“And what said the King?” I faltered.
“There again Vatteville showed his folly. There had already been negotiations for a match between the King and the Princess of Orange some years before. The Dowager Princess, whose daughter she was, had stood firmly against the match. The King of England was a king in name only, she said, and she saw no sign that he would ever be anything else. Naturally the King’s pride would not allow him to accept a princess who had scorned him in the past. So nothing came of that.”
“But still there is this delay.”
My mother frowned. “It must be decided soon. Don Francisco is hopeful. He is certain that all will be well in the end.”
And still we waited.
The days seemed long. We watched for messengers from England. Meanwhile, the Spaniards were gathering on all fronts for the attack. My mother would not give up hope. She dared not. This was not only the marriage of her daughter, for which she had schemed for so many years; it was also the salvation of her country.
Then there came a glimmer of hope.
Louis XIV of France had seen an advantage in a marriage between England and Portugal. He realized that if the marriage did not take place, Portugal most likely would become a vassal state of Spain, increasing the power of that country. That was the last thing Louis wanted. Spain was too powerful already. Moreover, an alliance between England and Portugal would be to the detriment of Spain, so he advised Charles to marry me and declared his support for the match.
Another supporter was the King’s mother, Henrietta Maria. Her reasons were different. She was an ardent Catholic and she wanted her son to marry a Catholic. And who better than the Infanta of Portugal?
Then came the day of triumph.
My mother summoned me to her, and when I came she forgot all formality and waved a paper at me.
She was between laughter and tears, and my delight to see her so was great.
“It is a letter from the King of England,” she said. “He is eager that your marriage should take place as soon as possible.”
She took me in her arms and held me tightly.
“The day is won,” she said. “Let us get onto our knees and thank God.”
This we did, and there was joy in my heart.
DON FRANCISCO DE MELLO had returned to Lisbon where he received a warm welcome. He was given the title of the Conde da Ponte for his services. His assiduous care and shrewd diplomacy had helped to bring about this happy result, said my mother.
She was in his company constantly and the matter that now concerned them was that of religion.
There must be a clause in the treaty to give me freedom of worship. It was not easy to be a Catholic queen in a Protestant country; and much as my mother desired this match, necessary as it was to preserve us from defeat at the hands of the Spaniards, duty to God must come first in all things.
It seemed that no sooner had we overcome one obstacle than another one presented itself.
One of the most lovable facets of Charles’s character — which I was to discover later — was his lack of dogmatism and his tolerance of the views of others. It was really due to the fact that he had an inherent abhorrence of conflict; he hated trouble and difficulties were often smoothed over in order to avoid it. He was lazy in a way; he liked life to flow smoothly. He immediately confirmed that I should have freedom to worship and I might have my own chapel fitted up wherever I lived.
My mother was immensely relieved.
But no sooner had that matter been settled than a more serious one arose. It was from Donna Maria that I first heard of this.
“There will have to be a proxy marriage,” she said. “You cannot leave the country without it.”
“Why not?” I asked. “I am going to marry Charles. Why should I need a proxy?”
“The King cannot come here and you cannot go into a strange country as an unmarried woman.”
“What harm would it do?”
“My lady Infanta, you are very innocent of the world. Unprotected virgins do not leave their homes unless chaperoned.”
“I should be surrounded by attendants.”
“How could we know what might happen to you?” she said mysteriously.
“Well, there will have to be a proxy marriage, I suppose, but it seems unnecessary.”
My mother was even more concerned than Donna Maria, but for a different reason.
“But why?” I cried. “You have the King’s letter. He says he is sending the Earl of Sandwich to take me back to England.”
“There should be a proxy marriage first,” said my mother.
“Well, there will be a proxy marriage. Is that so difficult?”
“If everything were as it should be there would be no difficulty,” she said. “But if you are married by proxy, it will be necessary to get a dispensation from the Pope because your husband is a Protestant.”
“Does that mean waiting?”
“It is not that so much which makes me anxious. The Pope does not recognize you as the daughter and sister of kings. He will give the dispensation; he would not dare offend Charles by not doing so, but at the same time your name will appear on it as the daughter of the Duke of Braganza, and that is something I will not allow.”
“What shall we do then?”
“There is only one thing we can do, and I do not like it overmuch.”
“What is that?”
“You must go to England without having a proxy marriage first.”
I smiled. “I think we need not worry about that,” I said. “Charles has said he wants me to go to England to marry him.”
She looked at me searchingly, and I thought she was about to tell me something; but she evidently decided not to. She merely nodded and said: “Well, there cannot be a proxy marriage.”
I did not attach too much importance to this. I was going to England to marry Charles after this long delay, and I was very happy about that.
DISPATCHES ARRIVED FROM LONDON which made me realize more than ever how very important it was for me to marry Charles, apart from my own inclination.
There were riots in London. These had been inspired by none other than the villain Vatteville, who had circulated rumors that if the King married a Catholic there would be trouble in England. Had the people forgotten the days of that Queen whom they knew as Bloody Mary? Did they remember that the last queen had been a Catholic? They were ready to blame Henrietta Maria for what was beyond her control. But it served a good reason for objecting to me.
For Vatteville and his master to act in this way was certainly ironical. They themselves were ardent Catholics. Why did they campaign against me? The answer was obvious. What they wished to avoid above everything was an alliance between England and Portugal.
The King and his ministers acted promptly. They had long become weary of Vatteville’s meddling. He was found to be in possession of subversive papers when his lodgings were searched, and was forthwith ordered to leave the country. Even then he tried to stay, to plea his cause, but Charles was tired of him, and refused to see him.
It was a great relief to know that Vatteville was no longer in England.
My mother said: “The fact that the Spaniards have shown themselves so eager to stop the match will make the English realize how important they think it. That is all to the good.”
As for me, my joy was complete, for I had received a letter from Charles. It had had to be translated, for it was in English, and I shall always treasure it. I know it by heart.
It ran as follows:
My Lady and Wife,
Already, at my request, the Conde da Ponte has set off for Lisbon. For me the signing of the marriage has been a great happiness; and there is about to be dispatched at this time after him, one of my servants, charged with what would appear to be necessary; whereby may be declared on my part the inexpressible joy of this felicitous conclusion, which when received will hasten the coming of Your Majesty.