“Different! My dear, they’re indecent! No woman whose intentions were innocent would display herself before a man as these creatures do. Your Majesty, you have an opportunity to earn for yourself the gratitude of all England—by reforming the Court.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin. Perhaps they wouldn’t like to have an outsider—”

“Nonsense, your Majesty! What does it matter what they would like! You’re not their subject! They are yours, and must be made to understand so immediately—or you will find yourself a mere hanger-on at your own Court.”

Catherine smiled gently, thinking that the poor old lady was so concerned for her happiness that she saw a great deal of evil where none existed. “I think you’ve misjudged them, my lady. They all look so fine—I’m sure they must be good.”

“Unfortunately, your Majesty, that is not the way of the world. The good are never ostentatious—these creatures are. Now, your Majesty, you must listen to the advice of an old woman who has lived a long while and seen a great deal. Be mistress in your own Court! Be a leader, not a follower, or they’ll leave you alone for whoever does undertake to lead, and Heaven knows, in this abandoned place it could be no one of good character. Begin, your Majesty, by putting off those absurd English clothes his Majesty gave you. Return to your native costume, and others will be forced to follow.”

Catherine looked down, somewhat dismayed, at her pink-and-blue taffeta gown with its full-gathered skirt, billowing sleeves, the neckline cut more discreetly than were those of most ladies, but still quite daring, she had thought. She felt that in it she was prettier than she had ever been before in her life.

“But,” she protested softly, “I like it.”

“It doesn’t become you, my dear, as your native costume does. Go back to your farthingales, or these English will think they’ve converted you to their ways already. They’re an arrogant race, and will have scant pity or respect for whoever is easily tamed by them. And one thing more, your Majesty—don’t learn the language. Let them speak to you in your own tongue—”

Catherine had listened to Penalva all her life, and she knew that the old lady had nothing but love and affection for her. She bowed to the wisdom of age and that night she appeared at a banquet in her bobbing, black-silk farthingale. She gave Charles a quick anxious glance, to see whether or not he disapproved of the change, but his face was inscrutable. He smiled, bowing, and offered her his arm.

The honeymoon was celebrated with endless entertainment and gaiety. There were banquets and balls and cock-fights, picnics, rides on the canal in the luxurious royal barges, plays performed by actors who came down from London. All day long the staircases, the chain of great rooms and galleries, were crowded with a brilliantly dressed throng of men and women. In plum-coloured velvet, blue satin, gold brocade, they clattered and swished from room to room, strolled down the cradle-walk of interlaced hornbeam, drifted lazily on the river. And the sound of their voices, calling to one another, laughing, chatter. ing eternally, reached Catherine whether she was with them or —more often—when she was in her own apartments at prayer or talking to her ladies and priests. She liked to hear them, for though she felt shy and lonely when she was among them, from a distance it gave her a sense of being part of their gay, debonair, heedless world.

She did not guess what they thought of her.

“She’s ugly as a bat,” they told one another, after the first glimpse, and greatly magnified her defects because she did not look like an Englishwoman.

They dissected her among themselves, the women giggling and murmuring behind their fans even when she was in the room, for they knew she could understand nothing of what they said. And if by chance the Queen’s brown eyes rested upon one of them and she smiled, they quickly composed their faces to smile back, curtsying faintly, and gave a wink and a nudge to the nearest lady.

“Gad! But she looks as demure as a dog in a halter!”

“I’ll be damned if I can bring myself to admire a woman with such a dingy skin! Why the devil doesn’t she give it a plastering of powder?”

“Oh, heavens, my lord! Her monster would never allow it! They say the old witch thinks we’re a pack of infidels and counsels her Majesty to have a care we don’t corrupt her.”

“Look! how she gives the king the sheep’s eye! Ugh! I swear it makes me queasy to see a woman who dotes so upon her husband—and in public in broad daylight!”

“I say it’s a mark of his Majesty’s good-breeding he can make such a tolerable show of seeming to endure her.”

“Well—I’ll wager he won’t make such a tolerable show much longer. Castlemaine laid-in last week. She’ll be here in another fortnight—and then we’ll see—” Barbara Palmer had been created Countess of Castlemaine some six months before.

“It runs through the galleries the King promised long ago he’d make her a Lady of the Bedchamber when he married—”

“And she says he will or she’ll know why!”

Much as they disliked Barbara for her insolence and airs, hot though jealousy of her flared among the other women, still she was one of them and they were united in her favour against this newcomer who outraged them with her modesty and reticence, her obstinate clinging to the fashions of her own country, her persistent devotion to her church. But it was not only the frivolous and cynical whom Catherine had offended. By seeming from the first to like Chancellor Clarendon she had unwittingly drawn upon herself the enmity of the most ambitious and able and influential men at Court.

But Catherine could know nothing of all this. And in spite of Penalva’s repeated warnings she looked at her new subjects and saw only women dressed in beautiful gowns, with glossy golden hair and a look of sleek complacency—women she envied though she knew it was wicked to do so—and men with suave easy manners bowing over her hand, sweeping off their hats as she appeared, their closed faces telling her nothing. She was still a little frightened by England, but so much in love with her husband and so eager to please him that she tried to conceal her awe and uncertainty and thought that she was succeeding very well.

And then one evening, while she was being made ready for bed, Lady Suffolk, aunt of Lady Castlemaine, and the only English attendant thus far appointed, handed the Queen a sheet of paper with a list of names written upon it. “These are the persons proposed for your Majesty’s attendants,” she said. “Will your Majesty be pleased to sign?”

Catherine, now in her flowing night-gown of white silk, took it and went to her little writing-table. She picked up a pen and had bent to write her signature, when suddenly Penalva’s hawk-nosed face appeared over her shoulder.

“Don’t sign without reading it first, your Majesty!” she whispered.

Catherine gave her a glance of mild surprise, for she had assumed that if the King had chosen these ladies to attend her they could not be otherwise than acceptable. But already her old chaperon was mumbling them over.

“—Mrs. Price. Mrs. Wells. Mother of the Maids: Bridget Saunderson. Ladies of the Bedchamber: my Lady Castlemaine—” At the last name her voice became audible, suddenly sharp and indignant, and her face turned to Catherine’s.

It was the only name which meant anything to her. For before she had sailed her mother—who had given her so little advice as to how to be happy, either as wife or queen—had warned her never to allow Lady Castlemaine to so much as come into her presence. She was, the old Dowager Queen had said, an infamous hussy for whom the King had shown a deplorable kindness during the days of his bachelorhood.

“Why!” said Catherine, horrified. Then quickly she glanced about to catch the cool eyes of Lady Suffolk upon her, and turned so that only her back was to be seen. “What shall I do?” she whispered, pretending to study the list.

“Scratch the creature’s name out, of course!” With a quick motion she snatched up the pen which Catherine had dropped, dipped it into the inkwell and handed it to her. “Scratch it out, your Majesty!”

For a moment longer Catherine hesitated, her face troubled and hurt, and then resolutely she crossed her pen over the name with several dark broad strokes, until it was completely obliterated. She felt that by so doing she had also obliterated this menace to her happiness. She turned then and spoke to her interpreter.

“Tell my Lady Suffolk that I shall return the list to her in the morning.”

Half an hour later Charles arrived to find her alone and, as usual, on her knees before the little shrine which had been set up next to the great scarlet-velvet bed-of-state. He waited quietly, but already his eye had caught sight of the paper on the writing-table and the black bar which marked out Lady Castlemaine. However, he said nothing, and when she turned and smiled at him he crossed over to help her to her feet; but as he stooped to kiss her he could feel her tiny body stiffen defensively.

For a few moments they talked, discussing the play they had seen that night—a performance of “Bartholomew Fair” done by the King’s Company—but all the while Catherine was wondering nervously how she should broach the subject and wishing that he would mention it first. At last, in desperation, just as he excused himself to go into the dressing-room, she spoke quickly.

“Oh—and Sire—before I forget. My Lady Suffolk gave me the list tonight—it’s over there—” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I crossed out one name. I’m sure you know which one,” she added hastily, a little note of defiance coming into her voice, for Penalva had warned her that she must let him know once and for all she was not to be treated like that again.