Виктория Холт: The Merry Monarch's Wife

My mother’s eyes were on me. “The King of England has been recalled to his country. I have had several account of the scenes there in the English capital. It would seem that they are a good augury for the future.”

Donna Maria said: “I believe, Your Highness, the people there must have been heartily tired of the Puritan rule.”

“It would appear so,” said my mother, smiling. I, who knew her so well, could see that she was so delighted by the turn of events that she had dispensed with some of her dignity and was not averse to a little light conversation.

“My envoys tell me that the bells are ringing all over the capital and the people are in the streets dancing and making merry, as they did in the old days before Oliver Cromwell came to put a stop to their gaiety.”

My mother paused. I could imagine she was thinking that that much merriment was not entirely to be praised, and that the people would be better engaged in attending church to give thanks to God for the return of the King.

“How glad they must be to have him back!” I said.

“Not more than he is to be there, I’ll swear,” said Donna Elvira.

“It is certain that the King is pleased to come back to his country,” said my mother. “He is now a king not merely in name. England will return to its greatness.”

“I wonder what all those Roundheads are thinking now,” said Donna Elvira.

“There will be some to mourn and regret, I doubt not,” replied my mother, “but there will be many to rejoice — and none more than the King!” She was looking at me. “This is a very important day for us. As you know, the English have been good friends to this country. I have always wanted to strengthen the alliance between us. I am recalling Don Francisco. I have much to discuss with him.”

Donna Maria was slowly nodding her head again.

“We must all watch events in England,” went on my mother. “I believe this to be a time of great importance, not only to England but to Portugal.”

“Amen,” said Donna Maria.

“Great events could come out of the restoration of King Charles,” continued my mother. She was smiling at me. “We must be prepared. As yet…perhaps it is early. But…we shall talk of this later.”

I knew why she was recalling Don Francisco. Long ago, I had been suggested as a wife for Prince Charles — as he had been at that time. It was when I was not quite seven years old and he was fourteen. That had been the beginning of my dreams.

The matter had been set aside then. How could it have been otherwise with the country in turmoil? And then his father had been murdered, and he became an exile, wandering through Europe from court to court, wherever he could find some refuge. The years had passed and I was at this time twenty-two years of age. He was now thirty and it was time he married.

And through the years my mother had waited. She had some premonition and she had refused all offers for my hand. What she wanted was an alliance with England. She had waited all these years. It might have been too late for me to marry at all; it was getting near to that time now. But she had always believed that the King would recover his throne and, when he was safely there, she would set about pursuing her dream.

No wonder she was delighted; no wonder she forgot her royal dignity and came to the sewing room to chat with us.

This was a great day. It was the beginning.

So clearly I remember that day: the wonderment in Donna Elvira’s face, the pride in Donna Maria’s, because she believed her wonderful brother would play a big part in bringing this about. There was my mother’s exultation, and my own excitement because the dream which had never really left me could now be coming true.

EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED really began on that important day, some twenty years before, on the second anniversary of my birth.

I had heard so much of that occasion from Donna Maria and Donna Elvira — and not only those two — that I am not sure whether I remember or imagine I do. It was such an important day, for if my father had taken a different decision then, it is almost certain that I should never have gone to England.

When I visited the Villa Viçosa, I believed I remembered it, for it was so easy to visualize the idyllic life we led there. I know my father was very happy there, for he had often told me so; and I shall never forget the sadness, the nostalgia in his eyes when he spoke of it. He was so contented there…in obscurity…in that quiet paradise, with his beloved wife, whom he greatly revered, his two little boys and his two-year-old daughter. The little boys, alas, were to die before they grew up, but there was no shadow over his life at that time.

He died when I was eighteen, so I had time to know him well. He was a gentle and kindly man who valued peace and the life he shared with his family. I understand what his feelings were on that significant day.

Guests had gathered to celebrate my birthday. My arrival into the world had been greeted with great joy. There was none of that disappointment so often felt in royal circles because a child proves to be a girl and not a boy. Why should there have been? They already had their two boys. How were they to know then that they were going to lose them?

Donna Maria liked to tell me about it, so I heard often of the joy at the Villa Viçosa when I was born.

“There was rejoicing throughout the palace…the whole country, in fact…for although your father lived the life of a country gentleman, it was not forgotten that he was the Duke of Braganza, and it was hoped that one day he would be in his rightful place on the throne of Portugal, and our country would no longer be the vassal of the hated Spaniards. Only the best was good enough for the Duke’s daughter, and, as you know, your godfather was the great nobleman Don Francisco de Mello, the Marquis of Ferreira.”

“Who,” I never forgot to say at this point, “is your brother.”

“That is so, my child. We are a highly respected family, and have always been the good friends of the House of Braganza, which is one of the reasons why your mother has entrusted you to my care.”

“I know, dear Donna Maria.”

And she would go on: “As you were born on St. Catherine’s Day, it seems right and proper that you should be named after the saint.”

My first two years had been spent at the Villa Viçosa in the province of Alemtejo, and very happy they must have been until that fateful day.

According to Donna Maria, from all over the country, people had come to celebrate my birthday.

“It was not only that,” added Donna Maria, anxious as ever that I should not grow up with an inflated idea of my importance. “The occasion was used to express the people’s loyalty to the Duke of Braganza, and to remind him that they were aware that, although he was living as a country gentleman, they did not forget that he was the rightful King of Portugal.”

Our country had been a vassal state of Spain for sixty years. The Portuguese had lived through troublous times since the death of Henry, the Cardinal King, who had died before he named his successor. Consequently there were several claimants to the throne. My great-grandmother, the Duchess of Braganza, was in the direct line and considered herself the rightful heiress, but she was a woman. Philip of Spain laid claim to the throne. He was perhaps the most powerful ruler in Europe, and he was successful, which was a sad day for Portugal; and the people never ceased to chafe against the invader.

So…now my father, grandson of Donna Maria, Duchess of Braganza, was in truth the King of Portugal.

That was the state of affairs on that November day when the celebrations of my second birthday were in progress. There was great joy and merriment until Don Gaspar Cortigno arrived, with his special mission which was to change our lives.