The Merry Monarch's Wife (3 page)

“Unless there is a miracle…this seems possible,” said Donna Elvira.

“Then there must be a miracle,” I said. “Or Prince Charles will not be King.”

“I think his father will not be King for long,” said Donna Maria. “Oliver Cromwell is going to see to that.”

“I don't believe it,” I said.

“You dream too much, my dear Catherine,” said Donna Maria gently. “It was only a suggestion all those years ago that you should marry into England. It came to nothing, as so many such suggestions before. There will be many offers for you, and some of them may again come to nothing. It is the way with these proposed marriages. They are never certain until the marriage ceremony has been performed.”

“This is different,” I insisted. “The English have always been friends of Portugal.”

“That does not mean that you will marry a king without a throne.”

“How can you know?”

“I know from what I hear.”

Donna Elvira and Donna Maria exchanged glances. Then Donna Maria said: There is no point in keeping it a secret. Soon everyone will be talking of it. The King is now a prisoner in the Isle of Wight and, having him in his keeping, it is hardly likely that Oliver Cromwell will let him go.”

“And what will happen?”

“There is talk that he may lose his head.”

“They dare not.”

“Catherine, you must face the truth. It is never wise to delude yourself that it does not exist because it is unpleasant to you. The King is defeated. He is a prisoner. The Royalist army is routed. The Parliament is supreme. They will dare.”

“And Charles…the Prince?”

“He has fought bravely.”

“Is he their prisoner?”

“Not yet.”

“What will they do to him?”

There was silence and another exchange of glances.

I knew that Donna Maria was deciding whether I should be told the truth or be kept in ignorance. Then she made up her mind that I must know the worst.

“The same thing as they do to his father,” she said.

“You mean…they will kill him?”

“They will think he is a threat,” said Donna Elvira.

“But I was going to…”

“It is in God's hands,” said Donna Maria. “He is a brave young man. I have heard that he sent a blank paper to Cromwell—no, not entirely blank, because his signature was at the bottom of it. With it was a note saying that Cromwell could write his terms for saving the King's life. The Prince's signature meant he would accept them, whatever they were.”

“He has in truth done that?”

“I have heard it from several sources,” said Donna Elvira.

“I think we can vouch for its truth,” added Donna Maria.

“What could they ask of him?”

“Perhaps that he take his father's place on the scaffold. They could ask anything.”

“And he would do this to save his father's life? How noble he is! And yet he is a Protestant.”

Donna Maria smiled affectionately.

“It is God's will,” she said.

I was sad thinking of him and what he must be suffering now. He was in danger…acute danger. He could lose his life and die a heretic because there was no one to save his soul.

I was in the palace when the news came. It was a shock to us all even though we had known the King was the prisoner of his enemies.

They had taken him to London where his trial had lasted seven days; and at the end of it they took him to the scaffold in front of Whitehall and cut off his head.

There was no longer a King of England.

That should have been the end of my hopes of marrying the Prince of Wales; but they persisted and I could not stop them. His image was as strong as ever. He was noble and brave; he had offered his life for his father's. I believed that he would live forever in my mind.

         

I HAD LEFT THE CONVENT.
I was eighteen years old and still unmarried. It was seven years since the English Parliament had murdered their King. The Prince had eluded them all those years; he was a wandering exile on the continent going from court to court, wherever he could find a friendly refuge. I often told myself that one day he would be successful and come back to rule the country of which he was undoubtedly King.

I was sure that my usually practical mother felt the same, for although there had been several offers for my hand her reception of them had been lukewarm.

This surprised my ladies, for I was no longer young. Most princesses were affianced at a very early age, as I should have been to Charles if our plans had gone as we hoped. I was not disturbed by the rejections, for the only bridegroom I wanted was living a nomadic life far from home.

He had found refuge in France, Holland and Jersey. His sister, the Princess of Orange, had been especially hospitable. I learned that he was liked by most and, in spite of his precarious position, he was far from being a tragic figure. He was said to be merry, amusing and witty and his company was sought, but that was poor compensation while his kingdom was in the hands of his enemies.

I had never forgotten him through the years and I had a strange feeling that it was right for me to wait and that one day some miracle would happen and all would be well.

I remember my father paying one of his rare visits to the palace.

I was shocked when I saw him: he had aged so much. He seemed fatigued but happy to have this respite with his family. I was gratified that he sought my company.

My mother was deeply immersed in state affairs, for she had taken over many duties which would have been my father's if he had not been away fighting. My brother Alfonso was a not very serious thirteen, and of little help. I believed his nature was causing my parents some concern. Pedro, of course, was very young. Perhaps that was why my father turned to me.

I asked about his health and he admitted to a certain exhaustion.

“Dear father,” I said, “I believe you would be happy to return to the country. Do you remember when we were at the Villa Viçosa all those years ago?”

“Ah, Viçosa! Yes, I well remember those days.”

“It was my second birthday.”

“That was when it started.”

“You must be proud of what you have done for your country.”

“Perhaps. But although we have to some extent had our successes, we cannot rest there. They will be ready to strike again at the first opportunity. They do not give up easily. Your mother is a wonderful woman. She should have been the King.”

“But you are the King, and she is happy to be of service to you.”

“Without her it would have been so different.”

Yes, I thought, we should be at the Villa Viçosa, living quietly, contentedly. But perhaps not. There would never have been a suggestion that I should marry the Prince of Wales. The daughter of a duke would not have been for him. And if my father was not recognized as a king by some countries, he was one in the eyes of the English.

“It was God's will,” he said.

“And you have done your duty.”

“Under God's will…that may be so.”

And, I thought, you have worn yourself out in doing so.

“Dear father,” I said, “you are unwell.”

“No,” he replied, “just tired. I cannot tell you how contented I am to sit here with you. You are a child no longer, Catherine.”

“I am eighteen years old.”

“It is an age of maturity. Do you regret that no marriage has been arranged for you?”

“No…I believe…”

“I know. You share your mother's belief. She has always wanted you to marry into England.”

“It was talked of once.”

“That was long ago. It must have been more than ten years ago. Of a surety that was no time for the King to think of the marriage of his son.”

“No. It was a tragic time.”

“With an even more tragic end. There have been approaches, you know, but your mother has rejected them all. She cannot rid herself of the belief that you are going to England…and for that reason she has rejected all offers for your hand. I cannot understand her. It is a kind of dream of hers. It is so unlike her to cling to fancies.”

“I think I understand,” I said.

“I have been the most fortunate of men in my marriage, and I trust when the time is ripe you will find a partner who is as good to you as she has been to me. My greatest regret has been that I have had to be away from you for so long. I have had too little of my family and too much of war.”

“It has been a sadness for us all, dear father. But you are here now.”

“For a short time. I confess to you, daughter, while we are alone, that I should have been a happier man if I had not been a king. Now let us talk of other matters. You are eighteen years old—as I said, an age of maturity and wisdom.”

“I feel sure I fall short of the last.”

“You are as I would have you, my daughter, and to show my love for you, I have gifts for you. I propose to put certain lands into your possession. First, there is the island of Madeira. It is a beautiful spot, fertile and temperate. The city of Lanego is also to be yours, with the town of Moura. There will be tributes from these which will come to you.”

“But, father, it is too generous…I do not need…”

“My dear daughter, you are a child no longer. You need independence and security. So…they will be yours. But we must remember that they belong to Portugal and if you should marry out of the kingdom you would perforce relinquish these. On the other hand, if you married some Portuguese nobleman they would remain in your possession.”

I saw that my father thought this would be my eventual fate…if I married at all; and he wanted to assure himself that I was in the possession of independent wealth.

It was good of him, but I, with my mother, shared the feeling that one day I should go to England. I was, though, deeply touched by his generosity and care for me.

I told him this.

“I want you to be happy,” he said, “whatever may befall you.”

It was only a few months after that when he died.

         

IT WAS MORE THAN
the loss of a beloved parent. The court was thrown into turmoil. My brother, Alfonso, at thirteen, had few of the qualities necessary to a ruler. There was rejoicing in Spain, where they must have been assuring themselves that it would not be long before Portugal was once more their vassal.

They had reckoned without my mother.

She said firmly: “I shall complete the work my husband has begun.”

Our people had always been aware of her strength and many of them knew of the part she had played in my father's successful campaigns. She was without hesitation proclaimed Regent and the Spaniards' jubilation was short-lived. Very soon they began to realize that they had little cause for rejoicing. Donna Luiza, Queen Regent, was not only a leader of resolution and dedication, she was a shrewd and skillful politician. My father had been right when he had said she should. And now she was the ruler.

She was more decisive than my father had been, less sentimental, more ruthless. Our armies were more successful under her direction and the government more secure.

Within two years of her dominance, Portuguese independence from Spain was established and there was growing prosperity throughout Portugal.

We now had some standing in Europe and Donna Luiza was one of its most respected sovereigns.

There were two offers for my hand which my mother feigned to examine with care, but nothing came of them. My worth had risen. Alfonso might not be recognized universally as king, but my mother could not be ignored; and her daughter was considered an important match.

And I was getting older.

“Is there never going to be a marriage for the Infanta?” my ladies were asking each other. “Is she going to spend her days as a spinster in Lisbon?”

I wondered, too. But the dream was still there, incongruous though it might seem. Charles, King of England in name only, was still wandering about the continent, flitting from court to court in search of hospitality. The Puritans still reigned in England. Charles was getting older, as I was—and we were still apart.

And then one day my mother sent for me and she said, with an excitement rare in her: “There is news from England. Oliver Cromwell is dead.”

I stared at her in amazement. “Does that mean…?”

“We shall see,” she replied. “His son Richard will succeed him. Oliver Cromwell was a strong man.”

“And Richard…?”

“It is not easy to follow a strong man. People want change. Whatever they have they dream of something different. They believe that what they cannot get from one they will get from another. Then the disappointment comes and the desire for change.”

“Do the English want change?”

“I am not sure. They are not a puritanical people by nature and are inclined to be pleasure-loving and irreligious. It surprises me that they have endured Puritan rule for so long. But Oliver Cromwell was such a strong man.” There was a grudging admiration in her voice which she tried to suppress.

“We shall see, daughter, we shall see,” she went on.

There were plans in her mind. I knew it. I wanted to talk to her but she would say no more. She was not given to speculation. She just wanted me to know that it would not altogether surprise her if the death of Oliver Cromwell was significant, and perhaps it would not be long before there were changes in England.

I was thinking of Charles more persistently than ever.

         

MY MOTHER HAD BEEN RIGHT
when she said it was difficult to follow a strong man like Oliver Cromwell. He had died on the third of September of that year 1658, and less than two years after his death the King was restored to the throne.

Richard Cromwell, who followed his father, it appeared, was of a likeable nature. Perhaps the same could not have been said of his father, but Richard was pleasure-loving, fond of the sporting life and prone to extravagance, which led to trouble with his creditors. He was certainly no Oliver Cromwell.