His one concern was to keep from the Queen knowledge of the state of his relationship with Lady Castlemaine; and as all those about him knew this was his wish, and as he was a most optimistic man, he did not doubt his ability to do so.
In the meantime he wished to indulge Catherine in every possible way; it pleased him to see her happy, and it seemed the easiest thing in the world to make her so. Now he listened to her request almost with eagerness, so ready was he to grant it.
“It is my country,” she said. “The news is not good. Charles, you do not hate the Catholics?”
“How could I, when that would mean hating you?”
“You are being charming as usual, and not saying all you mean. You do not hate them for other reasons?”
He said: “I owe much to Catholics. The French helped me during my exile, and they are Catholics. My little sister is a Catholic, and how could I hate her! Moreover, a Mr. Giffard, who did much to make possible my escape after Worcester, was also a Catholic. Indeed no, I do not hate Catholics. In truth, I hold it great folly to hate men because their opinions differ from my own. Women of course I should never hate in any circumstances.”
“Charles, be serious to please me.”
“I am all seriousness.”
“If the Pope would promise his protection to my country, it would have less to fear from Spain.”
“The Pope will support Spain, my dear. Spain is strong, and Portugal is weak, and it is so much more convenient to support that which is in little danger of falling down.”
“I have thought of a way in which I might appeal to the Pope, and with your permission I would do it.”
“What is this way?”
“I am a Catholic, here in a Protestant country. I am a Queen, and it may be that all the world knows now how good you are to me.”
Charles looked away. “Nay,” he said quickly. “Nay…. I am not so good as I ought to be. Mayhap the whole world but you knows that.”
She took his hand and kissed it.
“You are the best of husbands, and I am therefore the happiest of wives. Charles, would you grant me this permission? If you did, it would make my happiness complete. You see, the Pope and others will know how you love me, and they will think I am not without influence with you … and thus this country. If I might write to the Pope and tell him that now that I am in England I will do everything within my power to serve the Catholic Faith, and that my reason for coming here was not for the sake of the Crown which would be mine but for the sole purpose of serving my faith, I think the Pope will be very pleased with me.”
“He would indeed,” said Charles.
“Oh, Charles, I would not attempt to persuade you to act against your conscience.”
“Pray you, have less respect for my conscience. He is a weak, idle and somnolent fellow who, I fear, often fails in his duty.”
“You joke. You joke continually. But that is how I would have it. It is that which makes the hours spent in your company the happiest I have ever known. Charles, if I could make the Pope believe that I would work for the Catholic Faith in England, I could at the same time ask for his protection of Portugal.”
“Yes, that is so; and I doubt not that you would get it for such a consideration.”
“And Charles, you … you … would agree?”
He took her face in his hands. “I am the King of a Protestant country,” he said. “What think you my ministers would say if they knew I had allowed you to send such a letter?”
“I know not.”
“The English are determined never to have a Catholic Monarch on their throne. They decided that, more than a hundred years ago on the death of Bloody Mary, whom they will never forget.”
“Yes, Charles. I see you are right. It was wrong of me to ask this of you. Please forget it.”
As he continued to hold her face in his hands, he asked: “How would you convey such a letter to Rome?”
“I had thought to send Richard Bellings, a gentleman of my household, whom I can trust.”
“You suffer because of your country’s plight,” he said gently.
“So much! If I could feel that all was well there, I should be happy indeed.”
He was thinking how sweet she was, how gentle, how loving. He wanted to give her something; he wanted to give all that she most desired. A letter to the Pope? What harm in that? It would be a secret matter. What difference could such a letter make to him? And how it would please her! It might be the means of securing Papal protection for the poor harassed Queen Regent of Portugal, who had trials enough with her half-imbecile son as King and the Spaniards continually threatening to depose the pair of them. What harm to him? What harm in promises? And he felt a guilty need to make Catherine happy.
“My dearest wife,” he said gently, “I ought not to allow this. I know it well. But, when you ask me so sweetly, I find it mighty hard to refuse.”
“Then Charles, let us forget I asked you. It was wrong of me. I never should have asked.”
“Nay, Catherine. You do not ask for jewels or money, as so many would. You are content to give of your love, and that has given me great pleasure. Let me give something in return.”
“You … give me something! You have given me such happiness as I never knew existed. It is not for you to give me more.”
“Nevertheless I shall insist on granting this. To please me, you shall write this letter and despatch it. But do this yourself—let none know that I have any part in it, or the thing would be useless. Tell the Pope what you intend, ask his protection. Yes, Catherine, do it. I wish it. I wish to please you … greatly.”
“Charles, you make me weep … weep with shame for asking more of you who have given so much … weep for the joy of all the happiness which has come to me, so that I wonder why Heaven should have chosen me to be so singularly blessed.”
He put his arms about her and kissed her gently.
While she clung to him he remembered a paper he carried in his pocket, which he had meant to present to her at a convenient moment.
He patted her arm gently and disengaged himself.
“Now, my dearest, here is a little matter for you to attend to.”
He took the scroll from his pocket.
“But what is this?” she asked, and as she was about to look over his shoulder, he handed it to her.
“Study it at your leisure. It is merely a list of ladies whom I recommend for appointments in your household.”
“I will look at it later.”
“When you can no longer feast your eyes upon your husband!” he said lightly. “You will find all these ladies worthy and most suitable for the posts indicated. I know my Court far better than you can in such a short time, so I am sure you will be happy to accept these suggestions of mine.”
“Of a certainty I shall.”
She put the scroll away in a drawer and they went out into the gardens to saunter with a few ladies and gentlemen of the Court.
It was some time later when Catherine took out the scroll and studied the list of names.
As she did so her heart seemed to stop and plunge on; she felt the blood rush to her head and drain away.
This could not be real. This was a bad dream.
At the head of the list which the King had given her was the name Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine.
It was some time before, trembling with fear and horror, she took a pen and boldly crossed out that name.
The King came to the Queen and dismissed all attendants so that they were entirely alone.
He began almost suavely: “I see that you have crossed out the name of one of the ladies whom I suggested you should take into your household.”