The Astrologer's Daughter

‘And doubtless, mistress, since you are new to Court, you will be asking yourself who addresses you so freely? Sir Christopher Carlyon, my erstwhile courtier—for I see that you have acquired a new mistress—pray introduce Mistress Celia to me and enlighten her as to who makes so free with her. And you.’ Standing on tiptoes, she stretched herself languorously and placed her mouth on Kit’s, to the accompaniment of screeches from the ladies who attended her.

Kit endured the kiss and made no attempt to respond to it, only saying coldly when, pouting, she took her mouth from his, ‘My Lady Castlemaine, this is, as you already know, Mistress Celia Antiquis, now the Queen’s own astrologer. I present her to you in the hope that if she needs protection you will protect her.’ His eyes dared the lady to say otherwise.

Celia curtsied, her eyes enormous. This beauty, to whom Kit spoke so cavalierly, was Barbara Palmer, wife of Lord Castlemaine. She had been the beautiful Barbara Villiers and the King’s first mistress when he came to England, and still held him, and many others, in her toils—for her amours outside her marriage to Castlemaine and her affair with the King were notorious. Had she been Kit’s mistress, too, as Celia now realised that she had been hinting?

Well, what was that to her? Sir Kit was beyond her reach and she would never be his doxy—no, never. Neither his nor any other man’s. Even here in Charles’s dissolute court she would preserve herself, whatever the cost. She would be no man’s light of love and, when she straightened up after her curtsy, that message was written plain on her face for both man and woman before her to see.

‘Oho,’ sighed Barbara Palmer plaintively. ‘What have we here? The lady is consecrated to the moon, I think.’ And she paused for Celia to say, astonished at her own daring,

‘My sign is the moon, lady, which is clever of you to guess, and so I serve the moon. Diana is my mistress, and my mentor. She caused her hounds to gore Actaeon when he dared to dishonour her and I pray God that I, too, will so be able to treat any who might dare to dishonour her.’

For a moment she thought that she had gone too far. Barbara Palmer looked thunder, but then her face cleared, and she began to laugh.

‘By the sun, who is my master, I honour thee, Mistress Celia, and I hope that all the gallants of the court will avoid bringing thee into a dispute with them, for sure I could not tell who might win. Begin with friend Kit, here, for he will be the fiercest to rebuff, and if you can hold him off then you may dismiss anyone.’

‘You honour me overmuch,’ said Kit shortly. He was not happy that Barbara Palmer should so name him whoremaster.

Celia looked from him to the lady, not certain whether her description of Kit was correct. She had not thought him to be a pursuer of women; he had seemed so different from the Duke and others.

Her brow cleared. The lady was jealous. Not only because of Kit; common sense told her that Barbara would not look too kindly on any whom the King might favour. She would remember what the lady had said, but would not judge any man because of it.

After that, Barbara Palmer spoke of this and that to Kit and to Celia. Celia could not remember afterwards what she had said, only that it was light and jeering, that she was half warning Celia and half derisive in the warning. At length she dismissed them both, almost regally, to Celia’s amusement. The King’s whore thought that she was half a Queen, was her unkind and shrewd judgement on the lady, which would have surprised the lady and Kit both by its worldly wisdom.

‘So,’ said Kit, taking her arm and leading her down to where the ducks swam and the Thames ran in the afternoon sunlight. ‘What do you think of the lady? She seemed somewhat affrighted at you. Not unnatural, perhaps, for her hold on the King’s majesty is not quite as sure as it was—although being something of a shrew she may often cow him, rather than woo him.’

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