The Loves of Charles II (63 page)

“Your Majesty is beloved of the gods. I see no reason why there should not only be three but many miracles in your life.”

“You speak like a courtier. Still, pray for me, Winchelsea. Pray that I get me a wife who can bring much good to England and pleasure to me.”

Within a few days the King’s ministers were discussing the great desirability of the match with Portugal.

On the scaffolding the people had congregated to watch a procession such as they had never seen before. They chattered and laughed and congratulated one another on their good sense in calling the King back to his country.

Tapestry and cloth of gold and silver hung from the windows; the triumphal arches shone like gold in the sunshine; the bells pealed forth.

The King left his Palace of Whitehall in the light of dawn and came by barge to the Tower of London.

On St. George’s Day the great event took place. The procession was dazzling, all the noblemen of England and dignitaries of the Church taking part; and in their midst rode the King—the tallest of them all, dark and swarthy, bareheaded and serene with the sword and wand borne before him on his way to Westminster Abbey.

That was a day for rejoicing, and all through it the city was thronged with sightseers. They were on the river and its banks; they crowded into Cheapside and Paul’s Walk; they waited to see the King, after his crowning, enter Westminster Hall, passing through that gate on which were the decomposing heads of the men who had slain his father.

“Long live the King!” they shouted; and Charles went into the building which was the scene of his father’s tragedy. And when he sat at the great banqueting table, Dymoke rode into the hall and flung down the gauntlet as a challenge to any who would say that Charles Stuart, the second of that name, was not the rightful King of England.

Music was played while the King supped merrily, surrounded by his favorites of both sexes; and when it was over he took to his gilded barge and so to Whitehall.

But the merriment continued in the streets where the fountains flowed with wine; the bonfires which sprung up about the city cast a fantastic glow on the revelers.

Men and women drunk with wine and excitement lay together in the alleys and told each other that these were King Charles’ golden days, while others knelt and drank a health unto His Majesty.

The glow of bonfires was like a halo over the rejoicing city, and from a thousand throats went up the cry: “Come, drink the health of His Majesty.”

A few weeks after his people had crowned him King, Charles called together his new Parliament at the House of Commons and welcomed them in a speech which charmed even those who were not outstandingly Royalist in their sympathies.

“I know most of your faces and names,” said Charles, “and I can never hope to find better men in your places.”

Charles had come to a decision. He had to find money somehow. The revenue granted him was not enough by some £400,000 to balance the country’s accounts. Charles was grieved because the pay of his seamen—a community in which he was particularly interested, for indeed he considered them of the utmost importance to the Nation’s security—was far in arrears. He had had to raise money in some way, and had borrowed from the bankers of the city since it was the only way of carrying on the country’s business; and these bankers were demanding high rates of interest.

How wearisome was the subject of money when there was not enough of it!

So he had come to his decision.

“I have often been put in mind by my friends,” he told his Parliament at that first sitting, “that it is high time to marry, and I have thought so myself ever since I came into England. If I should never marry until I could make such a choice against which there could be no foresight of inconvenience, you would live to see me an old bachelor, which I think you do not desire to do. I can now tell you that I am not only resolved to marry, but whom I resolve to marry if God please…. It is with the daughter of Portugal.”

As the ministers had already been informed of what went with the daughter of Portugal the house rose to its feet and showed the King in boisterous manner that it applauded his choice.

Barbara heard the news. She was perturbed. The King to marry! And how could she know what manner of wife this Portuguese woman would be? What if she were as fiercely demanding as Barbara herself; what if she resolved to drive the King’s mistress from her place?

Barbara decided she was against the marriage.

There were many people to support Barbara. Her power was such that she had but to drop a hint as to her feelings and there would be many eager to set in motion any rumor that would please her.

“Portugal!” said Barbara’s friends. “What is known of Portugal? It is a poor country. There is no glass in the windows even at the palaces. The King of Portugal is a poor simple fellow—more like an apprentice than a king. And what of the Spaniards who are the enemies of the Portuguese? Where will this marriage lead—to war with Spain?”

Barbara demanded of the King when they were alone together: “Have you considered these things?”

“I have considered all points concerning this match.”

“This dowry! Her mother must be anxious to marry the girl. Mayhap she can only marry her to someone who has never seen her.”

“I have reports that she is dark-haired and pretty.”

“So you are already relishing your dark-haired pretty wife!”

“’Tis well to be prepared,” said the King.

Barbara turned on him fiercely. There was a flippancy about his manner which frightened her. Of all her lovers he was the most important by reason of his rank; the others might seek consolation elsewhere, and she would not care with whom; with the King it was another matter. There must be no woman who could in his estimation compare with Barbara.

“Ah,” sighed Barbara. “I am an unfortunate woman. I give myself … my honor … and I must be prepared to be cast off when it pleases you to cast me aside. It is the fate of those who love too well.”

“It depends on whom they love,” said the King. “Themselves or others.”

“Do you suggest that I think overmuch of myself?”

“Dearest Barbara, none could help loving you beyond all others—so how could you yourself help it?”

“It amuses you to tease me. Now tell me that you will not let this Portuguese woman come between us.”

She put her arms about his neck; she lifted her eyes to his; they were wet with tears. Barbara was a clever actress and, even though he knew this, her tears could always move him. Barbara tender was almost a stranger.

He said: “There is only one, Barbara, who could prevent my loving you.”

“And who is that?”

“Yourself.”

“Ah! So I have let my feelings run away with me, have I? How easy it is for some to be calm and serene…. They do not love. They do not care. But when emotions such as mine are involved …” She threw back her head and laughed suddenly. “But what matters it! You have come to see me. We are here together…. This night we may be together, so let the devil take the rest of my life…. I still have this night!”

Thus she could change from tearful reproaches to urgent passion; always unaccountable, always Barbara.

Nothing should alter his relationship with her. He assured her of that. “Not a hundred Portuguese women who brought me ten million pounds, twenty foreign towns and all the riches of the Indies.”

That year passed pleasantly for Charles. There was business to be conducted, affairs of state to be attended to, there was sauntering in the Park, bowls and tennis; there was racing, sailing and all the pleasures that a King could enjoy who was full of health and vigor.

He had made inquiries of Portugal. He had written letters to Catherine of Braganza, charming letters, which reflected his own personality, the letters of a lover into which he was able to infuse the illusion that the marriage which was to take place was not as one arranged by their two countries but based on pure love.

By the end of the year Barbara was pregnant again. She was exultant.

“I am glad!” she cried. “I would have the whole world know that I bear your royal child. This time there shall be no doubts. Charles, if you doubt this one to be yours, I’ll not have it, I swear. I’ll find some means of destroying it ere it is born…. If that fails, I’ll strangle it at birth.”

The King soothed her. The child was his. He was as sure of that as she was.

“Then what will you do to prove it? How long shall I remain plain Barbara Palmer?”

It was more than a hint, and the King was not slow to act. It seemed only fair to him that Roger Palmer should be rewarded for his complaisancy.

It was during that autumn that Charles wrote to his Secretary of State: “Prepare a warrant for Mr. Roger Palmer to be Baron of Limerick and Earl of Castlemaine, these titles to go to the heirs of his body gotten on Barbara Palmer, who is now his wife.”

Barbara was delighted when she heard she was to be the Countess of Castlemaine.

She could not rest until she had sought out Roger.

She flung the news at him like a gauntlet.

“Now you see what marriage with me has brought you!”