Lisbon, Portugal, and The Hague, Holland

The Infanta Catharine of Portugal, better known in European circles as Catharine of Braganza, paused directly outside the closed door to her parents’ drawing room, then gave a tight nod to the valet who stood waiting to open it for her.

Oh, please God, let this be the news she’d spent her life waiting for!

The door swung silently open, and Catharine entered in a quiet, graceful manner, showing none of her nerves. At twenty-three she was a small woman, barely five foot tall, delicate of build and of face, with fine white skin, large and widely spaced dark brown eyes, and heavy black hair, which Catharine thought her best feature. Diplomats and ambassadors, in describing Catharine, always ignored the hair and argued that her substantial dowry—Bombay, Tangier, and several million gold crowns—was indisputably her best feature. The dowry was certainly her best selling point to various princes about Europe.

But to all of them Catharine had said no. There was but one man she wished to marry, and until this year, it had seemed highly unlikely her father would ever allow it. Indeed, he had refused her lover’s suit on several previous occasions.

But now…

The audience room was empty of all save Catharine’s parents, King John IV and Queen Luisa de Guzman, and one man standing at the windows so that the light hid his features.

He bowed as Catharine entered, but as they had not been introduced Catharine ignored him for the moment. She walked to where her parents sat side by side in chairs by the hearth—if the occasion had been more formal, or their visitor anyone but their daughter, the king and queen would have been sitting on their thrones on the dais.

As it was, a small table to one side of Queen Luisa held the remnants of the tea of which Catharine’s parents had been partaking, and sharing with the as yet unknown man standing by the window, if the third cup was any indication.

“My lord father,” Catharine said, curtseying deeply. “Madam mother.”

She stayed deep in the curtsey until her father waved a hand, granting her permission to rise.

“Sir Edward Montagu,” he said, indicating the man standing at the window. “The Earl of Sandwich.”

Please, dear God, let the earl not be here on some dreary trade delegation! Catharine prayed, again hiding expertly her inner turmoil as she held out her hand. The earl walked forward, bowed yet again, and kissed the backs of her fingers.

“Infanta,” the earl murmured, and Catharine noted with renewed excitement how he regarded her speculatively.

“The earl and we,” said John, “have been engaged in some discussion, first through our respective ambassadors, and latterly in person within this our palace.”

“I had not known of your presence here, good sir,” said Catharine, “else I should have made myself better known to you, and wished you well.”

“You shall be pleased to hear of the nature of our discussions,” said the king.

Catharine briefly closed her eyes, her hands clutching deep within the folds of her silken skirts. Please, God, please…please…

“It seems most apparent,” her father went on, his voice languid, almost bored, “that the King of England in exile, Charles, shall no longer be very much in exile.”

Please, God, please, please…I beg you…

“The earl,” the king continued, “has brought to me reassurances from General Monck—you have heard of him?”

Catharine inclined her head.

“The General,” said John, “has assured me that Parliament has set in motion the procedures necessary for restoring Charles to his throne. It shall not be many more months before Charles may enter England, not as a fugitive, but as its rightful king.”

“Princess,” said Sandwich, “Parliament, as well as many notable private citizens of my country, have sent to King Charles a significant sum of money—”

“Sixty thousand pounds,” said Queen Luisa.

“—as a gesture of goodwill and a true indication of their honourable intentions towards the king.”

“Where once Charles languished in threadbare breeches,” said King John, “begging money from every prince and duke in Europe to pay for his laundresses, he now lolls in silks and satins, threaded all about with seed pearls, and the princes and dukes of Europe line up to do him honour. Thus, I find myself quite prepared to reconsider King Charles’ offer for your hand.”

“Indeed, the earl’s presence here,” said Queen Luisa, “indicates, as I am sure you must by now be aware, that these negotiations have, on our part at least, been most truly successful. It only rests for you to—”

“Yes,” said Catharine, in such a hurry that the word stumbled thickly from her mouth. “Yes, I agree. I wish to be his wife.”

The earl grinned, and Catharine smiled back at him, her face dimpling prettily and relieving her of her usual aura of cool gravity.

“My queen,” he said, and bowed more deeply before her than he had heretofore.

Bombay, Tangier, several million crowns, and a pretty smile as an added gift, he thought. My lord king shall be a happy man indeed.

“You have, perhaps,” murmured Charles II, soon-to-be-restored King of England, “some idea of how long I have waited for this moment.” He had Catharine’s hand in his, and raised it close to his lips as he spoke, but neither had regard for that movement, nor that kiss, but only for each other’s eyes as they met.

Around them, the audience chamber in Charles’ temporary palace in The Hague was packed with members of Charles’ court, statesmen and their wives of the States-General of Holland, and the court of Charles’ sister, Princess Mary of Orange (her recently deceased husband, Prince William of Orange, had been among the most influential of Dutch noblemen).

The Hague was in a festive mood. After years of ignoring Charles, years of asking him to move on, years of denying him monies for basic housekeeping, years of wishing that the exiled brother of the Princess of Orange would just go away, now the Dutch could not get enough of the suddenly wealthy and influential King of England. Monies, flatteries, fruits and significant measures of gold were thrown his way as if Charles and his plight had never been found the least bit irritating.

Neither Catharine nor Charles had any thought for what was going on about them. Instead, both felt the profoundest sense of relief. Catharine, the last of the inner circle of Eaving’s Sisters, was almost home at last.

All they felt was relief and, as they gazed into each other’s eyes remembering what they had felt for each other in their last life, a not unexpected desire.

Charles was the first to recall his duty. Catharine had only arrived at The Hague this morning, the Earl of Sandwich escorting her from Lisbon (together with several shiploads of fineries, sugar and, at Catharine’s own request, an entire hold’s worth of tea). Her most recent arrival notwithstanding, their marriage was due to take place within the hour—no one wanted to wait, least of all Charles and Catharine—and while gazing at his intended wife over their conjoined hands was all very sweet, there were matters which needed attention.

He kissed Catharine’s fingers, then presented her to the assembled guests.

She curtseyed, very prettily if not deeply (after all, she was soon to be their queen), and Charles beckoned forth a few of the more distinguished among the assemblage. Catharine greeted each one with the deference due their titles and influence—and their potential influence over her future life—but it was the ninth and final man who truly caught her attention.

“Monsieur Louis de Silva,” said Charles. “A most particular friend of mine.”

“Monsieur de Silva,” she said. “I am most pleased to acquaint—” re-acquaint “—myself with you.”

Louis bowed. “Madam, I wish you all happiness with your new husband, and joy in your new kingdom.”

“I hope I shall have the chance to better acquaint myself with you, Monsieur de Silva, over the coming weeks and months.”

“And I you, madam.” This last speech Louis accompanied with a dark, sultry look directly into her eyes that had Catharine fighting to dampen her smile.

“But for now,” Charles said in an undertone, “she is my wife.”

Louis’ mouth jerked in a barely repressed grin. “Assuredly, majesty. May I wish you great joy in your marriage.”

Then he was gone, and the diplomats and ambassadors and assembled personages crowded around them, and Charles drew Catharine to him, and they were married.

“Thank all the damned gods in existence,” Charles muttered as he watched the door to the bedchamber close, “that we are alone at last.”

He sat with Catharine in a vast, elaborately carved bed, a gift from the states of Holland. It was hung about with beautifully embroidered silken drapes, and accoutred in the most splendid of linens and comforts.

The marriage accomplished, the feast endured, and the “putting to bed” borne with as much grace as possible, the pair now found themselves alone.

And, surprisingly, suddenly shy in that aloneness.

“It has been so long,” Catharine murmured. She sat on the other side of the bed, demure in a white linen nightgown that was feathered all about its square neckline with fine Dutch lacework. She did not look at Charles, but at her hands demurely folded in her lap.

“And so much to say,” said Charles. He wondered why, when he had so gleefully shared his bed with Marguerite and Kate, he now found this moment so awkward.

“Do you worry,” he said, after some considerable pause, “that Noah might not like to think that…you…and I…that she might feel some…”

“Resentment,” Catharine said, her voice very low.

“Catharine,” he said, and shifted across the bed to her side. He lifted a hand to her hair, and undid the ribbon that held it in a thick braid. “Catharine, I sent to Noah both Marguerite and Kate, together with their children that I fathered on them. She did not mind that, not from the reports I have heard, and she will not mind this, not you and I. Circumstances are such that it will be a long time before she and I shall be together again.”

If ever, he thought, remembering so much of what had passed between them.

“Noah is not one,” he continued, his fingers now combing out her hair, “to seethe with misplaced resentment.”

Catharine had at last raised her face from the regard of her hands. “I have dreamed that she had a child.”

He grinned, and Catharine saw in his eyes the deep love he had for Noah. “Aye.”

“And it was fathered by…”

His grin broadened. “Aye, and within the most magical of Circles. And now that I have told you the truth, are you jealous? Resentful?”

She laughed. “No. I am glad for her.”

“Then know that she shall be glad for us.” He leaned the distance between them, and kissed her brow. “Ah, Matilda-Catharine…how I desired you six hundred years past…how I desire you now…Speak to me no more of Noah, I pray you, but only of what you and I can make, here and now, in this bed.”

And Catharine lifted her mouth to his, and let him ease her worries.