Then in the streets of London there appeared a more cruel enemy than the Dutch.

In that warm April a man, coming from St. Paul’s into Cheapside, was overcome by his sickness, and lay down on the cobbles since he could go no farther. Shivering and delirious, he lay there, and in the morning he was dead; and those who approached him saw on his breast the dreaded macula and, shuddering, ran from him. But by that time others were falling to the pestilence. From the Strand to Aldgate men and women on their ordinary business would stagger and hurry blindly to their homes. Some of those stricken in the streets could go no farther; they lay down and died.

The plague had come to London.

Who could now rejoice wholeheartedly? It was true that the English had taken eighteen capital ships from the Dutch off Harwich, and had destroyed another fourteen. It was known that Admiral Obdam had been blown up with his crew and would no longer worry the English. And all this had been achieved for the loss of one ship. It was true that many good sailors had been lost—Falmouth among them—with Marlborough and Portland and the Admirals Hawson and Sampson.

But the plague was on the increase, and its effect was already being severely felt in London. The weather was hotter than usual after the bleak winter. Stench rose from the gutters; refuse was emptied from windows by people who could not leave their houses since they kept a plague victim there. Men and women were dying in the streets. It was dangerous to give succor to any who fell fainting by the roadside. All indisposition was suspect. Many were frightened into infection in that plague- and fear-ridden atmosphere. Death was in the fetid air and terror stalked the streets.

The river was congested with barges carrying away from the City those who were fortunate enough to be able to leave the plague spots.

The Court had retired, first to Hampton, and then, when the plague stretched its greedy maw beyond the metropolis, farther afield to Salisbury.

Albemarle took command of London and, with the resourcefulness of a great general, made plans for taking care of the infected and avoiding the spread of the plague. He arranged that outlying parishes should be ready to take in all those who could arrive uninfected from the city.

London continued to suffer in the heat.

Grass was now growing among the cobbles, for the business of every day had ceased. Those merchants who could do so, left their businesses; those who could not, stayed to nurse their families and to die with them. Trade had come to a standstill and the City was like a dead town. Those who ventured into its streets did so muffled in close garments covering their mouths that they might not breathe the polluted air.

Almost every door bore a red cross with the inscription “Lord Have Mercy Upon Us” to warn all to keep away because the plague was in the house; by night the pest carts roamed the streets to the tolling of a dismal bell and the dreadful cry of “Bring out your dead.”

By the time that terrible year was over about 130,000 people had died of the plague in England. The citizens returned to London to take possession of their property, but the losses of life and trade were so great that the country, still engaged in war, was in a more pitiable plight than it had ever been in during the whole of its history.

It was at this time that Catherine discovered she was pregnant, and her hopes of giving birth to an heir were high.

The year 1666 dawned on a sorrowing people.

The plague had crippled the country more cruelly than many suspected. Since trade had been brought to a standstill during the hot summer months there was no money with which to equip the ships of the Navy. The French chose this moment to take sides with the Dutch, and England, now almost bankrupt and emerging from the disaster of the plague, was called upon to face two enemies instead of one.

The English were truculent. They were ready for all the “Mounseers,” they declared; but the King was sad; he was alarmed that that nation, to which his own mother belonged and to which he felt himself bound so closely, should take up arms against his; moreover two of the greatest Powers in the world were allied against one crippled by the scourge of death which had lately afflicted it and by lack of the means to carry on a successful war.

In March of that year bad news was brought from Portugal, but on the King’s advice it was not immediately imparted to the Queen.

“It will distress her,” said Charles, “and in view of her delicate health at this time I would have the utmost care taken.”

But it was impossible to keep the news long from Catherine. She knew by the tears of Donna Maria that something had happened, and she guessed that it concerned their country, for only then would Donna Maria be so deeply affected.

And at length she discovered the secret.

Her mother dead! It seemed impossible to believe it. It was but four years since they had said their last goodbyes. Much had happened in those four years, and perhaps in her love for her husband Catherine had at times forgotten her mother; but now that she was dead, now that she knew she would never see her again, she was heartbroken.

She lay in her bed and wept silently, going over every well-remembered incident of her childhood.

“Oh, Mother,” she murmured, “if you had been here to advise me, mayhap I should have acted differently; mayhap Charles would not now regard me with that vague tolerance which seems so typical of his feelings for me.”

Then she remembered all her mother had bidden her do; she remembered how Queen Luiza had determined on this match; how she had again and again impressed on her daughter that she, Catherine, was destined to save their country.

“Mother, dearest Mother, I will do my best,” she murmured. “Even though he has nothing more than a mild affection for me, even though I am but the wife who was chosen for him and there are about him beautiful women whom he has chosen for himself, still will I remember all that you have told me and never cease to work for my country.”

Tempers ran high during those anxious months.

When Catherine decreed that, in mourning for her mother, the Court ladies should appear with their hair worn plain, and that they should not wear patches on their faces, Lady Castlemaine was openly annoyed. She was affecting the most elaborate styles for her hair and set great store by her patches. Several noticed that, with her hair plain and her face patchless, she was less strikingly beautiful than before.

This made her ill-humored indeed; and in view of the King’s continued devotion to Frances Stuart, her temper was not improved.

As Catherine sat with her ladies one day in the spring, and Barbara happened to be among them, they talked of Charles.

Catherine said she feared his health had suffered through the terrible afflictions of last year. He had unwisely taken off his wig and pourpoint when he was on the river and the sun proved too hot; he had caught a chill and had not seemed to be well since then.

She turned to Barbara and said: “I fear it is not good for him to be out so late. He stays late at your house, and it would be better for his health if he did not do so.”

Barbara let out a snort of laughter. “He does not stay late at my house, Madam,” she said. “If he stays out late, then you must make inquiries in other directions. His Majesty spends his time with someone else.”

The King had come into the apartment. He looked strained and ill; he was wondering where the money was coming from to equip his ships; he was wondering how he was going to pay his seamen, and whether it would be necessary to lay up the Fleet for lack of funds; and if that dire calamity should befall, how could he continue the war?

It seemed too much to be borne that Catherine and Barbara should be quarreling about how he spent his nights—those rare occasions when he sought a little relaxation in the only pastime which could bring him that forgetfulness which he eagerly sought.

He looked from Catherine to Barbara and his dark features were stern.

Catherine lowered her eyes but Barbara met his gaze defiantly. “Your Majesty will bear me out that I speak the truth,” she said.

Charles said: “You are an impertinent woman.”

Barbara flushed scarlet, but before she could give voice to the angry retorts which rose to her lips, Charles had continued quietly: “Leave the Court, and pray do not come again until you have word from me that I expect to see you.”

Then, without waiting for the storm which his knowledge of Barbara made him certain must follow, he turned abruptly and left the apartment.

Barbara stamped her foot and glared at the company.

“Is anybody here smiling?” she demanded.

No one answered.

“If any see that which is amusing in this, let her speak up. I will see to it that she shall very soon find little to laugh at. As for the King, he may have a different tale to tell when I print the letters he has written to me!”

Then, curbing her rage, she curtsied to the Queen who sat stiff and awkward, not knowing how to deal with such an outrageous breach of good manners.

Barbara stamped out of the apartment.

But on calmer and saner reflection, considering the King’s cares of state and his melancholy passion for Mrs. Stuart, she felt she would be wise, on this one occasion, to obey his command.

Barbara left the Court.

Barbara was raging at Richmond. All those about her tried in vain to soothe her. She was warned of all the King had had to bear in the last few years; she was discreetly reminded of Frances Stuart.