Виктория Холт - The Merry Monarch's Wife

He used to talk of the ringing of bells, the flowers strewn in his path, the women who threw kisses at him, the shouts of loyalty.

“Odds fish!” he said. It was a favorite oath of his. “They gave me such a welcome home that I thought it must have been my own fault that I had stayed away so long.”

But he was home, and from that moment the excitement grew.

My mother was exultant. She had known, she said, that this must be. She had planned for it since my seventh birthday when the matter had first been raised. Keeping me from suitors, which had amazed so many, had proved to be right. She had not been fanciful, as so many had thought. She had been shrewd and realistic. She had one regret — that my father was not alive to see how she had been vindicated.

But we were not there yet. A king restored to his throne, fêted by his people, having learned the lesson of his father’s downfall, being determined — in his own phrase—“never to go wandering again,” seemed secure on the throne. He would need to be married, of course — and such a king was a very desirable parti.

My mother was very much aware of that. And, being herself, she immediately took action. Don Francisco de Mello was already in England.

She talked to me a good deal, for indeed I was at the very center of her plans. She watched me anxiously, wondering, I was sure, how well I should play my part. She took me into her confidence as she never had before.

One day I said to her: “England is an important country. There will be many eager to marry the King.”

“That is true,” she replied. “The King of Spain will have his protégées. But I trust Don Francisco. He is an able man. He knows the importance of this match to us. I tell you, Catherine, we need this marriage. I wonder if you realize how much.”

“I have always known that you wanted a union between our two countries.”

“It does go deeper than my personal hopes for you, my daughter. At this time we have freed ourselves from the hated Spaniards, but our hold on freedom is frail. We must remember that they have the might. We have been fighting for our freedom which has given us great strength. That is good, but it is not everything. They are a mighty nation. We shall live in fear until we have strong allies to support us.”

“You mean the English.”

She nodded. “The nation the Spaniards fear most is the English. They do not forget, though it is some hundred years ago, the ignoble defeat of their so-called invincible armada. They still talk of El Draque — the Dragon — their name for Sir Francis Drake who drove them to disaster and destroyed their dreams of conquest. They will say it was the storm which defeated them, but they were defeated before the storm arose, and they know it was the English sailors and El Draque who beat their armada. If England were allied to us, they would not dare attack us. So, my dear daughter, you must marry the King of England to strengthen the alliance we already have with them. Your country needs this.”

“Do you think I shall?”

She looked fierce. “Anything else is unthinkable. It would be the happiest day of my life if I could see you Queen of England.”

“Countries always look for gain in marriages,” I said.

“Our country would gain a good deal from this. I may tell you that the English will not be without gain. I have sent a good offer by Don Francisco. I believe it will be one which the impoverished King of England will not be able to refuse.”

I waited and she seemed to be convincing herself that, as I was deeply involved, I should be told the facts.

She said: “Five hundred thousand pounds in ready money, the possession of Tangiers, which is on the African coast, and Bombay in India, shall be part of your dowry. We shall grant them the right to free trade in Brazil and the East Indies. Of course, the possession of Tangiers and Bombay will give the English immense opportunities for increasing their trade.”

“Am I worth so much?”

“This alliance with England is worth everything we could reasonably give. In it lies the security of our nation and the final triumph over our enemy Spain.”

“I see,” I said slowly, “that it must succeed.”

THE TIME WAS PASSING. There were prolonged delays, for, in spite of my tempting dowry, there was hesitation.

My mother was watchful of the Spanish. The last thing they wanted was an alliance between Portugal and England and they were going to do everything in their power to stop it.

Vatteville, the Spanish ambassador at Charles’s court, was spreading evil tales about me. I was deformed; I was ugly; I was barren. I did not know then of Charles’s great admiration for female beauty, otherwise I might have been alarmed.

I was passably good-looking. My eyes were dark and large; my hair was abundant and chestnut brown. I had always disliked my teeth which protruded in the front — not a great deal, but too much for beauty. I was short in stature, which made me lack grace. But I was certainly not ugly, only just not handsome.

The delays must mean that our offer had not been entirely acceptable and my mother could not hide her anxiety.

Every day we had news that Spanish troops were massing on the border. They were waiting for the match to founder. Then they would attack. I began to wonder whether even my mother’s optimism was beginning to wane.

Dispatches reached us from England. My mother was taking me more and more into her confidence because the matter so deeply concerned me.

“It is that villain Vatteville who is doing everything he can to stop the match. It shows clearly how much Spain is afraid of this alliance. If it were to fail…but it will not…but if it were to, they would immediately attack us. We need more troops…we need ammunition. It must not be…It would be the end of all our endeavors. Oh, why is there this delay?”

I went to her one day and found her laughing.

“Vatteville is a fool,” she said. “I think he has gone too far this time. Francisco writes of this. Until now I did not realize how very much those Spaniards are set on breaking this match. They are really alarmed. Did I not say they were still in awe of the English? Oh, Catherine, this must come to pass. How right I was to hold out. Listen to this. They can be arrogant, those Spaniards. It blinds them to the truth. They are powerful…very powerful…but not quite as powerful as they believe themselves to be. Vatteville had the temerity to tell Charles that if he went through with this marriage to a daughter of the rebel Duke of Braganza he, Vatteville, had been ordered by his master, the King of Spain, to withdraw from the court and war would be declared on England.”

“Could that really be so?” I asked.

She snapped her fingers. “It was nonsense. He could have had no such orders. He was just a little too clever that time.”

“And what did Charles say to that?”

“He replied that Vatteville might be gone as soon as he wished, for he, the King of England, did not receive orders from the King of Spain as to whom he might marry.”

I clasped my hands and said: “He is so wise, so brave, so clever…”

“Well, of course, Vatteville realized he had gone too far. He immediately became ingratiating, and I am sure the King must have been amused. But that wretched Vatteville is still fighting hard to stop the marriage and the alliance between our countries. He dared to make a suggestion that the King should marry the Princess of Orange and that, if he did, the King of Spain would give her a marriage portion to equal that of a princess of Spain. She is reputed to be a beauty.”

My heart sank. I pulled my lower lip over my teeth — a habit I had formed when I was conscious of my physical defect.