“Portugal!” said Barbara’s friends. “What is known of Portugal? It is a poor country. There is no glass in the windows even at the palaces. The King of Portugal is a poor simple fellow—more like an apprentice than a king. And what of the Spaniards who are the enemies of the Portuguese? Where will this marriage lead—to war with Spain?”

Barbara demanded of the King when they were alone together: “Have you considered these things?”

“I have considered all points concerning this match.”

“This dowry! Her mother must be anxious to marry the girl. Mayhap she can only marry her to someone who has never seen her.”

“I have reports that she is dark-haired and pretty.”

“So you are already relishing your dark-haired pretty wife!”

“’Tis well to be prepared,” said the King.

Barbara turned on him fiercely. There was a flippancy about his manner which frightened her. Of all her lovers he was the most important by reason of his rank; the others might seek consolation elsewhere, and she would not care with whom; with the King it was another matter. There must be no woman who could in his estimation compare with Barbara.

“Ah,” sighed Barbara. “I am an unfortunate woman. I give myself … my honor … and I must be prepared to be cast off when it pleases you to cast me aside. It is the fate of those who love too well.”

“It depends on whom they love,” said the King. “Themselves or others.”

“Do you suggest that I think overmuch of myself?”

“Dearest Barbara, none could help loving you beyond all others—so how could you yourself help it?”

“It amuses you to tease me. Now tell me that you will not let this Portuguese woman come between us.”

She put her arms about his neck; she lifted her eyes to his; they were wet with tears. Barbara was a clever actress and, even though he knew this, her tears could always move him. Barbara tender was almost a stranger.

He said: “There is only one, Barbara, who could prevent my loving you.”

“And who is that?”

“Yourself.”

“Ah! So I have let my feelings run away with me, have I? How easy it is for some to be calm and serene…. They do not love. They do not care. But when emotions such as mine are involved …” She threw back her head and laughed suddenly. “But what matters it! You have come to see me. We are here together…. This night we may be together, so let the devil take the rest of my life…. I still have this night!”

Thus she could change from tearful reproaches to urgent passion; always unaccountable, always Barbara.

Nothing should alter his relationship with her. He assured her of that. “Not a hundred Portuguese women who brought me ten million pounds, twenty foreign towns and all the riches of the Indies.”

That year passed pleasantly for Charles. There was business to be conducted, affairs of state to be attended to, there was sauntering in the Park, bowls and tennis; there was racing, sailing and all the pleasures that a King could enjoy who was full of health and vigor.

He had made inquiries of Portugal. He had written letters to Catherine of Braganza, charming letters, which reflected his own personality, the letters of a lover into which he was able to infuse the illusion that the marriage which was to take place was not as one arranged by their two countries but based on pure love.

By the end of the year Barbara was pregnant again. She was exultant.

“I am glad!” she cried. “I would have the whole world know that I bear your royal child. This time there shall be no doubts. Charles, if you doubt this one to be yours, I’ll not have it, I swear. I’ll find some means of destroying it ere it is born…. If that fails, I’ll strangle it at birth.”

The King soothed her. The child was his. He was as sure of that as she was.

“Then what will you do to prove it? How long shall I remain plain Barbara Palmer?”

It was more than a hint, and the King was not slow to act. It seemed only fair to him that Roger Palmer should be rewarded for his complaisancy.

It was during that autumn that Charles wrote to his Secretary of State: “Prepare a warrant for Mr. Roger Palmer to be Baron of Limerick and Earl of Castlemaine, these titles to go to the heirs of his body gotten on Barbara Palmer, who is now his wife.”

Barbara was delighted when she heard she was to be the Countess of Castlemaine.

She could not rest until she had sought out Roger.

She flung the news at him like a gauntlet.

“Now you see what marriage with me has brought you!”

“I know what marriage with you has brought me.”

“Come, Roger, why do you not rejoice in your good fortune? How many women are there in the world who can bring an earldom to their husbands?”

“I had rather you remained plain Barbara Palmer.”

“Are you mad? I, plain Barbara Palmer! You fool! I see I work in vain to bring honor to you.”

“It is so easy … so natural for you to bring dishonor on all those connected with you.”

“You sicken me.”

“As your conduct does me.”

“Roger Palmer, I despise you. You stand there, so sanctimonious … such a hypocrite. Do you think I see not the lust in your eyes? Why, I have only to beckon you and you’d be panting for me … dishonor or not…. You fool! Why should you not share in the honors and riches I can bring to us? Do not think that this is all I shall have. Nay! This is but the beginning.”

“Barbara,” he said, “be not too sure. There will be a Queen of England on the throne ere long. Then it may be that the King will be engaged elsewhere and may not come a-supping with you night after night.”

Barbara flew at him, and the marks of her fingers lingered on his cheek long afterwards.

“Don’t dare taunt me with that! Do you think I’ll allow that miserable little foreigner to come between me and my plans?” Barbara spat over her shoulder; she liked to indulge in the crude manners of the street; it was as though it brought home to herself as well as others that she had no need to act in any way other than the mood of the moment urged upon her. “She’s humpbacked, she squints! The only way her mother can find a husband for her is by giving away half her kingdom.”

“Barbara … for the love of God, calm yourself.”

“I’ll be calm when I wish to be. And wild when I wish to be. And I’ll tell you this, Master Roger Palmer—who cannot bend his stiff neck to say a gracious thank-you for the earldom his wife has conferred upon him—I’ll tell you this: the coming of this Queen will make no difference to my relationship with the King.” She put her hands on her stomach. “In here,” she cried, “is his child. Yes … his … his … his! And by the saints, I swear this child shall be born in the royal apartments of Whitehall. Yes! even if my confinement should take place during the honeymoon of this Portuguese idiot.”

Her eyes flamed. She turned away and paced the floor.

She was eager to tell the King of her plans for lying-in when her time came at his Palace of Whitehall.

Christmas came. Charles had laughingly waved aside the question of Barbara’s lying-in. It was six months away, and he never let events so far ahead cast a shadow over the pleasure of the moment.

Marriage plans were going forward. It seemed very likely that by the Spring the little Portuguese would be in England.

The thought of her excited him, as the thought of any new woman would. That again was an excitement for the future. In the meantime there was Barbara to be placated, and enjoyed.

Barbara was brooding, still determined to be confined in his Palace. He wondered if he had been right to confer a great title on her husband that she might enjoy it. To give a little was to be asked for much. His experience of a lifetime told him that.

Still, there were occasions when he could remind even Barbara that he was the King, and he foresaw that when he had a wife such occasions might occur with greater frequency.

That again was a matter for the future.

So it was a merry Christmas—the merriest since he had come into England, for last Christmas had been overshadowed by the deaths of his brother and sister. It was good fun to revive those merry customs which had been stamped out by the Puritans—the old revelries of Christmas and Twelfth Night.

There was sadness to come in the New Year. His aunt, Elizabeth of Bohemia, who was at his Court, died there, and it was to him that she turned in her last moments.

He was saddened; he was indeed a family man; he could not bear that any member of his family, which had been so tragically torn apart in his youth, should die.

He had been fond of his aunt.

“So few of us are left now,” he pondered. “There is James and Mam and Minette … and Mam is ailing, and Minette has never been strong … as James and I are.”

He wrote to his sister then: “For God’s sake, my dearest sister, have a care of yourself and believe me that I am more concerned for your health than I am my own.”

She understood him as, he often thought, no one else in the world had ever understood him.

She wrote to him that she was thinking of sending him a little girl to be a maid-of-honor to his Queen when she arrived in England. “She is the prettiest girl in the world,” wrote Minette, “and her name is Frances Stuart.”

The Earl of Sandwich was soon on his way to Portugal. Arrangements were being made to receive the King’s bride in England; and there was always Barbara to placate.

He was spending as much time in her company as he ever had.

He was now supping at her house every night, and the whole city was talking of the King’s infatuation for its most handsome woman, which did not diminish even though he was negotiating for a wife.