Catherine was twenty-three but she looked no more than eighteen. Her hair was beautiful, a cascading mass of dark brown waves, and her eyes which were also brown were large and bright, gentle and just a little wistful as she looked up at him. They seemed to beg for kindness and to ask apology for her own shortcomings. For her skin was inclined to sallowness; her front teeth protruded a little. And he had been told that she was scarcely five feet tall.
Still—he thought—for a princess, she’s not bad.
Catherine had been bred in a convent, embroidering, praying, singing hymns, waiting for her mother to find her a husband. When she did, Catherine was already far beyond the age when most princesses married and still she knew nothing at all of men, was almost as ignorant of their natures as if they had been members of another species. She had expected to learn to love her husband because it was a woman’s duty to do so; but now as she looked up at Charles she realized that she had already fallen in love with him. Everything about him seemed wonderful to her: his swarthy good-looks, the powerful grace of his body, the deep smooth gentle tones of his voice which lapped over her like a warm tide, stilling some of her terrors, echoing in her heart.
The next morning they were married, first by a secret Catholic ceremony in her bedchamber, again in the afternoon according to the rites of the Church of England. A few days later they set out for Hampton Court. And though there was much gossip to the effect that Charles was disappointed in his marriage and ready to accept Barbara Palmer back again as soon as she had recovered from her confinement, both their Majesties seemed perfectly happy and content and as much in love as though they had not married for reasons of political expediency.
But if Catherine was satisfied, there were others in her suite who were not.
Penalva, an ailing, near-sighted old virgin, disliked England the moment she set foot upon it. It was too different from Portugal to be good. The women, she decided immediately, were wanton and bold, the men unscrupulous and dishonourable, and she undertook to warn the naive little Queen of these facts.
“The Court of England,” she said sternly, “must needs be much remodelled before it is fit for the occupancy of your Majesty.”
Catherine, who was still admiring her splendid crimson-and-silver-hung apartments, examining the massive toilet and mirror made out of pure beaten gold, looked at her in surprise, but with a happy little smile.
“Why, perhaps it should be. I’ve not heard what condition it’s in, but I don’t doubt his Majesty will be glad to make any repairs I ask—he’s so kind to me.” Her dark eyes went out the windows, looking across the stretches of green lawn, the blooming flower-plots, and something dreamy and thoughtful came into them that evidently annoyed Penalva.
“You misunderstand, your Majesty! I was not speaking of the
“Why,” said Catherine, “what’s wrong with them?”
“Can it be your Majesty has not noticed how these women dress? All of them go half naked from morning till night.”
“Well—” she admitted with some reluctance, for she did not want to be disloyal to her new land and husband. “They are—different—from what we’re used to seeing at home.”
“Different! My dear, they’re indecent! No woman whose intentions were innocent would display herself before a man as these creatures do. Your Majesty, you have an opportunity to earn for yourself the gratitude of all England—by reforming the Court.”
“I wouldn’t know how to begin. Perhaps they wouldn’t like to have an outsider—”
“Nonsense, your Majesty! What does it matter what they would like! You’re not their subject! They are yours, and must be made to understand so immediately—or you will find yourself a mere hanger-on at your own Court.”
Catherine smiled gently, thinking that the poor old lady was so concerned for her happiness that she saw a great deal of evil where none existed. “I think you’ve misjudged them, my lady. They all look so fine—I’m sure they must be good.”
“Unfortunately, your Majesty, that is not the way of the world. The good are never ostentatious—these creatures are. Now, your Majesty, you must listen to the advice of an old woman who has lived a long while and seen a great deal. Be mistress in your own Court! Be a leader, not a follower, or they’ll leave you alone for whoever does undertake to lead, and Heaven knows, in this abandoned place it could be no one of good character. Begin, your Majesty, by putting off those absurd English clothes his Majesty gave you. Return to your native costume, and others will be forced to follow.”
