, one bearing a small round table, one a great silver tray containing a pot, kettle, and delicate china cups, and the last with the mahogany chest in which Catherine’s own tea was kept.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Before she could rise to her feet to greet her husband he was at her side, urging her not to spoil the pretty picture she made in the firelight.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis an unlovely day, sweet. I thought we would both be the better for a cup of tea. You know, I never thought to like the stuff, but I find I do.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n By the time he had said all this, the table had been set down before Catherine, a second chair brought forward for the king, and a kettle placed on the hob to heat.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine felt tears—of joy, and of affection—welling in her eyes. “I like Your Majesty’s thought very much,” she said, as evenly as her voice would\n permit. “I am happy to find you enjoy bohea as much as I.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Surely a man who has come to tell his wife that he must put her aside would not preface it with a cup of tea.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now, this is cozy, is it not?” Charles whistled a note and the dogs—all but for Lord Bath’s hound, which lounged at his master’s side scratching noisily\n behind one ear—trotted to the king and queen. Feliciana, after wriggling her hindquarters comically, leapt into her mistress’s lap, turned thrice, and\n curled up contentedly, asleep almost at once.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine agreed that it was cozy, indeed. Almost, her fears were allayed, but: “What brings Your Majesty to tea with me?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Does a husband need a reason to sit with his wife?” Charles leaned forward, regarding her a little more closely. “Catherine, there’s a sadness about your\n eyes that dislikes me.” At his feet, his dogs rough-and-tumbled playfully.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She looked at her ladies and Lord Bath, all busy ignoring the spectacle of the king taking tea with his queen. “No sadness, sire. Only, I was thinking how\n much I should miss all of this if I had to leave it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What, miss these ill-behaved pups?” Charles fixed his dogs with a stern eye and, as one, they sat, tails stilled, watching him attentively. “Why would you\n leave? Do you wish to go to Bath again? The Exchequer is not so tight that you cannot—” He stopped, his gaze returning to her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine looked down, running a tuft of Feliciana’s fur between her fingers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003e“Ah.”\u003c/em\u003e\n He ran a gentle finger along the curve of her jaw. “What a fool your husband can be. You do not imagine that I would let my wife leave me, Cat? Not for any\n longer than to take the waters and regain her health. If this weather likes you not, well, I promise you it shall not always be this way. This is your\n home, and the sun will shine again, sweetheart.” He leaned forward. “And we will see our own pups romping across the gardens as happily as these silly\n fellows do.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As if they knew they were under discussion, the dogs broke discipline and began to sniff around the king’s feet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Now, my little Cat, may I pour you more tea?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Unable to speak, Catherine nodded.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king went through the ritual of pouring out the tea and offering the thin china cup to his wife, speaking as he did so of the rain. “I regret that\n London has not shown you its most amiable face this autumn, but you have been here long enough to know that the rains will end. When I returned to England\n I asked Parliament to do something against the rising of the water at Whitehall—” He smiled. “They did a little, but not enough. I hear that one of the\n laundries is in danger of flooding.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Surely it is better the laundry than the bakehouse?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles laughed. “Even so,” he agreed. He set his cup upon the table. “Now, Catherine, what can your husband do to lift your spirits? A song? A jest? A\n game of \u003cem\u003equinze\u003c/em\u003e?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If Your Majesty please, a game of \u003cem\u003equinze\u003c/em\u003e.” She nodded, too shy to say what was in her: that his words had set her heart at ease. In her lap\n Feliciana heaved a deep sigh of contentment. Had it been possible for a queen to do such a thing, Catherine might have echoed that sigh.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There were reports of more flooding in the cellars. When Charles had summoned his chamberlain, Lord Manchester had seen no reason for urgency. Flooding, he\n assured the king, was not in the least unusual. He would have his men look into it. “I will report to you what I learn, sire.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is my understanding that the kitchens that serve my lady Castlemaine’s apartments have flooded three times since Michaelmas, and that at least one of\n the laundries is unusable.” Charles had a moment of inspiration. “My Lord Chamberlain, \u003cem\u003eI\u003c/em\u003e will look into it and report to you.” It would give him a\n chance to use some of the energy that had found little release in these days of ceaseless rain.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was unworthy of a king, perhaps, to feel a little spiteful satisfaction at Manchester’s apologetic protests, but what was a little cold water?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As if to make up for his lack of urgency, the Lord Chamberlain now sent a man trotting to join the king, a steward named Tregellis whose charge appeared to\n be the areas belowstairs. He was a knotty old fellow with a complexion like weathered Levant and a pronounced west-country accent; his eye was\n apprehensive, and the knowledge that His Majesty wished to tour the cellars, particularly those nearest the river, did not lessen his anxiety. The man\n apologized to “Yoor Majesty and Yoor Woorships” as the king, along with His Grace of Buckingham and Lord Bath, followed him down the narrow back halls and\n stairs. Although it was barely after noon, Tregellis carried a torch against the gloom.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oi been a’tellin’ of ’em, these cellars is drownded reg’lar. And them pohrters and the loike, they’ve no notion ’ow t’ keep them passages clair.”\n Tregellis kept up a muttered commentary as they went along; Charles wondered if the old fellow even knew he was speaking. To himself, the king made note of\n things to be improved or repaired—at such time as there was the ready to pay for improvements and repairs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Ere, Yoor Majesty.” Tregellis stopped in a stone archway, one arm outflung to indicate the sunken room beyond. “Yon’s the kitchen been cloosed until the\n rains ’re stopt.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles took the torch from the man, went down three steps into water that came near to his knees, and strode forward. The first splash he heard behind him\n was Babette, with Amity behind her. The two dogs paddled gamely for a few moments, then reached a stepped-stone shelf and crawled up on it, sneezing. Lord\n Bath, who was young and game enough for anything, followed after his king, taking long strides through the icy water. There was no more splashing from the\n archway; the king wagered to himself that Buckingham was debating whether to ruin his shoes and hose. “Come, George!” he called over his shoulder. “Will\n you hang back when your king goes a-wading? Mister Tregellis, let us have another torch, if you please. Have you any notion where the water enters?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The light from the torches reflected crazily from the dark water onto the walls. The kitchen smelled of water, fish, sewage, and curiously, overall,\n onions.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For an hour the king splashed through one kitchen, then the laundries, then another kitchen. A small army of kitchen boys under the aegis of an undercook\n arrived to see if they could rescue any of the stores of flour stacked on what had been a high shelf. Charles moved forward to watch as the cook cut open a\n sack, rubbed the milled grain between his fingers, and scowled.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Ruin’t with damp, and that’s the topmost of the bags. Cook’ll have me balls in the soup—” The man remembered what he was saying and in whose presence, and\n began to apologize.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles waved away the protests. “A waste of good flour could take the heart from anyone,” he said. “Tell the cook that, er, your balls are not to be part\n of the menu, if you please. How much has been lost?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If it please you, sire, that’s the last of it. When Cook saw ’ow matters was tendin’ he ’ad us takin’ most o’ the stores to t’ other kitchen. Only left\n the flour ’ere in ’opes that the rain’d stop. This ’appens more oft’n not, most years, tho’ it ain’t so deep as a rule. Most years it ’ardly come up ’igher\n ’n this—” \u003cem\u003eThis\u003c/em\u003e, to the man, was mid-calf. “When the water’s gone and t’ hearth’s dried out, we’ll move back and no ’arm done. Or not much,” he\n added, looking again at the flour.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I won’t keep you from your work,” Charles said. “Mister Tregellis, what of the stillrooms?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He kept his men at it for a little longer, until he saw that the old steward was beginning to shudder with cold and even Lord Bath was looking woebegone.\n “We’ve seen enough, hey? Mister Tregellis, your king orders you to sit by a fire. Make your report to Lord Manchester later.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The old man bowed and took himself off. Charles hoped he would find a good stoup of hot wine as well as a fire.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Half an hour saw the king and his men seated likewise before the fire, a flagon of wine between them. The dogs lay on the rug, heat and the air from the\n fire stirring their fur into little plumes. “There ought to be some way to secure Whitehall against these floods—even Parliament must see that a drowned\n palace is no place for the queen to make her recovery.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham drank the last of his wine and put the cup down decisively. “\u003cem\u003eIs \u003c/em\u003eshe recovering, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Can you doubt it? Bath, you saw her yesterday. Is the queen not more hale than she was even a week ago?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Bath agreed that the queen did, indeed, appear much improved.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham pressed his point. “But she is . . . delicate, sir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps so, but robust of spirit.” Charles eyed his old friend. “What are you saying, George? We’ve known each other from the nursery; you may speak\n plainly to me if any man may.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The duke busied himself pouring more wine. “As you say, sire. The queen is a sweet lady, and none may question her devotion to you, or—” He stopped. Began\n again. “The queen \u003cem\u003eis\u003c/em\u003e a sweet lady, but England needs an heir.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles had been lounging in his chair. He did not move, but he felt his back tense. “I am aware of it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Perhaps—perhaps this queen is not the woman to provide one. God knows Your Majesty has had no difficulty in getting babes upon others—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Choose your words carefully, George.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire, if I am nice in my words I may do Your Majesty a grave disservice. I swore that you would have my best counsel, and hard as it is to suggest such a\n thing—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king sighed. “You believe that I should divorce Catherine and send her back to Portugal? ’Fore God, Buckingham, the queen is not the only lady to take\n some time—years, even—to produce an heir. My own mother was slow to conceive, lost her first babe—then gave my father eight children.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But what \u003cem\u003eif\u003c/em\u003e—sire, you said that when she was ill, Her Majesty dreamt that she had children, more than one.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “That was the fever in her blood. You see how heavily the matter lies with her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire, what if those are the only children Her Majesty ever has? England needs flesh-and-blood heirs, sire. Not the phantoms of a deranged mind.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now Charles sat upright. He did not trust himself to look directly at his old friend. Instead he spoke to the fire. “You would have me put aside a woman to\n whom, before God, I swore my troth and fealty, to send her back to her people, humiliated? Od’s fish, Buckingham, I’d not have thought you had such ice in your veins.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If I have, ’tis only because I am hot in my affection for Your Majesty. And in my love for my nation. You do not need me to tell you that the crown you\n fought for came with burdens as well as privileges. Sire, you would not be the first monarch to put aside even a happy marriage to provide the heir his\n nation needed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king felt his pulse hammer. “Oh, aye. My great-great-uncle Harry made a sport of divorce and remarriage—and himself the grandsire of all the religious\n trials in this nation! \u003cem\u003eChrist Jesu\u003c/em\u003e, Buckingham: Catherine and I are joined in the eyes of God; no mere inconvenience will break that bond.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham might have argued, but Charles fixed him with a glare meant to seal the duke’s lips. When he had his temper in check, the king went on. “My wife\n has had at my hands a deal of ill treatment, and borne it, for love of me and out of Christian charity. If I had no other reason to love her, I swear that\n would be enough. I will not repay that with rank ingratitude, and send her home the object of derision and contumely.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n There was silence in the room but for the snap of the fire and Babette’s wheezing snore.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At last, the king sighed heavily. “Buckingham, I know you mean only for the best. God has made me king, and that is my sacred charge. But God has also made\n me husband, and sure that is no less sacred.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Clarendon suppressed the urge to get down from the sedan chair and finish the trip from Parliament to Whitehall on foot. There had been a break in the rain, but the London streets were filled with standing pools and the unlovely mix of mud and filth, and the chairmen risked slipping and upending their\n passenger did they go too swiftly. The earl had used the last of his patience to stand in the Lords’ Chamber and let Ned Seymour and Serjeant Maynard rail\n that he had arranged to wed the king to a barren princess with malice and deliberation, in hopes that his daughter’s children would someday take the\n throne. The earl had kept his temper, was exhausted with the doing of it, and wanted nothing more than a quiet afternoon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, aye,” he said aloud. “Fine chance of that at Whitehall.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Wot’s ’at, Yer Worship?” The front chairman was looking over his shoulder. Clarendon wished the man would watch his footing instead.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nothing, nothing. Where are we?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Only a street or two from King Street Gate, Yer Worship.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Stop here, then, and let me down.” Clarendon pulled a brace of coins from his purse, paid the man, and stepped gingerly from the chair. This close to the\n palace the street had been swept a little. Still, Clarendon felt a trickle of water in his shoes as he went; it seemed to him that he had not a single\n garment left that was not damp, nor did the best efforts of palace staff serve to chase the damp from his lodgings. If ever the rains stopped he would step up his efforts to find a piece of land to build a house upon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The guards at the gate saluted, although Clarendon found their flourish somewhat dispirited. Rather than cut across the Privy Garden as he might ordinarily\n have done, he skirted the Bowling Green and the Stone Gallery, aiming for the offices nearest Scotland Yard. As he made his way through the warren of royal\n apartments and audience chambers, he heard his name.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good God, sir, what are you about? Off to hear the business of the nation?” It was His Grace of Buckingham, looking uncharacteristically disheveled. “Come\n hear mine instead, and I can give you a cup of good wine for the listening. I’d like a word with you. But this way, sir. I have a powerful need to rid me\n of these garments.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n It was as if a prayer unspoken had been answered. Clarendon reversed himself and fell into step with Buckingham.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “May I ask, Your Grace—” Clarendon gestured at Buckingham’s filthy clothes.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “His Majesty wished to inspect the offices belowstairs and see how badly the river has overflown into them.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And took you swimming through them? My condolences.” They had reached Buckingham’s apartments, where the duke surged through the doors with the certainty\n of a man who never doubted there would be porters to open them for him, shedding muck-rimed shoes, hose, breeches, and doublet as he went, until a\n manservant stepped forward to help him shrug into a quilted robe. He gave orders to have a bottle or two of Spanish red brought, and threw himself into a\n chair before a fire, waving Clarendon to another chair. “There, that’s better.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The earl waited until the wine had been brought, tasted, and pronounced tolerable, and the servants had backed away into seemly invisibility. “This is very\n welcome, Your Grace,” he said at last. “But you said you wanted a word?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For once Buckingham seemed uncomfortable. “Aye, sir. ’Tis a difficult matter to speak of. I tried to broach the subject of the queen to His Majesty today,\n but he would have none.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “The subject of the queen?” Clarendon felt the wine sour on his tongue. This was too like the haranguing he had met in Parliament. “I had understood that\n she is healing from her late indisposition.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “She is,” Buckingham allowed. “But what does that illness tell us? No, stay: I am not one of those who would have it that you brokered the marriage for\n your own benefit, my lord. If the queen was unbroached before her marriage—and who would believe else, as squat and pious as she was!—then there was no way\n to know that she was barren, whatever rumors the Spanish put about. But now ’tis proven—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eIs\u003c/em\u003e it proven, Your Grace? His Majesty’s own mother took some time to produce an heir. Why should we assume that Queen Catherine will fare any\n differently?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Buckingham pursed his lips. “I hold the queen dowager in the greatest possible esteem, Clarendon, but matters were not so—so \u003cem\u003ebrittle\u003c/em\u003e in those\n days. The late king could afford to give the marriage—give the queen time to prove herself.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You said all this to His Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Now Buckingham looked abashed. “He would not hear it.” Almost, he had the sound of a sullen schoolboy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And you think him ill-advised? Even did His Majesty wish to put the lady aside, England should have to return trade ports that are only now begun to\n generate money—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Little else to return: One cannot pay an army with galangal and sugar loafs. One might say that the queen has not yet paid in full for the crown her\n mother bought her. “\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon had finished the last of his wine and reached to pour himself more. “Are you willing to manage such a negotiation? For I will tell you: I am not.\n And as I said, we have no proof that the matter is so dire. ’Tis not two years since they were wed, and we know the poor lady can conceive—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye, but can she bear?” Buckingham got to his stockinged feet and began to pace.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A feminine voice interrupted. “Can she bear \u003cem\u003ewhat\u003c/em\u003e, Your Grace? An’ you ask if anyone can bear your fretting, I will tell you, sir, the answer is\n no.” Buckingham’s duchess approached from an antechamber, her smile both amused and warning. “I hope you do not speak of my mistress.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon rose to bow to the duchess, who stood upon no ceremony in taking her husband’s seat. Before she could order it another cup appeared, and a chair\n for the duke.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I was saying to your husband that many a woman has lost a babe and yet borne other healthy ones. You are much in company with the lady, madam. What do you\n say?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The duchess pushed a curl of soft brown hair from her cheek and sipped at the glass in her hand. “Of the queen? What may I say but that she is a very sweet\n lady, and a kind and a clever one—and that I do not see why you men are in such a hurry.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This was clearly not the answer that Buckingham expected—or wanted—from his wife. “You were not always so hot in her defense, madam.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have had time to learn to know her,” the duchess said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Whatever you say of other women, I note that His Majesty has had no difficulty siring children—on Lady Castlemaine alone—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This was too much for Clarendon. “My cousin Barbara may be a fertile field, Your Grace, but she is not a noble one. His Majesty’s very . . .” He reached\n for the word. “His very \u003cem\u003efacility\u003c/em\u003e in getting children suggests that he will succeed with the queen, does it not?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And is there nothing more to being a queen than the getting of heirs, my dear?” The duchess looked over her shoulder at her husband. “The queen may yet\n provide the child for which she, more than any Englishman, yearns, but for the nonce she has put herself to learn our language and our ways, and taken true\n interest in the people she—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Od’s blood, madam, you used to call her a pious bore!” Buckingham broke in. His ruddy face was dark as he looked from his wife to Clarendon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “If ever I said such a cruel thing I have learned better,” the duchess said coolly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “But damn it, the nation must be ruled!” Buckingham dashed his wine into the fireplace, where it sizzled for a moment. Then, apparently ruing his outburst,\n the duke dropped into his empty chair and poured more wine into his glass. “The nation must be ruled, in this generation and the next. And not by a\n Catholic.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Clarendon nodded. “I agree, sir. But I believe earnestly that the queen means to live up to her compact. Her children will be raised as good Englishmen and\n women, and Protestant. She is not—” He paused. “She is not Henrietta Maria, may God bless her, who would not forbear to meddle.” He turned to Her Grace of\n Buckingham. “Am I not right, madam?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The duchess laid her hand over her husband’s. “I believe you are, Lord Clarendon. \u003cem\u003eAnd\u003c/em\u003e I believe that men are too hasty to make good judges in the\n matter. You may leave the queen alone, George. The king—and the kingdom—are safe with her.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king’s offices were not much known to Lord Rochester. He preferred the ballroom, the Banqueting Hall, the withdrawing rooms where he might jest and\n flirt and tease the court and the king at will. But His Majesty had summoned him for a word, so Rochester had spent a little time before the glass\n ascertaining that he presented an appearance appropriate to the Presence, and started to thread his way from the private to the public rooms of Whitehall.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The first chamber was filled with petitioners, from a pair of red-faced fellows who, from the smell of them, kept pigs in a midden, to one very\n pinched-looking Puritan in the unrelieved black broadcloth of his kind. Rochester gave his name to the page when he entered and expected to be taken in at once—after all, he had been summoned. He stood, waiting, while the minutes on the great watch the page wore round his neck ticked by, until a full quarter\n hour had passed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I believe His Majesty is desirous of seeing me,” Rochester said then.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The man bowed. “He is, my lord. But there are others he also desired to see. I am certain you will be called shortly. Will my lord be pleased to take a\n seat?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n My lord was pleased to do so, but less pleased when the pig keepers preceded him into the next chamber. He wished he had a pen and paper—although pig\n keepers were hardly the stuff of verse. He found himself fidgeting for lack of occupation. “If His Majesty cannot see me today, I would certainly be happy\n to return on the morrow.” Rochester kept his tone mild, as if trying to be helpful.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I believe you will be the next to be called, sir,” the page said—just before ushering the anxious Puritan through the door.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Others had now taken the places of the departed petitioners. None as odorous as the pig keepers, but even so . . .\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My lord Rochester?” The page bowed very low and gestured Rochester through the doorway.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The earl sauntered in, only to find himself in another chamber, with another liveried page, and no sight of the king.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Rochester was not much given to self-reflection, but as he stood, warming his backside at the fire, he began to wonder. Was the king attempting to make a\n point? His Majesty might have some idea of his involvement in Monmouth’s amusing, bootless ambitions. It had been a naughty bit of business, but like so\n many naughty things, entirely amusing. Although Barbara had, toward the end of it, distanced herself from Monmouth’s claims. Perhaps she had been wise.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Could it be some other matter? Nothing that would warrant so formal a scolding. Unless—another thought occurred: Unless His Majesty had somehow learned of that night in Lady Castlemaine’s chambers. Rochester had put the memory from his head, sensing its danger. The king’s mistress \u003cem\u003eand\u003c/em\u003e the king’s son?\n For a man so given to the bedding of women, Charles could be peculiarly prudish, and Rochester doubted not that he would put the worst possible complexion on the episode.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Damnation,” the earl muttered. The fire was too hot; his breeches were scorching.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lord Rochester! My lord?” A porter held the door to an inner chamber, and the secretary bowed him through.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n This time Rochester did not saunter, but marched in briskly. The king was at a desk reading the top leaf from a pile of papers. Rochester snatched his hat\n off and bowed deeply to his sovereign.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king waved his hand in acknowledgment and kept reading. He did not ask Rochester to sit, so the earl could not. He stood, and again the thought of his\n night with Lady Castlemaine and Monmouth returned; to his horror, the earl felt a flush of arousal at the memory.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king’s voice, when it came, seemed very loud. “Hennessey, Paget, you may leave us.” This to two more pages who flanked the door behind the earl. “Now,\n Rochester. What am I to do with you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king’s voice was mild, curious. “Was it you put the notion in my son’s head that his mother and I were wed?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For a moment Rochester felt the heat of relief on his face: The matter was Monmouth’s insistence upon legitimacy, not three bodies writhing in the sheets.\n “\u003cem\u003eI\u003c/em\u003e, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Tis a simple enough question. Did you tell my son that I wed his mother?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “How would I know such a thing, sire? I was barely out of petticoats—” No, that would not play. The king’s dark brows were drawn together. “Tell him you\n were wed to Mistress Walter? No, sire.” That, at least, was simple truth: The lad had arrived at Whitehall with that bee already firmly lodged in his\n bonnet.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Never encouraged him in any way?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n That was a thornier question; of course he had encouraged the boy, for the sport of it, and to see how far the jest could be played out. What harm? “Who is\n to say what the boy took for encour—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “\u003cem\u003eOd’s precious bodikin\u003c/em\u003e, Wilmot! Spare me your equivocation. I’ve seen Jamie look to you for guidance—it matters not to me that he admires you—tho’\n were he older one might question his judgment. He’s a boy, and he might as well have been raised by wolves before I had him stolen away and installed with\n Crofts—and that was barely better. Loyal and good-hearted, Crofts, but not a man to raise a king’s son, even a bastard. Now the boy craves a thing he\n cannot have—and it is no kindness to make him believe he might ever be king.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty knows I would not—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do I know it? I have word from Lady Castlemaine that you would indeed.” His Majesty rose from his chair, his height intimidating. His tone was no longer\n so measured. “Od’s love, the thing has your mark all over it. You would delight just so much in loosing my dogs in the dovecote, for the ado it would\n cause. Or that stunt with the monkey last year. You live for trouble, and never reck the cost.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I—what cost, sire?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What \u003cem\u003enot\u003c/em\u003e? Cost to Jamie, who worked himself up into a futile dream and made himself game for any charlatan who wanted to provide him with a false\n set of letters. To Lady Castlemaine, who it seems you made an unwitting audience to your encouragement—yes, she told me the whole.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Told him \u003cem\u003eher\u003c/em\u003e version of the whole. Rochester would have a word with Lady Castlemaine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Even then I’d hoped this idea of Jamie’s would pass. I let other business distract me until it became a crisis. But I know what this cost the queen, to\n hear such rumors spread about at a time when she was in a most delicate case. I know the cost to the nation, which needs all confidence in its rulers if\nthe country is to survive. \u003cem\u003eYou\u003c/em\u003e needn’t concern yourself with such matters, but \u003cem\u003eI\u003c/em\u003e must. If I \u003cem\u003enever said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one\u003c/em\u003e”—Rochester winced to hear his own words come back to him—“perhaps it is because I must pick out a narrow path among the needs of this nation.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “’Twas all meant for a jest, sire. I never thought for a moment the boy would—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Go.” The king pointed at the door. “If you cannot speak truth to your king—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It \u003cem\u003eis\u003c/em\u003e the truth, sire. All a jest. I did not think of the consequences—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nThe king sighed. “You did not \u003cem\u003ecare\u003c/em\u003e for the consequences. You never do.” Under his unwavering gaze Rochester found himself nodding. \u003cem\u003eConsequences are . . . not amusing\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king was speaking again. “I want you gone within a se’ennight, Rochester. You have a merry wit, and I love you well, but we cannot have you here. Go\n home to Oxfordshire, where none but your own people may be hurt by the exercise of your troublesome wit.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n After a day’s respite of skies so blue and clear it seemed the rains had washed all gloom from the face of the Earth, the storms had returned, their fury\n redoubled. Dinner in the Great Hall had been a hodgepodge affair, with the number of courtiers much reduced. That was as well, for there were barely a\n dozen dishes to table: Lady Chesterfield had said something about the buttery and kitchen being “quite sunk,” but Catherine did not understand how that\n could be until she looked out the south-facing windows of her apartments to see how high the Thames had risen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What of the cooks and the . . .” She had groped for the word. “\u003cem\u003eCozinheiros\u003c/em\u003e. Those who work with them.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Chesterfield laughed, but kindly. “The scullions? They have been moved to another kitchen away from the river. But much of the fresh stores were lost,\n and so Your Majesties’ dinner is much reduced.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “As long as our people are safe,” the queen said.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When the meal was over, Charles had bowed over her hand and promised to call upon her later—but there was a deep line between his brows, and he was\n distracted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will be happy to see Your Majesty when the time is right—but if our people need you, you must go and help them.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles kissed her hand, then her cheek—so publicly! Catherine blushed. “Bless you, sweet, for your understanding.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then he was gone, with a steward and half a dozen liveried men following after.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine, Lady Chesterfield, and Lady Bath had returned to the queen’s chambers. There was no business to do—who would go out in such weather?—and cards\n palled. Her musicians were worrying at a French passacaille, but Catherine found she missed the simplicity of Lady Eleanor’s cittern.\n That lady—the queen hoped she was happy at home with her family; even to Catherine’s outsider’s eyes Lady Eleanor had never seemed comfortable at court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The lamps barely stayed lit; the wind that shrieked and wuthered outside seemed to find its way into the chambers.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t fear, Your Majesty.” Lady Chesterfield’s voice was low and calm. “The palace has withstood worse storms, and greater cold. This time last year—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine nodded. A year ago there had been snow. She had been in England, an English wife, for a year and a half, long enough to see how the seasons\n changed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lady Chesterfield, perhaps you will read to us?” she suggested. “The king has given me a book of poems . . .”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The dark afternoon slid into a dark evening, and the queen decided to retire early. Her ladies undressed her, and the maid Jenny took away her gown and\n shift while Lady Bath put Catherine into her nightdress and cap. Lady Chesterfield fussed, but the queen enjoyed the kindliness of it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At last Catherine said her prayers and settled in to bed, with Lady Bath beside her. Early on, when she had been more the foreigner and unused to the\n formalities of the English court, the queen had not been much in the way of talking to whichever lady shared her bed. Tonight, with the cold wind weeping\n through the halls, Catherine might have welcomed conversation. But Lady Bath was asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow. Catherine sighed;\n the sound was echoed by Feliciana, curled in the lee of her breast. In the shadowy dark, Jenny moved around the room finishing her work, then lay down on\n the pallet at the foot of the queen’s bed. Since Catherine’s illness, the younger woman rarely left her mistress at night, lest she be needed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen closed her eyes and slept.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine woke to the sound of the rattling of rain against the windows and the eldritch keening of the wind. And something else, a rushing of water\n somewhere close by. But the bedchamber, like her withdrawing room, faced northward on the Privy Garden; the river was on the south side of the building.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty—” At the foot of the bed, Jenny rose from her pallet and turned to the hall, but before she could take a step the door opened and the king\n was framed in the dim light, with Lord Bath behind him. Both men wore boots and rough doublets, as if they had been out riding; both, Catherine realized,\n were soaked through.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When they stepped into the room, Catherine heard sloshing. Water here? “Charles!” she cried out. Then recalled herself. “Your Majesty, what is it?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n At her voice the king looked up and smiled. “A little more damp than we expected, madam. But if you will bear with me, I think we can make you comfortable again.” He turned to Jenny. “Gather up a gown or two for your mistress. Something warm.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lord Bath was already at his wife’s side, murmuring to her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty? What is it?” Catherine repeated.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Our English dew is a trifle heavy this morning, sweetheart. Now—” The king bent and gathered Catherine, with all the bedclothes wrapped about her, and\n lifted her to rest against his heart. “There, I have you. Bath?” When he turned to look at his man, Catherine saw that Lord Bath had his own wife in his\n arms—although Catherine thought that lady looked less secure there than she was in Charles’s arms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Feliciana!” Catherine looked about her anxiously.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have her, madam!” And indeed, Jenny had tucked the little dog up in a shawl tied to make a sling, and stood ready to follow with a bundle of Catherine’s\n clothes in her arms.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles turned and led the way out of Catherine’s room—yes, there was water in the hall!—and to the stairs. The rushing of water she had heard was from the\n stairwell below, but Charles turned to go up to the next floor, carrying Catherine as if her weight were nothing at all. Even through the quilted covers\n she could feel his warmth and his strength.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n When they reached the next floor, after a moment of consultation with Jenny, the small parade continued along the hallway until it reached a door which\n opened onto a single chamber, perhaps a quarter the size of Catherine’s bedchamber below, but blessedly dry. Charles put Catherine on her feet—when was the last time her feet had touched the floor unshod?—and supervised as Jenny made up the bed. Feliciana tumbled out of the sling into the quilts. Jenny scooped\n the little dog up, handed her to her mistress, and had finished with the linens just as one of the porters arrived with an armful of dry wood to kindle a\n fire.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Shortly, Catherine was tucked away in bed again—a smaller, harder bed. She and Feliciana watched as Jenny put away the clothes she had brought up with her,\n and Charles inspected the room.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You’ll be safe and dry here, sweet. And in a moment, warm as well. And you, mistress”—he turned to Jenny—“I hope you brought up a dry petticoat for\n yourself.” Catherine looked and saw that the poor girl’s night-robe was wet almost to her knees.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Jenny! You will take cold. His Majesty is right.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny smiled at the fuss. “A few minutes before the fire should see me right, madam. I thank you for your care.” She curtsied to a point somewhere between\n the king and Catherine.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Bath had taken a chair near the fire, with her husband standing solicitously beside her.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Who have I displaced?” Catherine asked in Spanish. “Whose room have I taken?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n For once it seemed the king did not know, but Jenny did. “I believe one of the ladies who came with you from Portugal slept here, madam. See?” She gestured\n to a small crucifix—silver filigree—that hung from a cord out of sight of the door, but visible to the person in the bed. Ah, then: Whoever it had been was\n long gone.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Are you comfortable?” Charles had come to sit upon the bed. “We must go help the others—I gave orders to clear the lower floors and search to make sure\n that no one was left in danger.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine cast her eyes down, suddenly shy. In Spanish she said, “I suppose it is too much to hope Your Majesty might bide with me a while. This bed is\n small, but I do not take much room.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She heard him catch his breath. “Ah, sweetheart. I had not thought—you have been so ill. And tonight—” The look he gave her was surprised and pleased . . .\n and distracted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Tonight, Your Majesty has duties, and I should not keep you from them. Perhaps when you are done you might come and take your ease?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles smiled, reached forward, and pushed back the strings of the nightcap that covered her still-short hair. “Perhaps, Cat. I shall hope to do so. Now,\n you must sleep again. If you are to entertain the King of England, you must be well rested.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And have my wits about me! Good night, sire. Thank you for this rescue. And as you love me, have a care to yourself. Even a king might take a chill.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king raised her hand to his lips, which lingered there. “While I have you in my heart, madam, I need fear no chill.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n And then he was gone, with Bath following after. As if the sun had set, the room was suddenly dimmer, colder.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine shrugged herself down into her covers. It was a long while before she slept.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Almost as quickly as they had risen, the waters of the Thames flowed out again, leaving odorous mud and mess behind. The Duke of Monmouth picked his way\n across Scotland Yard; despite frost, workmen were everywhere, sweeping out debris, mending framing that had been splintered by the wet, resetting flags\n that had washed up. Two gardeners were conferring over a tree that stood sideways with its roots exposed, one shaking his head, the other talking\n seriously.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Thames, it seemed, was no respecter of persons.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king had caused a desk to be set up in the Banqueting Hall, as it was far enough from the river to have sustained little damage, and large enough to\n hold all the petitioners come to meet with him. Monmouth had been invited to join the king, and came with a heart half enraged and half fearful. However\n private the council meeting might have been meant to be, word had begun to trickle out, then to rage like the Thames floodwaters. Surely there was no one\n left who mattered who did not know that His Majesty had publicly denied a marriage with Mistress Walter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Inside the Banqueting Hall, fires had been lit and tapers burnt, but the great space was still dark and chilly. A crowd of men stood before the desk,\n likely there on the same business; Jamie could hear his father’s deep tones, then the brusquer, higher voice of another of the men. Government men, in\n brown and blue and bottle-green coats, serious men going about their business. No courtiers, no one of account.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Grace, if you will follow me, His Majesty asks that you bide just a little time until the gentlemen from the Navy have finished.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n That explained who they were, and was of some little interest to Jamie, particularly when he saw his uncle James among them. A few more minutes of\n discussion, then the crowd of gentlemen bowed and left the hall. None of them, Jamie noticed, bowed to \u003cem\u003ehim\u003c/em\u003e as they passed, or even seemed to\n notice him. He tried not to mind it, but it stung. \u003cem\u003eAm I not still the king’s son and a duke of the realm\u003c/em\u003e?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The Duke of York left as well, by the eastern door. Jamie stood and tucked his hat firmly beneath his arm: He would never take the chance of going covered\n in the king’s presence again.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The page was at his elbow, urging him forward.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king rose when he saw him. Surely that must mean some good thing. “Monmouth, how did you fare in our great weather?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I was lucky, sire; we ’scaped the worst of it at my wife’s house.” Jamie bowed and looked at his father’s face for some clue of what was to come. He saw\n nothing.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “My house was not so fortunate, as you see. Come. Walk with me.” He put his arm out as if he might draw his son to him, but Jamie, unsure what to do, moved\n awkwardly toward the door.\n \u003cem\u003e\n Are the rules for the bastard son of a king different to those for an ordinary man? What should I say to the man who proclaimed my mother a wanton\n before the most powerful men in England?\n \u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “This is not the place for a chat today,” the king said. “Let us go to the park.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As he spoke the words three tiny balls of mud came streaking across the garden. His Majesty did not seem to mind the ruin of his hose or breeches but let\n the three dogs caper about his feet as they would. They went out by the old staircase directly into the park, and the king set a pace as if his mind was\n much occupied.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I must beg your pardon, boy,” he said at last. “I was so little a part of your life—I had hoped that Crofts’s family would give you the affection that\n your mother—that \u003cem\u003eI\u003c/em\u003e could not, consumed as I was with regaining the kingdom. Whatever your state is, you are my son, and much loved.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And my state is bastard, sire. Just another bastard got on another whore—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king turned to Jamie, and the boy, who had never had reason to fear his father, stepped back at the anger in the king’s eye. Very deliberately the king\n took a breath, then another, and his right hand, which had balled into a fist, relaxed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do not dishonor your mother with such words, James.” His voice was mild, but under it was iron. “She was a boy’s love, and perhaps such is not meant to\n last, but while it did . . . I am sorry that I had to protest your bastardy so publicly—I would have spared you that. But the trouble you set roiling did\n not allow of it, and there were other lives than your own would have been touched if I had not put an end to those rumors. Well, it is over now, and the\n question is, what is to be done with you? You want for occupation.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eOccupation?\u003c/em\u003e\n “What occupation, sire? Farmer? Grocer? If I am no prince, what am I?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Don’t sneer at the common man, James. Many of them, brave men all, died fighting for my cause. As for what you are, is that not for you to show the\n world?” The king bent and picked up a stick to throw for the dogs. “I have spoken with the Duke of York, and he means to take you with him to Portsmouth\n and make you part of the Navy. I don’t believe you lack for courage, James. I hope you will be moved to show the world that your birth is the least part of\n you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The two of them walked in silence for a few minutes. Charles watched as his son struggled with outrage that gave way, after a moment, to dawning excitement. What boy does not crave adventure?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Does my wife come with me, sire?” Monmouth said at last.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Surely that is between the two of you? Your Aunt Anne would make her welcome in Portsmouth, if you want her there. It would give the girl a chance to\n learn more of the demands upon a Navy wife—perhaps away from the influence of her mother?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lady Wemyss—” Monmouth faltered. What was there to say about that meddlesome lady?\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I have heard she is much concerned with—well, with everything,” the king said drily. “Perhaps you and Her Grace of Buccleuch both might welcome some time\n to come to know each other without her? Mothers-in-law, with the best will in the world, can be difficult.” The king’s smile was wry. “Think upon it, lad.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The king turned back toward the palace, still at the pace that made councilors and servants—and his dogs—trot after him. Jamie adjusted his stride,\n determined that he would not chase after his father.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Christmas was drawing near. The year before, despite the snow, it had been a season of songs and jests and plays, almost feverish, as if the whole nation\n meant to reclaim the feast that had been banned under Cromwell; the feast of Epiphany, so important in Portugal, had been subsumed in welcoming the\n Muscovites. Now, this year, between the great rains and her own unsettled feeling of loss, Catherine wondered how the season should be celebrated. In\n Portugal there would be the \u003cem\u003emissa do galo\u003c/em\u003e at midnight, with the image of the infant Jesus to kiss. And the \u003cem\u003econsoada\u003c/em\u003e on Christmas\n morning—a feast for all, including the dead! Even at court this had been a season of festivities. But it felt odd and awkward for her, Catholic and a\n foreigner, to suggest a fete or party.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne would advise her. As Jenny had become the one Catherine looked to in matters of English style, Anne was the one to whom she addressed her questions on\n court matters. She dispatched little Samuel with a message for the Duchess of York. The day’s petitioners had been spoken to, their grievances and requests\n noted. One woman had come to ask the queen to bless her infant daughter, and Catherine had held the babe for a moment, almost overpowered by the hollow\n ache that the touch of smooth, soft skin against her cheek had caused her. But she had kissed the child and handed her back to Lady Chesterfield, who had\n returned the babe to the mother, who had bowed herself from the room with tears in her own eyes.\u003cem\u003e I hope my blessing does you no harm, sweet child.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I will go to see my birds,” she said now to Dona Maria and Lady Suffolk, who sat nearest to her. In the month and more since her illness, Catherine had\n not been to the volary; how were her finches, linnets, and nightingales faring? Lady Castlemaine, who had her own birds and was most devoted to them, stood\n at once to follow her; it was one of the things, oddly, that they shared. The queen found her birds plump and drowsy in the heat from a stove lit there\n against the chill. Lady Castlemaine kept canaries and doves, but Catherine loved her songbirds. When the weather warmed the room would be filled with\n music.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty?” The Duchess of York stood in the door to the volary, eyeing the caged birds uneasily.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I had forgotten you do not like my little friends,” Catherine said in Spanish. She blew a kiss to her flock and left, drawing her sister-in-law out into\n the hallway. She was happy to leave Lady Castlemaine in the volary, reaching through the cage bars to stroke the feathers of a greenfinch.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne looked abashed. “I cannot keep from fearing that they will fly at me and peck out my eyes.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine was horrified. “And I made you find me there? Sister, I am so—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, dearest sister! ’Tis a foolish fear—not as if it was a falcon’s nest or some place where fierce birds light. And yet I cannot keep the fear away. But\n let us speak of some other thing. I have news to give you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I hope it is happy,” Catherine said. She led her sister-in-law to her library—a smaller room than the withdrawing or presence chambers, but one in which\n more private conversation was often possible. She was braced to hear that the duchess was again with child—a joyful thing, but oh, how the thought made the\n queen ache.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It is happy—and sad as well. His Majesty has given my husband leave to return to Portsmouth and his work with the Navy.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And you remove with him?” The sense of relief that swept her was replaced almost at once with a feeling of loss. “How I shall miss you! Your wise\n counsel—and how you have taught me so much. If I had not seen you tease the duke I should never have had the nerve to jest with His Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And it is great sport to tease them, is it not?” Anne smiled. “I shall miss you, too, sister. You have been an unexpected blessing to me.” They spoke for\n a while of the journey; Catherine remembered her own trip from Portsmouth.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then, “Oh, and young Monmouth comes with us, to be put into some useful service,” the duchess said. “I thought it would ease your mind.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “It does,” the queen agreed. “I regret—I had so hoped I could make him part of our family, that he would feel welcome. For the king’s sake, but for his own\n as well.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Sister, I love you for your generosity, but that young man came already full of—if you will forgive me—his own importance, and he was a ripe target for\n those who would use him to their own ends.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What ends?” Catherine knew there was much she had missed during her illness; now that she was well again she must make sure she never again understood so\n little of the undercurrents of the court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “For some, perhaps power or the promise of it. For others, amusement.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine shook her head. “I do not understand that sort of amusement.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nor do I. Removing him from all those connections is likely to resolve the problem. And I do not scruple to tell you—” Anne leaned closer with a look\n mingling resignation and mischief. “I am as happy to remove James from London for a while. There is a female he has been much involved with, and that\n affair could do with a bit of cooling off. I know that James’s heart is mine, but his other parts sometimes go roving. Which is well and good when I am\n ill, or busy, or taken up with the children; but in the end I mean him to return to me. Now, have I shocked you, dearest Catherine?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “No, I—” The queen paused to consider, and realized that it was true: She was not shocked. How Mamãe would disapprove of her \u003cem\u003elack\u003c/em\u003e of disapproval!\n She had come to accept Barbara Palmer as a fact of life, and even, a little, to admire her courage and her heart. Perhaps, with a man like Charles, so\n abundantly physical, having the love of two women was not only useful to him, but had advantages to her. When she had been recovering, it had comforted\n her, in some ways, to know where the king was when he was not with her; that he took comfort there, when she could not give it to him.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n But she was much recovered. Almost completely. The doctor had said he saw no reason she could not bear a child—it was the fever that had caused her\n miscarriage. It was time to remind His Majesty that they were trying for an heir. At the thought, Catherine’s heart sped a little.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have not shocked me at all, dearest Anne. But you remind me of what I wished to speak to you about. I need advice. I wish to celebrate Christmas, and\n my recovery, and . . . and an end to all the trouble that this year past has brought. Do you think the king would enjoy a party of all his closest friends,\n to go to the theater?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Anne clapped her hands in delight. “I cannot think of anything that would please him more! And Mister Killigrew will be beyond joyful at the idea of so\n many greats come to fill his theater. James and I are not leaving until after Twelfth Night, so we may be there with you. You have hit on the very thing to\n put the heart in us all after this dreary, wet autumn.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Still seated, Catherine did a little dance of delight, and Feliciana, attracted by the sound of tapping feet, turned from her surveillance of the volary\n door, firmly shut against her, and dived under her mistress’s skirts to investigate.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I am so glad! Now, I have one more thought, and you must tell me if what I plan will scandalize the English court.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Good heavens, madam, shock the English court? I do not think it is possible.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Well, listen then.” Catherine leaned forward, relieved as the duchess’s face went from quizzical to amused to a broad smile.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen returned from her visit to the bird room with the Duchess of York, both of them a-wreath in smiles. Jenny, who had received a pile of carefully\nstarched and ironed linens from the queen’s laundress, was arranging them in a clothespress; she looked up from her work long enough to enjoy the sight.\u003cem\u003eI made the right decision\u003c/em\u003e, she thought. A hard choice, and almost harder, the look on Thom’s face when she had told him no. \u003cem\u003eThis is where I belong. With her\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Almost as if the queen had heard her thoughts, she spoke Jenny’s name.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny laid the laced cuff in her hand carefully atop its mate, stood, smoothed her skirts, and approached the queen.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty?” She curtsied.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “We require your assistance,” the duchess said. “Can you be spared for a moment from your duties?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen’s seamstress, who had the ordering of the waiting women, nodded as one who would say, \u003cem\u003eWhen the queen summons, you go\u003c/em\u003e.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Of course, Your Grace. How may I help?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen answered in Spanish. “I have a plan, Jenny, and it requires a tailor to do . . . well, something I suspicion Master Gilman would dislike.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Madam?” What on earth could the queen propose that even a master tailor would feel free to disapprove of? “But if not Master Gilman?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Do you think his young man might like a commission from the queen? Master Gilman said, when last he was here, that his apprentice had earned his journeyman papers.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A commission from the queen? Such a thing could set Thom up in his own business at once, with no hard years of striving.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will you speak to your young man—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Not mine, Your Majesty,” Jenny said, before she could stop herself. “His name is Thomas Hammett.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Thomas Hammett,” the queen repeated. Curious, that as she spoke it, Thom’s name came closer to \u003cem\u003eHamed\u003c/em\u003e. Would that please him? “Summon Mister\n Hammett then, to see if he can do what I require. I will need it soon.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eNeed what soon?\u003c/em\u003e\n “I will send to him at once, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen excused her, and Jenny left the room at a decorous pace—only to break into a trot when she reached the stairs to the kitchen. It would not do to\n send one of the queen’s pages—they, saving only little Samuel, were all boys of good families who would be gobbled up by the streets did they go out\n without a keeper. She headed for the guards at the Holbein Gate; there were always a few lads hanging about hopeful of an errand. She found one—a scrawny\n redheaded boy who reminded her of her youngest brother, and gave him, as best she knew it, the direction of Thom’s garret.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You tell him that Mistress Jenny Martin, of the queen’s service, has a commission for him. You do that and bring him back and I’ll have a penny for you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Make it two!” the boy bargained.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “What sauce is this? Two pennies—if you have him here within the hour,” she agreed.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then, smoothing her apron again, she returned to the queen’s tiring room and her starched cuffs.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A little more than an hour later Thom arrived. He was short of breath, and his hose demonstrated that he’d come on foot through the muck of London’s\n streets. And there was hope in his eye, which broke her heart.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I had to give the boy two pennies,” he said wryly.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Then you were swindled; the second was only if he got you here \u003cem\u003ewithin\u003c/em\u003e the hour.” How easily they fell to teasing. But: “Her Majesty herself asked for you, Thom. It could be your making.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n A little light went out of his dark eyes. “Oh.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Then I am fortunate indeed.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I didn’t mean to make you think—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I know you did not. Well, then, Mistress Martin, had you not better take me to the queen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She brought him in to the withdrawing room through the tiring room, and would have left when the queen acknowledged him. Instead: “Jenny, please stay. I\n might have need of you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Then, with Jenny offering assistance, the queen explained what she wanted.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Is it a costume for a masque, Your Majesty?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Like the dress your master made, like the \u003cem\u003eestrela cadente\u003c/em\u003e? The star that—” The queen drew an arc in the air. “The star that flies? No, not a\n costume, Mister Hammett, although I mean to wear it to the theater. And I would like it to be \u003cem\u003every\u003c/em\u003e fine. If you do well, I shall tell everyone I\n meet who is my tailor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny could see Thom calculating the cost, the hours, what seamstresses and embroiderers he might have to hire away from other work. Already he was\n thinking as a man of business. She was proud of him, and happy for him. And wistful, if she was to be honest.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “When does Your Majesty plan this trip to the theater?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Within a se’ennight—it can be done?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He smiled lopsidedly. “It will be my privilege, madam. Shall I come tomorrow with fabrics to show you?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Could you not bring them this evening?” the queen cajoled. “I do not wish you to be behindhand in starting, mister tailor.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen dismissed him with her thanks, and a smile of delighted complicity. Jenny had not seen her so happy since . . . since the summer.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “So, Mister Hamed, you are on your way,” she said as she walked him through the tiring room to the hallway.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “By your offices, Mistress Martin.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Nay, by your own. ’Twas Her Majesty who thought of you. She thought Master Gilman too stodgy to do what she wanted.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom was startled into a laugh. “Aye, and she’s likely right there.” He looked at Jenny and sighed. “So this is how it is to be?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny did not meet his eyes; she was too aware of his height and scent and warmth so near. “It is. And I am so happy for this good fortune for you, Thom.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “And I hope all your ambitions are fulfilled as well, Jenny. If Her Majesty likes what I make for her, I suppose we will still see each other from time to\n time.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Aye. Will you still be my friend?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Thom regarded her. “\u003cem\u003eCan\u003c/em\u003e a man and a maid be friends?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I shall hope so. Good afternoon, Thom.” Jenny turned back to her work. She would see Thom again—but would make sure to be somewhere else this evening when\n he returned with the fabrics. Doing what was right did not mean doing what was easy.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I like your young tailor, Jenny,” the queen said to her later.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Jenny bit back \u003cem\u003eNot my tailor\u003c/em\u003e. “I am glad of it, Your Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Lady Chesterfield was talking with Dona Maria; the other ladies who were there were murmuring among themselves; the pages stood beside the door, all except for Samuel, who sat by the fire teasing Feliciana with a strip of gammon.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your Majesty—may I make bold to ask when and at what theater this performance is to be?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen blushed, and Jenny remembered, as she did from time to time, that the queen was only a woman, and not so much older than herself.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I do not know yet! But I mean to organize a party for the theater, as a celebration for His Majesty. His Majesty—” Her blush deepened, warming her olive\n skin. “His Majesty should see that I am quite recovered.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The rain returned the next day, but Barbara was surprised to find the queen’s apartments filled with a kind of cheer and light that had been missing since\n her illness. As she entered the withdrawing room she looked for her gossip, Lady Suffolk, but she was not there. The queen sat at her table with Lady\n Buckingham, and when she saw Barbara she gestured for her to join them.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara was thunderstruck. In the weeks of the queen’s recovery, the reserve—no, call it by its true name, enmity—between them had somehow vanished, as if\n the whole question of who would own the king’s heart had somehow become unimportant. But this appeared to be something like friendship.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Lady Castlemaine, we are in need of your good office,” the queen began. “Lady Buckingham tells me you know most about the theater?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara swallowed her astonishment. “The theater, madam? What is it you need to know?” \u003cem\u003eAnd to what purpose?\u003c/em\u003e “I will of course help all that I may.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Please sit, lady.” The queen smiled. “I wish to have a party at the theater for His Majesty, a great fete to celebrate my recovery, and the end of this\n troublesome year, and the birth of our Lord, and—and because it will please him. I know Mister Killigrew’s company is his favored one, and a new theater—”\n She paused. “Is this theater finished? Could Mister Killigrew be ready soon—a few days—for this party? You could speak to him?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Barbara felt a frisson of pleasure at the thought of planning such a party. Killigrew would be in an ecstasy. “Of course, madam. I will send a message to\n him directly—”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Some little part of Barbara watched as she, Lady Buckingham, and Queen Catherine talked, devising among the three of them an evening intended to enchant\n the king and the court. A voice murmured, \u003cem\u003eWho would even have thought this possible?\u003c/em\u003e When a tray arrived with the queen’s tea, Barbara meant to\n drink a cup for courtesy’s sake—but found that the queen had ordered chocolate to be made ready in case her ladies preferred it.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eSomething has changed in her\u003c/em\u003e, Barbara thought. \u003cem\u003eAnd perhaps something has changed in me.\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who would own Charles’s heart? It was a great heart, large enough to love her, and their children, and Monmouth. And yes, the queen and any children they\n might have.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Will there be a dance, Your Majesty?” Lady Buckingham asked. “After your performance with the king, the people may expect it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n The queen shook her head. “Not this evening, I think.” She looked at Barbara. “Let us make this evening all for His Majesty.”\n\u003c/p\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\n\u003cstrong\u003ePreviously on \u003cem\u003eWhitehall\u003c/em\u003e:\u003c/strong\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\nBarbara gave birth to a healthy son while Catherine’ s health and pregnancy took a sharp turn for the worst. Jenny had to enlist the king himself to force Dona Maria to stand aside and allow Catherine proper care. Servant and king shared an equalizing moment as both sat by Catherine’s bedside during her fever dreams in the aftermath of her miscarriage. Charles came to own his dedication to Catherine and publicly announced that he never married Jamie’s mother and has every intention of staying married to the queen. Jenny turned down Thomas’ request for her hand after realizing what her own true priorities were. \n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Who's Who:\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCatherine of Braganza\u003c/strong\u003e: Queen of England and wife to King Charles II.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eCharles II\u003c/strong\u003e: King of England, and restorer of the monarchy.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBarbara Palmer\u003c/strong\u003e: Countess of Castlemaine and favored mistress to King Charles II.\u003c/p\u003e \n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eRochester\u003c/strong\u003e: John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester. A rake loyal to Barbara. \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eJames Crofts\u003c/strong\u003e: Charles’ acknowledged but illegitimate son.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAnne\u003c/strong\u003e: Duchess of York, wife to James, and a Catholic. \u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eClarendon\u003c/strong\u003e: Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor. Father-in-law to James and advisor to Charles.\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eLord and Lady Buckingham\u003c/strong\u003e: Whitehall courtiers.\u003c/p\u003e \n\n\u003chr\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWriter: Madeleine E. Robins\u003cbr\u003eCover Artist: Ellice Lee\u003cbr\u003eEditor: Heather Lazare\u003c/p\u003e","sku":"com.serialboxpublishing.serialbox.article.58","slug":"whitehall-12","audio":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/audio/WH_EP12.mp3","epub":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall12serialbox.epub","mobi":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall12serialbox.mobi","pdf":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/ebooks/whitehall12serialbox.pdf","share_url":"http://serialbox.com/episodes/5710edd6ada6e22ac9d178fb","item_price":199,"bundle_price":199,"subscriber_price":159,"header_bg_color":"#000000","number_display":null},{"id":"5710ede5ada6e22ac9d178fc","issue_id":"570d3d05ada6e22ac9d17638","number":13,"title":"Safe Harbor","released_date":"2016-08-31T11:05:35.582+00:00","released":true,"strapline":"Curtain call at the Theatre Royal. ","byline":"Liz Duffy Adams and Delia Sherman","featured":false,"coming_soon":true,"background_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/covers/whitehall13.jpg","icon_image_url":"","divider_image_url":"https://serialbox.cachefly.net/whitehall/dividers/whitehall_divider.png","divider_color":"","display_date":"2016-08-31","body":"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\n \u003cem\u003eDecember 1663\u003c/em\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n As Catherine’s chair stopped and the door was opened, her breath came quick, and she felt a thrill through her palms and soles. She sprang easily out onto\n the swept street and took Charles’s waiting arm. A brief progress under the oyster-gray sky, a refreshing chill and the smell of roasting chestnuts, and\n then they were inside, through a dim passage to a bright, vast, open space: the newly built Theatre Royal on Drury Lane.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Afternoon light through a dusting of snow on the great glass dome overhead filled the house with a diffuse glow, warmed by hundreds of candles in sconces.\n Fresh evergreen garlands looped the walls and galleries, perfuming the air with laurel, resin, and rosemary. Musicians played beneath the raised stage,\n above which towered the fresh-gilded proscenium and red velvet stage curtain. Thousands of brass nailheads glittered like eyes on the green-baize-covered\n benches in the pit, where the audience sat or milled about—servants, artisans, merchants, and people of quality mixing in cheerful promiscuity. A\n chattering throng filled the three levels of galleries that ringed the pit nearly to the high ceiling. The first gallery opposite the stage, however, stood\n empty, waiting for the court.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine held on tightly to Charles’s arm, feeling his warmth all the way through his brocade sleeve and her leather glove. She was distantly aware of\n Thomas Killigrew greeting them—she must have acknowledged his bow—but her head buzzed as though it were hollow and full of bees.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles was magnificent, as ever, in black-and-gold brocade. But today all eyes were not on him, but on his queen, clad in the daring new fashion for\n ladies brave enough to wear it: a suit of men’s clothes!\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n She, Mister Hammett, and the invaluable Jenny had designed it: the doublet and breeches made of claret red silk velvet, embroidered with silver thread and\n pearls; the close-fitted waistcoat of silver-and-gold-flowered brocade; the pearly silk linen hose outlining her legs from just above the knee down to her\n very pretty embroidered red-heeled shoes. A miniature velvet three-cornered hat nodding with plumes perched on her dark wig, curling locks tumbling down\n over her shoulders.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles’s expression when she showed herself to him before they left Whitehall was a memory she would cherish, for he was not easy to surprise—his jaw had\n dropped. And then he had looked at her much as he was looking now, with frank and sensual appreciation. She was not so certain of her subjects’ approval.\n After all, the English were suspicious of Catholics and foreigners, and her illness—her miscarriage of the heir—had kept her out of the public eye for\n months. In short, she was nervous almost to sickness. But as they swept through the crowd, Catherine saw no frowns on the faces turned to her, no disdain\n for her clothing or her person, no judgment or suspicion or dislike, but only astonishment, followed by delighted smiles, curtsies, and deep, admiring\n bows.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles led her up the stairs and across the royal box—large as a generous reception chamber, and most charmingly appointed—so that she might acknowledge\n the crowd come to celebrate the king’s first visit to the newly reopened home of his personal company. It would be at least an hour before the play would\n begin, Thomas Killigrew had told her when she was planning this event—an hour sacred to the earthly delights of gossip, flirtation, and intrigue.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Saluting the throng of eager faces below, she thought that whatever passed in the royal box \u003cem\u003ewas\u003c/em\u003e the play, at least until the curtain opened. She\n murmured so that only Charles could hear, “Tell me again that I am not the most shocking spectacle the world has ever seen?”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles looked into her eyes. “Exceedingly shocking, sweeting. Also glorious, radiant, and all things extraordinary, and I will tell you so as many times\n as you would like to hear it.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Oh, do not promise that, for I fear between vanity and doubt I will keep you saying it until long after the play is done and the sweepers are longing for\n their beds!”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Charles laughed, and Catherine thought there was little in the world she liked better than being the cause of that laughter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He said, “Nay, if you truly need to be reassured, only look about you. There is not a man in the place who doesn’t admire you, nor a woman neither.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “I care not what anyone thinks but you.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “Your luck is in, then. For in all most heartfelt sincerity, Cat,”—his voice lowered, as though he wished to be unheard by any but her—“you quite turn my\n head. I believe you know how I love a play, but I could wish it over and done, so we were alone in your bedchamber, and I on the point of enjoying the\n novel pleasure of undressing a man.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Catherine squeezed his hand, as though in earnest of later touches, and felt his pulse beating against hers. “I must be as bold as my clothes proclaim me,\n and say . . . and say . . .” Then she shook her head smiling, leaving her blush to speak for her. Charles slipped his arm around her waist, and kissed her.\n The crowd below raised a friendly cheer, which she acknowledged with a wave, exuberantly returned.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “They love you,” Charles said. “Having so nearly lost you, they have learned what value to set upon you. As have I, far slower than I can entirely forgive\n myself for.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n Surprised, Catherine began to shake her head. “No,” he said, his face grave. “You are the soul of kindness; you will not reproach me. I know I’ve not\n always been all I should have been to you. I cannot promise never to grieve you more, for in truth,” and his gleam of humor was back, self-deprecating and\n wry, “I know I shall.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n He took up her hand and pressed it between both of his. “But I do say, dear Cat, that I most truly do love you and honor you, and hope always to have your\n loving friendship.”\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n “You have that, and always shall, my dearest, dearest . . . Charlie.” She brought out the name slyly and beamed as he gave his characteristic, unbridled\n shout of laughter.\n\u003c/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\n \u003chr\u003e\n\u003c/p\u003