Bedazzled by Bertrice Small Page B

could not complain to her husband, for, like his father before him, Charles was of the firm belief George Villiers was his true and best friend.
    Both king and queen had been virgins on their wedding night, for Charles was far too prim to have taken a mistress or tumbled a servant girl in a dark stable. As neither his father nor Buckingham wanted any other influence in Charles’s life, they had discouraged his involvement with women. The young couple dared to speak to no one about this painful experience. They stumbled along in their physical relationship; the sixteen-year-old queen shy of her equally shy but demanding husband who had been told by Villiers that what the man wanted was what God approved of, for man was superior. Villiers then convinced Charles that his wife’s shyness was a refusal of his wishes, and an attempt to gain the upper hand. Things went from bad to worse.
    “Whoever heard of a name like Henri-etta?” Villiers said one day to the king. “It’s so foreign . The queen is English now, and really ought to have a good English name. Perhaps we could call her Queen Henry.”
    Henrietta, of course, as the duke had anticipated, fell into a terrible rage upon hearing the suggestion. “Mon nom est Henrietta!” she screamed. “Henri? La Reine Henri? C’est impossible! Non! Non! Non! Je suis Henrietta!”
    Charles found her passionate Gallic outburst distasteful. “We will speak when you are calmer, madame,” he said coldly. Then his gaze swept the queen’s chamber. “All these monsieurs,” he said in reference to his wife’s French attendants both male and female. “They really must go, madame. It is time you were served by your own people.”
    “These are my own people,” the queen answered him sharply.
    “These persons are French, madame. You are England’s queen, and should be served by good Englishmen and -women,” the king replied, his tone equally sharp.
    “It was agreed,” Henrietta said, struggling to remain calm, “that I should have the right to choose my own household, sir.”
    “It was not agreed that they should all be French,” the king snapped. Buckingham has sought a place for his sister, the countess of Denbigh, within your household, and yet you have been adamant in your refusal, madame. I like it not.”
    “The comtesse is a Protestant, sir,” the queen said. “You cannot expect me to be served by a Protestant.”
    “I am a Protestant, madame,” the king replied. “It did not stop you from marrying me, nor will it stop you from having my heirs one day, and they will be Protestant.” He glared at her.
    “Marie, Your Majesty,” said Madame St. George, who had been the queen’s governess, and now sought to turn the argument back to the original, and less volatile ground. “If the queen’s name, Henrietta, seems unsuitable for a queen of England, would not Marie, Mary, Queen Mary, be better? I know Your Majesty is not so petty that he would insist upon calling the queen by any other name but her own in private, but Queen Mary would be her official title, if it would please Your Majesty.” She curtsied. “Mary is English, is it not? And it is my mistress’s second Christian name.”
    “It seems a good compromise,” the king said, pleased to have gotten his way, and not wishing any further outburst from his wife, who nodded mutely in agreement.
    The duke of Buckingham was equally pleased, but for a different reason. The English had long memories, and they had not forgotten Bloody Mary Tudor, the last Roman Catholic English queen who had persecuted the Protestants. She had not been popular, and neither would this Queen Mary be. He chuckled to himself, well pleased.

    When parliament opened, the queen was not present, for her confessor, Bishop de Mende, had somehow gotten the idea that a Church of England religious ceremony was central to the occasion. The king was furious. The parliament was offended, and granted the king only a seventh of the monies he