“You think that?”
“Yes,” he said. “It is ours.”
“You are proud to own her, Philip. Well, we must see that your interest in the little girl does not become known to your Lady Elizabeth.”
His faced darkened at the memory of the scene he had so recently experienced with his wife.
“I care not,” he said.
She tapped him sharply on the arm.
“I care,” she said. “I’ll not have you bruit it abroad that this child is yours.”
“You are reserving her for a higher fate? Barbara, you witch!”
“Philip, soon I shall be well.”
“And then …”
“Ah! We shall meet ere long, I doubt not. Why, you are a more eager lover than you once were!”
“You become a habit, Barbara. A habit … like the drink or gaming. One sips … one throws the dice, and then it is an unbearable agony not to be able to sip or throw the dice.”
“It pleases me that you came so quickly to my call.”
He was holding her hands tightly, and she felt his strength. She looked into his face and remembered that occasion four years ago in the nuttery. “The first time,” she said. “I remember. It was nothing less than rape.”
“And you a willing victim.”
“A most unwilling one. ’Twas forced upon me. You should have been done to death for what you did to me. Dost know the punishment for rape?”
The woman came in. She was agitated. “My lady, Madam … the King comes this way.”
Barbara laughed and looked up at her lover.
“You had better leave,” she said.
Chesterfield had drawn himself up to his full height.
“Why should I leave? Why should I not stay here and say, ‘By God, Your Majesty, I am honored that you should come so far to see my daughter?’”
Barbara’s face was white and tense with sudden anger. “If you do not leave this chamber this minute,” she said, “I will never see you again as long as I live.”
She meant it, and he knew she meant it.
There were moments when he hated Barbara, but, whether he hated or loved, the knowledge was always with him that he could not live without her.
He turned and followed the woman out of the chamber; he allowed himself to be led ignobly out through a back door that he might run no risk of coming face-to-face with the King.
Charles stepped into the room while his accompanying courtiers stayed in the corridor.
Barbara held out her hand and laughed contentedly.
“This is an honor,” she said. “An unexpected one.”
Charles took the hand and kissed it.
“It pleases me to see you so soon recovered,” he said. “You look not like one who has just passed through such an ordeal.”
“It was a joyful ordeal,” she said, “to bear a royal child.”
Eagerly she watched his face. It was never easy to read his feelings.
He had turned from her to the child in the cradle.
“So the infant has royal blood?”
“Your Majesty can doubt it?”
“There are some who doubtless will,” he said.
She was reproachful. “Charles, you can talk thus while I lie so weakly here!”
He laughed suddenly, that deep, low musical laugh. “’Od’s Fish, Barbara, ’tis the only time I would dare do so.”
“Think you not that she is a beautiful child?”
“’Tis hard to say as yet. It is not possible to see whether she hath the look of you or Palmer.”
“She’ll never have a look of Palmer,” said Barbara fiercely. “I’d be ready to strangle at birth any child of mine who had!”
“Such violence! It becomes you not … at such a time.”
Barbara covered her face with her hands. “I am exhausted,” she murmured brokenly. “I had thought myself the happiest of women, and now I find myself deserted.”
The King drew her hands from her face. “What tears are these, Barbara? Do they spring from sorrow or anger?”
“From both. I would I were a humble merchant’s wife.”
“Nay, Barbara, do not wish that. It would grieve me to see our merchants plagued. We need them to further the trade of our country, which suffers great poverty after years of Cromwell’s rule.”
“I see that Your Majesty is not in serious mood.”
“I could be naught but merry to see that motherhood has changed you not a whit.”
“You have scarce looked at the child.”
“Could I look at another female when Barbara is at hand?”
Her eyes blazed suddenly. “So you do not accept this child as yours …?” Her long, slender fingers gripped the sheet. Her eyes were narrowed now and she was like a witch, he thought, a wild and beautiful witch. “If I had a knife here,” she said, “I would plunge it into that child’s heart. For would it not be better for her, poor innocent mite, that she should never know life at all than know the ignominy of being disowned by her own father!”
The King was alarmed, for he believed her capable of any wild action. He said: “I beg of you do not say such things, even in a jest.”
“You think I jest then, Charles? Here am I, a woman just emerging from the agony of childbed; in all my sufferings I have been sustained by this one thought the child I bear is a royal child. Her path shall be made easy in the world. She shall have the honors due to her and it shall be our delight—her father’s and mine—to love her tenderly as long as we shall live! And now … and now …”
“Poor child!” said Charles. “To be disowned by one because she could be owned by many.”
“I see you no longer love me. I see that you have cast me aside.”
“Barbara, should I be here at this time if that were so?”
“Then you would take your pleasure and let the innocent suffer. Oh, God in Heaven, should such an unfortunate be condemned to live? As soon as I saw her I saw the King in her. I said, ‘Through my daughter Charles lives again.’ And to think that in my weakness that father should come here to taunt me…. It is more than I can bear.” She turned her face from him. “You are the King, but I am a woman who has suffered much, and now I beg of you to leave me, for I can bear no more.”
“Barbara,” he said, “have done with this acting.”
“Acting!” She raised herself; her cheeks were flushed, her hair tumbled, and she looked very beautiful.
“Barbara,” he said, “I beg of you, control yourself. Get well. Then we will talk on this matter.”
She called to her woman. The woman came nervously, curtsying to the King as her frightened eyes went from him to Barbara.
“Bring me the child!” cried Barbara.
The woman went to the cradle.
“Give the child to me,” said the King. The woman obeyed. And because he loved all small and helpless creatures, and particularly children, the King was deeply touched by the small, pink, wrinkled baby who might possibly be his own flesh and blood.
He looked down at the serving woman and gave her one of those smiles which never failed to captivate all who were favored with them.
“A healthy child,” he said. “Methinks she already has a look of me. What say you?”
“Why, yes … Your Majesty,” said the woman.
“I remember my youngest sister when she was little more than this child’s age. They might be the same … as my memory serves.”
Barbara was smiling contentedly. She was satisfied. The King had come to heel. He had acknowledged her daughter as his, and once more Barbara had her way.
The King continued to hold the child. She was a helpless little thing; he could easily love her. He owned to many children; so what difference did one more make?
Spring had come to England, and once more there was expectation in the streets of London. It was exactly a year since the King had returned to rule his country.
The mauve tufts of vetch with golden cowslips and white stitchwort flowers gave, a gentle color to the meadows and lanes which could be seen from almost every part of the city. The trees in St. James’ Park were in bud and the birdsong there sounded loud and jubilant as though these creatures were giving thanks to the King who had helped to build them such a delightful sanctuary.