Queen Catherine of Braganza

“They’re calling it the Popish Plot,” Charles tells Catherine over breakfast on a late September morning. Outside the window, the robins chirp sweetly, preparing themselves for the long winter ahead. Inside the dining hall, there is silence except for the clink of their pewter cutlery. Usually Charles keeps their breakfast lively, entertaining her with stories of quirky diplomats or amusing monarchs but today, his mood is subdued.

    “Who’s they?” she asks, softly. Charles stares at his food, aimlessly pushing his roast beef around on the plate with one hand idly spinning the goblet of ale beside him.

      “Everyone. The public,” he pauses and chews on his lip. “The cabinet.” Charles is actively avoiding her gaze. “The Catholics are very unpopular in England, my love.”

    Well, she knows that. England has become a paranoid world with every Protestant, from the peasantry to the genteel ladies, carrying concealed daggers to protect themselves against the “wicked and vicious”           Catholics. This fervor has birthed the talk of the Popish plot: a conspiracy allegedly hatched by the Catholics to murder Charles and replace him with his Catholic brother, James, as king of England.

    But what Charles is implying is that she should be on alert. Born a Portuguese princess and therefore a Catholic, she had been an unpopular choice for queen of England. But her father had given her a dowry which included 400, 000 crowns worth of sugar, plates and jewels, the rights to trade with Brazil and East Indies and cession of Bombay and Tangiers. Despite their misgivings, the greed of the English won out and by the summer of 1662, she was crowned the Queen of England. The price she had to pay for being at the helm of one of the greatest powers in the world was the English court’s constant distrust. Now with tensions running high on account of the Popish plot, Charles is trying to warn her that she is not safe. But she is more concerned with his safety.

    “Are they right? Is your life in danger?” She rakes her nails across her palm to quell her anxiety.

    “Of course not, Catherine.” Charles finally look at her and smiles. It’s this smile that has earned him the moniker of the “Merry Monarch”; his eyes twinkle with mirth, the skin crinkling at the side into deep crow’s feet. She’s forgiven him so much because of it: all his indiscretions, his mistresses, his illegitimate children vanish into the warmth that fills her when he gives her a flash of that cheeky grin.

    “Okay.” She smiles back and for a moment, it’s almost like they’re regular people, a peasant farmer and his wife seated in the dining room of their small and cozy cottage and not in the dizzyingly gilded eating room of Whitehall Palace. But her reverie is broken with the entry of Charles’ valet.

    “I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty, but the Earl of Clarendon begs your presence urgently,” he says.
“I think you better ask my lady wife if I can be excused,” Charles replies with his characteristic bemused smile. Catherine laughs with a lightness she doesn’t feel. It isn’t a serious statement; she is only his wife, after all, not a more important part of his life. As he rises to leave, she bitterly wonders if he so willingly abandons his mistresses for royal business. Her breakfast turns to lead in her mouth.

    Charles signals for his valet to leave and once the door swings shut, he strides across the room to Catherine. He places a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to leave you so abruptly, my love.”

    Sixteen years of marriage and she still can’t tell when he’s lying.

    Then he leans forward and kisses her softly on the lips, his hand pressing against her flushed cheek. He kisses her again, harder this time and all trace of anger seeps out of her even though he probably kisses the Duchess of Portsmouth or Nell Gwyn the exact same way. Then he’s gone, bustling out of the room with all her cheer and warmth and leaving her to eat in anxious silence.

***

The Banqueting Hall is flush with noise and laughter and the savoury scent of roasting meat mingles with the dour odor of sweat and pungent sweetness of ale.  The flickering candlelight gives the hall an ethereal glow, casting a delicate dance of light on the ceiling. Catherine is seated at the head of the hall perched on a padded velvet throne beside Charles with her crown balancing on her head.

    The festivities tonight are in honor of Titus Oates, the instigator of the Popish Plot rumors. Within a span of two months, he has gone from unknown village priest to being one of the most influential men in the nation. Under his testimony, Catholics are being executed every day. He is being hailed as a hero across England for protecting the monarch and defending England. Catherine sees nothing heroic in Oates, a great ogre of a man with his piggy eyes, wobbling chins and high, rasping voice; she sees only a man who is overly confident of his importance. If she could have had her way, she would be locked up in her apartments right now or in the aviary, watching her birds but her position at court is precarious enough with her faith; she can’t afford to alienate any allies by not attending one of the biggest balls of the year.

    She isn’t obliged to enjoy herself though so while Charles joins in on the courtiers’ jokes, she stares stonily ahead, stewing in her anger. Even when Charles gently lays his hand on her wrist, her gaze does not divert from the intricately carved hall entrance. She has a special reserve of anger just for him and no amount of his charm can make her forgive him. To show his gratitude for Oates, Charles has given him a state apartment at Whitehall which meant that Catherine couldn’t even be free from him in her own home. To tolerate a pompous liar was one thing but to actually reward his paranoid hallucinations with a coveted palace apartment was entirely another. But what infuriates her the most is that no execution in England can proceed without Charles’ signature which can only mean that he has sanctioned all the Catholic deaths. It also terrifies her; how can she be safe if Charles is willingly executing Catholics by the dozens?

    “Your Majesty,” Oates’ grating voice distracts her from her angry reverie.

    “Mr. Oates,” Catherine acknowledges him stiffly as he bows and kisses her hand. “How may I help you?”
His glistening, bulbous lips in the glow of the candles revolts her which he exacerbates by slathering on some more saliva with his tongue.

    “I’ve been trying to meet with you for a week now.  I have some matters that I wish to discuss with you. You think we would see each other more with us being neighbors now,” he giggles, a high-pitched sound that reminds her of the pigs that lived around the convent she grew up in.

    “I apologize, Mr. Oates. I am very busy as you must know,” she forces a smile. It’s a bold-faced lie; ever since the outbreak of the Popish Plot, her social life has dwindled entirely. All the court ladies had stopped attending her weekly card games and if masques and balls still happened, she received no invitations. No one wants to be associated with a Catholic queen who could be replaced at any day. “But keep speaking with my valet; I’m sure he will find some time for us to meet.” Which is yet another lie; her valet has been given strict instructions to make sure Oates never gets an audience with her.

    “We could speak now, Your Highness,” he proffers.

    “Of course. But these ceremonies are in your honor. Surely, you don’t want to disappoint your guests by spending the evening with a boring old lady,” she says with a sharp self-deprecating laugh.
   
    “Oh, milady, you could never be boring. And you look as beautiful as the day you came to England. I was there, you know.” Catherine hates his way of speaking: slurping back air and wheezing out his words as if he had never learned to speak and breathe at the same time.

    “You were where, Mr. Oates?”

    “At Portsmouth. May 13, 1662,” he smiles.. His breath smells like fish, garlic and ale all mixed together in a nauseating cocktail. “You looked so beautiful that day in your red wedding dress.”

    “Mr. Oates, I am the Queen of England. You cannot speak to me in this…this informal manner!” Catherine tries to hide the discomfort in her voice with indignation.

    “When you got sick, I prayed for you, Your Majesty. They all thought you were going to die; they shaved your head and tied dead pigeons to your feet but I believed that you would rise again, just like our Lord Savior,” Oates grasps her hand. Catherine glances around the hall, desperately but no one sees anything other than a national hero paying tribute to his queen.

    “Mr. Oates, I implore you to release me and step away,” she tries to pull her hand away.

    His eyes narrow. “I just want you to understand that I’m not your enemy, Your Highness. I don’t want to hurt you, I want to protect you. But if you insist,” he licks his lips again. “If you insist on following the heathen Catholics, then I’m afraid I must take measures.”

    “Are you threatening me? That’s a treasonable offense!”

    Oates continues, unheedingly. “There are many who fear our King’s…shall we say, weakness? His weakness for Catholic women.”

    Catherine stiffens. He is referring to the Duchess of Portsmouth, of course, and to Charles’ ex-mistress, the Countess of Castlemaine who had recently converted to Catholicism. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Oates stares at her intently and opens his mouth to say something until a voice from behind says, “Mr. Oates, I hope you’re willing to share my charming step-mother with the rest of us mortals.”

    Catherine whimpers a relieved sigh as Oates steps back to reveal a strapping young man with a tousled mop of black curls and a angular face just like Charles: the Duke of Monmouth. 

    “My lord Duke,” Oates bows to the youth as he stumbles back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how long I was talking to the Queen.”

    “She has that effect on people,” the Duke replies with a laugh. “Now if you’ll excuse us.” Oates shoots one more hungry look at Catherine before he disappears off into the crowded hall.

    “Thank you, James,” Catherine’s heart is racing so fast that it feels like it could burst out of her chest and run through the hall.

    “You looked mightily uncomfortable, Mother,” he replies with a look of concern. “Mr. Oates can be a very intense personality.”
 
    James is Charles’ eldest illegitimate child, the product of a fling with a woman named Lucy Walters during Charles’ exile in Denmark. In the early years of her marriage to Charles, James had been the only bright spot. He would pick her flowers whenever he went for walks with his nurse or paint her pictures in garish blues and yellows and reds. After her first miscarriage, he had crawled into her lap, only a boy of six, and sung to her sweetly, the way she would whenever he was sick. He had been the son she would never have, the child she’d always dreamed about. He’s no longer a child but he still cheers her up with his constant booming laughter.

    “Have you seen the Squintabella?” He asks her as he settles in Charles’ vacated seat, referring to the Duchess of Portsmouth by the mocking nickname that the court uses behind her back. Catherine giggles in spite of herself.
“That’s terribly cruel, James,” she admonishes, halfheartedly. James grins at her wickedly and the noise from the Banqueting Hall starts to fade as he draws her into his world of youth and vigor. His good cheer chases away the shadow that Titus Oates that has cast over her mind and heart, even if only temporarily.

***

Catherine’s shoes click sharply on the marble floor of Whitehall as she returns to her apartments after morning prayer. The palace hallway is silent except for the click of her shoes and the swish of her heavy brocade skirts. She passes portraits of kings with stern, angular faces, queens with placid half-smiles and richly embroidered drapery. Outside the windows that line the hallway, London is slowly awakening in the grey light of the dawn. The winter has started, leaving the trees barren and empty, coating the ground with a light dust of snow.

         But Catherine sees none of this. Her mind is preoccupied with Titus Oates. After their uncomfortable encounter at the ball a month ago, Oates had fulfilled his threat. He has accused her of high treason, naming her as a co-conspirator in the Popish Plot, a crime punishable with imprisonment in the grim Tower of London and an almost certain execution. At the very least, as the Queen of England, she would be afforded the “luxury” of an execution on Tower Green away from the eyes of the jeering public. Angry tears rush to her eyes.

    Charles has also been signing more arrest warrants than ever. His newfound harshness clashes with the Charles she has known all these years. He’s not merry anymore; just blood-stained and severe. Since the start of the Popish Plot, she has been waiting for when the hounds get the whiff of her blood and it seems like the day is fast approaching. Nothing is helped by the fact that Charles has said very little to her at all. For the week since Oates’ accusation, he has not sent for her to dine with him and later in the night, retires to his apartments with Nell Gwyn, but not her. It makes her nervous. It’s not that Charles hasn’t preferred his mistress over her in the past; it’s the conspicuousness of his snub at a time when England is slowly turning against her. She can feel it as she takes her carriage rides through the streets of London. Even though the court hated her, she had always been popular among the English people; her big brown eyes, petite frame and delicate face had enchanted them. But now, her carriage only draws sullen glares, not joyful cheers, and the only thing likely to be thrown at her is a rotten tomato, not bouquets of wildflowers.
Her isolation has never been more profound. Most of her few friends have distanced themselves from her in an attempt of self-preservation. She can hardly blame them. Her own physician, Sir George Wakeman, was interrogated by Oates and other Popish Plot bullies. Catherine had had to fling herself at Charles’ feet in a pitiful display of humility to get the man released and when Charles had finally listened, Wakeman had escaped to the country, sending her only an impersonal letter of thanks. But hardest of all was the loss of the Duchess of Portsmouth. Despite being Charles’ mistress, Catherine and the Duchess had developed a close friendship bonding over their Catholicism. Being a French Catholic, the Duchess was well-hated even before the Popish Plot and after its outbreak, even Catherine genuinely feared for the life of her friend. Charles seemed unwilling to get to involved in the Duchess’ escape so Catherine had orchestrated it all herself. The Duchess had travelled to Calais using the Queen’s coach and personal ship, disappearing into the countryside the moment she touched down on French soil. Catherine’s complicity in the deception had painted an even larger target on her back but the Duchess of Portsmouth was her only true friend at court, the only who hadn’t abandoned her and so Catherine knew she had to help her. Charles was especially furious at her for not telling him her plans.

    The last time Charles had spoken to her, he implored her to renounce Catholicism and convert to Protestantism. Her refusal had infuriated him and placed her in a more precarious position at court. She knows conversion will make her life easier but she can’t bring herself to give up the last shred of her identity. Despite being a princess, her devoutly Catholic parents had insisted that she grow up in a convent and so religion had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. Her relationship with her faith had gotten her through everything, particularly the terrifying journey from Portugal, the country she had known for twenty three years to the British Isles. When she first arrived in England, she had tried to make Charles fall in love with her by being as English as possible. She had stayed up all night before her wedding night practicing walking with the farthingale, a stiff bell-shaped underskirt sewn with hoops of wood, which had become a fashion statement in the English court. The Portuguese court had seen it for what it was: an unnecessarily elaborate accessory simply meant to torture women. But if Charles wanted it, Catherine had been determined to comply. Yet the king hadn’t noticed her graceful walk in the farthingale on their wedding day, choosing instead to comment on her Portuguese hairstyle. Bat-like, is what he had called it. The insult had stung her deeply but she changed her hair as well, adopting the English style of wired bunches of ringlets on either side of her face.  Catholicism is the last thing she has that belongs to her; even Portuguese has become a distant and unfamiliar tongue to her.
She knows she cannot show her fear to the court. Any sign of fear would be immediately taken as an admission of guilt to Oates’ accusation. Every morning, after another sleepless night, she drags herself out of bed to be trussed up and makes her way to the chapel for morning mass because it is her routine; it shows anyone who cares to look that she is unfazed.

    As she reaches her apartments, she pauses at the threshold and stares at the door opposite hers that leads to Charles’ apartments. It would be so easy to end her anxieties; just walk across and confront him. But he’s the King and she’s only his wife. Could she really be so presumptuous? But the more she thinks about it, she realizes that if he plans to execute her, his anger at her audacity will not change her fate. From the moment she married him, her life has always been in Charles’ hands. Ever since her third miscarriage, the threat of divorce has loomed over her head. Now the threat of execution has turned her into a desperate woman with nothing to lose.  So she crosses the hallway and firmly raps her knuckle on the door. It is opened by Charles’ valet who stares at her in surprise.

    “Your Highness, is anything the matter?” he stammers.

    “I just wish to see my husband,” she steps through the doorway without waiting for invitation. She breezes through Charles’ receiving room as his valet tries in earnest to bar her entry to the bedroom. Her confidence will only last her so long.

    “Milady, I have to ensure that the King is in the proper state to receive you,” the valet attempts to explain. “Please wait out here and I will bring you in momentarily.”

    Catherine glares at him but acquiesces as he disappears into the room. She wanders around the room, running her hand over the over-stuffed couches and the mahogany side tables covered with expensive presents from ambassadors all over Europe. Now alone, she begins to wonder if this is a good idea. What if she actually convinces Charles to execute her? But the valet reappears just as the doubts are starting to creep in.

      Charles sits on his bed in his white pajamas. Without his royal finery and his black curly wig, he looks like a regular man cut from a manor in the English countryside and pasted into this regal bedroom.

      “Hello, my love. What an unexpected surprise,” Charles smiles. If he is angry with her, he’s not showing it yet. But sixteen years have taught Catherine that he is an excellent liar.

    “I’m sorry to disturb  you, my lord--” 

    “You could never disturb me, Catherine,” he chuckles. “I’m terribly sorry you haven’t seen me in so long. It has been a long week.”

    They are both silent for a moment while Catherine tries to build up her courage. “Charles, I’m afraid.”

    “You have nothing to fear, my love,” he responds, softly. “You are perfectly safe within the walls of Whitehall.”

    “Because you will protect me,” she says this, sarcastically.

    “What is that supposed to mean?” He demands, sharply.

    “Are you going to execute me?” The question comes out as a scream that cuts through Charles’ anger like a knife. It hangs between them like a stone.

    “Why would you even think that, Catherine?” His anger returns to him, lending a fearful power to his voice.

    “Every day you sign a new execution notice,” she cries, her voice high-pitched with hysteria. “Or a new arrest warrant. Every day a new Catholic’s head is rotting on London Bridge. If I’m next, just tell me because I’m going crazy just waiting around to find out my fate.” 

      Charles just sits on the bed with his head in his hands.

    “Charles, I am your wife,” Catherine is hiccupping her words between sobs. “You have to protect me. That’s what you promised to do sixteen years ago in front of God, in front of your people. So do it. Help me.”

    “That’s what I’m trying to do, Catherine,” Charles raises his head, wearily and Catherine can see the tears streaking down his cheeks. The sight makes her stop short; she had never seen him cry. “All the Catholic arrests and executions are me protecting you.”

    Catherine stares at him, uncomprehendingly. “What?”

    “My darling, I would execute every Catholic in England before I let them come for you,” he gets up and walks to her. Catherine almost laughs in relief but then realizes what he’s saying. The horror of Charles’ situation dawns on her. 

    “But that isn’t right. I can’t have innocent people dying, for my sake. How can I live with this burden of guilt?” she pauses, wondering if she has the audacity to say what she’s thinking. “How can you?”

    “Let the blood lie on them that condemned those poor people, for God knows I signed all of those warrants with tears in my eyes,” Charles says angrily, turning away from her again. “I’m just trying to protect you, Catherine, because I love you.”

      These are the words that Catherine has wanted to hear her entire marriage but not like this. She just wanted Charles to give up his mistresses, not order the deaths of innocents to prove his love for her. And yet, he had admitted he loved her. And to protect her like this, by sacrificing his conscience.  The revelation is bittersweet. Her joy that he loves her is entirely overshadowed by her realization that all those Catholics were executed to protect her. But then Charles smiles at her, that familiar boyish smile that melts all her anger towards him and fills her with nothing but love. Her guilt is still gnawing at her but for the moment, the pain is dulled by the warm glow in Charles’ eyes. 

    “Stay with me today, my love,” he says to her, gruffly. She nods; she doesn’t want to be alone with her guilt. And for the first time in sixteen years, she feels like her marriage to Charles could start afresh. She can see it unfolding in front of her: Charles with polished, glowing armor riding in to save her from Oates and his comrades, then swinging her onto the back of his trusty horse and the two of them galloping away to France, maybe back to Portugal where they can be anonymous, just a loving married couple living in a lovely villa with surrounded by luscious greenery and fresh country air. Maybe her fertility problems will be fixed by being in the countryside and she can give Charles all the children that he ever wanted from her. Her imaginary world is building, soaring as Charles comes to her and takes her in his arms, holding her close. She’s already starting to imagine the grandchildren that they will have when she hears a delicate, distinctly female sneeze from behind the curtain. Charles freezes in her arms. And just like that, her pretense crumbles. All the children that could be, the sunny little cottage, the vegetable patch outside her kitchen door, all of it sucked away by that little sneeze that reveals a presence of some poor freezing lover of Charles hidden behind the curtains. She pushes him away. He’s no knight in shining armour, just a libidinous old man with his eyes downturned and his cheeks flushed with color.

    “I will not stay for fear that the pretty fool behind those curtains might take cold,” she tells Charles. She feels suffocating despair clamping around her heart. Every time, she thinks she has gotten used to his infidelity but she’s always wrong. Right now, Titus Oates is far away from her and even if he gets her executed, he will never be able to hurt her as deeply as Charles does.

    “Catherine. I meant what I said,” Charles says. All she does is nod curtly, gather up her skirts and leave his bedroom with her head held high, feigning a confidence that drains into the floor with every step.

    Once she reaches her own bedroom, she collapses into tears, falling to the floor with her skirts forming a halo of fabric around her. Her ladies-in-waiting fuss around her, trying to hoist her off the floor but soon they give up and retreat to her sitting room while she rocks herself back and forth. She had grown up alone, living in a convent under a controlling mother and once she had believed that as Queen of the most powerful country in the world, she would never be lonely again. But for the past sixteen years, loneliness was all she had ever known. Nothing in this harsh world belonged to her. Her husband belonged to his mistresses, her clothes and furniture belonged to her husband and even the only child she could ever call hers was the progeny of another woman. Now her freedom belongs to a disgusting man with a hatred for Catholics. She lies on the stone floor of the bedroom for a long time, refusing lunch and tea, no longer crying but still feeling like a crushing hole is sucking her into a wormhole of darkness. As her room falls into darkness, she hears a soft knock on the door. She doesn’t want to respond so she just listens to the Earl of Clarendon, Charles’ Privy advisor.

    “Milady, his Highness wanted me to tell you in person. Titus Oates has been sent to the Tower.”

    Catherine bolts upright.

    “When the Cabinet convened today, his Highness asked many difficult questions about Mr. Oates’ accusations against you. Our lord King was relentless in his interrogation and Oates made many mistakes which sowed seeds of doubt among the Cabinet. The King himself provided an alibi for many of the nights Oates claimed you were engaged in conspiratorial activity.”

      She starts to cry again but this time, with relief of a heavy burden being removed.

    “The Cabinet was angrier than the King at being duped and would have demanded his execution right away but the King refused out of respect for you. He told them that he had no desire for you to feel the guilt of a man’s death and so, will not issue a warrant of execution. I believe he made the right decision, milady,” the Earl pauses for a reply. “Your Highness, I simply wish to tell you that you were never in danger with the King. He has repeated many times, to myself and to the House of Lords, that you could never do anything wicked…” His voice trails off, waiting for her say anything.  Finally, he continues, “The King requests your presence at dinner tonight. He greatly wishes to see you.”
She waits a little longer before she finally replies, “Tell my lord husband that I would be delighted to attend dinner tonight.”

***

Charles and Catherine stand on the balcony of Whitehall. The throngs of people spill out from the courtyard onto Whitehall Road, leading all the way back to the heart of the city. Fifty years ago, people had gathered outside of Whitehall to watch the execution of Charles’ father but there is no trace of that ugliness today. Right now, the people cheer for them, choruses of “Long live the King” rolling through the crowd periodically. There is no weight to these people, no darkness now that the Popish Plot is over. Protestants and Catholics rub elbows and exchange lewd jokes once more. As Catherine raises her hand to wave at the crowd, a huge cheer goes up, turning her smile into a girlish laugh.

    “Long live Queen Catherine,” they shout to her and she blows them a loving kiss.

    Charles looks particularly handsome today, dressed in his military uniform. He looks every bit a king, a King of England nonetheless. When he takes her hand and smiles at her, Catherine can feel an upwelling of warmth from her belly, rolling right up to her flushed cheeks. They move towards the ledge, smiling at one another, a picturesque scene for the crowd that roar with delight. He will never be the husband she wants him to be, he will never be hers alone. But she takes her strength knowing that while there have been three mistresses and countless other lovers, there will only be one queen. It is her name that the crowd chants, not Nell Gwyn’s or the Duchess of Portsmouth. She is more than just a queen to them; she is their Queen. She looks out at the crowd, Charles’ warm hand squeezing hers as she stands by his side, her ears ring with the sounds of the public’s love.