But he must not think of Barbara now. He must think of a means of raising money.
When he returned to the Palace Lord Winchelsea was waiting to see him. Winchelsea had recently returned from Portugal, and he had news for the King which he wished to impart to him before he did so to any other.
“Welcome, my lord,” said the King. “What saw you in Portugal that brings such brightness to your eyes?”
“I think mayhap,” said Winchelsea, “that I see the solution to Your Majesty’s pecuniary difficulties.”
“A Portuguese wife?” said Charles, wrinkling his brows.
“Yes, Sire. I had an interview with the Queen Regent of Portugal, and she offers you her daughter.”
“What manner of woman is she?”
“The Queen is old and earnest, most earnest, Your Majesty.””
Not the Queen—I have not to marry her. What of the daughter?”
“I saw her not.”
“They dared not show her to you! Is she possessed of a harelip, a limp, a squint? I’ll not have her, Winchelsea.”
“I know not how she looks, but I have heard that she is mightily fair, Your Majesty.”
“All princesses are mightily fair when they are in the field for a husband. The fairness is offered as part of their dowry.”
“Ah, Sire, the dowry. Never has there been such a dowry as this Princess would bring to England—should Your Majesty agree to take her. Half a million in gold!”
“Half a million?” cried the King, savoring the words. “I’ll swear she has a squint, to bring me half a million.”
“Nay, she is fair enough. There is also Tangier, a seaport of Morocco, the island of Bombay—and that is not all. Here is an offer which Your Majesty cannot afford to miss. The Queen of Portugal offers free trade to England with the East Indies and Brazil. Sire, you have but to consider awhile what this will mean to our merchants. The treasure of the world will be open to our seamen….”
The King laid his hand on Winchelsea’s shoulder. “Methinks,” he said, “that you have done good work in Portugal.”
“Then you will lay this proposition before your ministers, Sire?”
“That will I do. Half a million in gold, eh! And our sailors to bring the treasure of the world to England. Why, Winchelsea, in generations to come Englishmen will call me blessed. ’Twould be worthwhile even if …”
“But I have heard naught against the lady, Sire. I have but heard that she is both good and beautiful.”
The King smiled his melancholy smile. “There have been two miracles in my life already, my friend. One was when I escaped after Worcester; the other was when I was restored to my throne without the shedding of one drop of blood. Dare I hope for a third, think you? Such a dowry, and a wife who is good … and beautiful!”
“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?”