“My years of study have not been in vain, madame, I assure you. But such a question—You understand—” He shrugged, spreading his hands, and then made a gesture as of a knife being run across his throat. “If it should be known I had made a prognostication in a matter so important—” He glanced down at his charts again, frowning dubiously, and then he murmured softly, as though to himself: “It’s incredible! I can’t believe it—”

Barbara, in a froth of sudden excitement, sat far forward on the edge of her chair and her eyes blazed wildly. “What’s incredible? What is it? You’ve got to tell me!”

He leaned back, putting his finger-tips lightly together and contemplating the bony joints. “Ah, madame—it is information of too much importance to be disposed of so casually. Give me a few days to think it over, I pray you.”

“No! I can’t wait! I’ve got to know now! I’ll run mad if I don’t! What do you want—? I’ll give you anything! A hundred pound—”

“Have you a hundred pound with you?”

“Not with me. I’ll send it tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, madame, but I can no longer do business on credit. It was that practice which brought me to the condition you now see. Perhaps it would be best if you returned tomorrow.”

“No! Not tomorrow! I’ve got to know now! Here—take these ear-rings, and this necklace, and this ring—they’re worth more than a hundred pound any day!” She took off her jewels swiftly, tossing them across the table to him as though they were glass baubles bought at a fair or from some street vendor. “Now—Tell me quick!”

He gathered up the jewellery and slipped it into his pocket. “According to the stars, madame, the Queen’s child will be born dead.”

Barbara gasped. One hand went to cover her mouth and she sank back into her chair, her face shocked and unbelieving. But presently there began to creep into her eyes a look of cunning and of malignant satisfaction.

“Born dead!” she whispered at last. “Are you sure?”

“If the stars are sure, madame, I am sure.”

“Of course the stars are sure!” She got up swiftly. “Then he’ll come back to me, won’t he?” In her sudden joy and new confidence she spoke recklessly.

“It would seem likely, would it not—under the circumstances?” His voice had a soft purring sound and his face was smiling and subtle.

“Of course he will! Good-night, Dr. Heydon!” She lifted the hood up over her head once more as she walked to the door and he followed her, opening it and standing back to bow her out. The dog came too to see the visitor off. She took one step down, holding up her skirts so that she would not stumble in the darkness, and then all at once she glanced back over her shoulder and gave him a dazzling smile. “I hope the diamonds keep you out of Newgate, Doctor! That news was worth far more than a thousand pound to me!”

He bowed again, still smiling and nodding his head, and as she got to the landing and disappeared he closed the door and slowly fastened the bolt. Then he bent to stroke his dog and the animal went meekly down onto its back, its long rat-like tail thumping the floor.

“Towser,” he said, “at least we’ll eat for a while.”

Barbara, however, took the Doctor absolutely at his word and from then on the Queen’s health was her greatest concern. She went to her levee every morning, invited her to supper in her own rooms, bribed some of the pages to bring her immediate word if the Queen should fall sick—she kept a constant close but secret watch on everything she did. But Catherine seemed to thrive. She looked healthy and happy and prettier than she ever had.

“Your Majesty is not feeling well?” Barbara asked her at last in desperation. “You look so pale, and tired.”

But Catherine laughed and answered in her heavily accented English: “Of course I’m well, my lady! I’ve never been more well!

Barbara began to grow discouraged and even considered demanding the return of her jewels from Dr. Heydon. And then, in mid-October, sometime in the fifth month of Catherine’s pregnancy, a rumour swept through the Palace corridors: her Majesty had fallen ill, and had miscarried of the child.


Catherine lay flat on her back in bed, surrounded on all sides by her maids and waiting-women. Her eyes were closed tightly to keep back the tears, for she was desperately sick and afraid. But as she heard Penalva turn and tell one of the women in a whisper to call the King she looked up swiftly.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t do that! Don’t send for him! It’s nothing—I’ll be better presently—Wait until Mrs. Tanner comes.”

Mrs. Tanner was the midwife who had been taking care of her Majesty, and the moment Catherine had begun to feel sick and faint they had sent for her. She arrived a few minutes later, and as she went toward the bed her cheerful vulgar face contrived to appear both alarmed and optimistic. Mrs. Tanner resembled nothing so much as a fish-wife masquerading as a great lady. Her hair was dyed the fashionable silver-blonde colour that was almost white, her cheeks were so brightly painted with Spanish paper that they looked like autumn apples, and her fingers and wrists and neck were loaded with expensive jewellery —tokens of appreciation from her patients and a convenient and portable form of advertising.

Catherine opened her eyes to find the woman bending over her. “Your Majesty is feeling unwell?”

“I’ve been having pains—here—and I feel as though—as though I’m bleeding—” She looked up at her with the great mournful eyes of a puppy who begs a favour.

Mrs. Tanner swiftly masked the horrified surprise that came to her face and immediately began to take off her rings and bracelets. “Will your Majesty permit me to make an examination?”

Catherine nodded and Mrs. Tanner gave a signal for the curtains to be pulled about the bed. Then oiling her hands thoroughly with sweet-butter which an assistant had brought, she disappeared for several moments behind the curtains. Once there was a tormented little cry and a softly drawn groan from the Queen, and the face of every woman there winced with sympathetic pain. Finally Mrs. Tanner parted the curtains, dipped her right hand into a basin of water, and whispered to another woman: “Her Majesty has miscarried. Send for the King.” A wave of excited murmurs and significant glances rushed around the room.

A few minutes later Charles came in on the run and went immediately to Mrs. Tanner, who was now wiping her hands while two maids sponged blood from the floor. He had been called from the tennis-court and wore only his open-necked shirt and breeches; and his brown face—streaked with sweat—was drawn taut by anxiety.

“What’s happened? They told me her Majesty had fallen sick—”

Mrs. Tanner could not meet his eyes. “Her Majesty has miscarried, Sire.”

A look of horror struck across his face. Swiftly he parted the curtains and knelt beside her bed, out of sight of the roomful of curious watching eyes. “Catherine! Catherine, darling!” His voice was urgent, but low, for she lay with her eyes closed and appeared to be unconscious.

But at last her lashes lifted slowly and she saw him. For a moment there was scarcely even recognition on her face, and then the tears came and she turned her head away with an agonized sob.

“Oh, Catherine! I’m sorry—I’m so sorry! Have they given you something to ease the pain?” His face looked tired and as haggard as hers, for above all things on earth he wanted a legitimate son; but pity made him yearn to protect her.

“It isn’t the pain. I don’t care about that. Pain doesn’t matter—But, oh, I so wanted to give you a son!”

“You will, darling—you will someday. But you mustn’t think about that now. Don’t think about anything but getting well.”

“Oh, I don’t want to get well! What good am I on earth if I can’t do the one thing I’m put here for? Oh, my dear—” Her voice now sank so low that he had to lean forward to hear it and she stared up at him, her eyes flooded with self-reproach. “Suppose it’s true what they say—that I’m barren—”

Charles was shocked and his breath caught sharply. He had not known she had heard that gossip, though it had been circulating through the Court and even out in the town from the first month of their marriage, perhaps earlier.

“Oh, Catherine, my darling—” His long fingers stroked her hair, caressed her pale moist cheeks. “It isn’t true; of course it isn’t true. People will talk maliciously as long as they have tongues in their heads. These accidents happen so often, but they mean nothing. You must rest now and grow well and strong—for my sake.” He smiled tenderly, and bent his head to kiss her.

“For your sake?” She looked up at him trustingly, and at last she gave him a grateful little smile. “You’re so kind. You’re so good to me. And I promise—this won’t happen the next time.”

“Of course it won’t. Now go to sleep, my dear, and rest, and presently you’ll be well again.”

He remained kneeling beside her until her breathing was deep and regular and the little frown of pain had left her forehead, and then he got up and without a word walked from the room and back to his own apartments where he went into his closet alone.

Catherine was no better the next day and she grew steadily worse with each day that passed. They did everything they knew to cure her: They bled her until she was white as the sheets she lay on. They cut live pigeons in two and tied them to the bare soles of her feet to draw out the poison. They gave her purgatives and sneezing-powders, pearls and chloride of gold. Her priests were with her constantly, groaning and wailing and praying, and at every hour the room was filled with people. Royalty could neither be born nor die in quiet and privacy.