London, February 1661
The bells of St. Bride’s struck the half-hour, muffled beneath the clatter of carts and the cries of the Fleet Street hawkers. Candle-sellers and pie-men shouted their wares as if nothing in London had changed. Yet in truth, the city still trembled. Barely a month had passed since Thomas Venner and his Fifth Monarchists had stormed through these very streets, blades flashing as they called for “King Jesus” to take the English throne in place of Charles Stuart. The idea was almost comedically insane, his fifty armed men seemingly crazed with the idea of Christ’s Second Coming. They fought like cornered beasts—killing soldiers and civilians alike, holding Ludgate Hill for hours until the King’s men forced them down in blood. Venner was punished viciously, publicly. A warning to others.
Every religious group was suspected and seen as potentially dangerous to local magistrates. Dissenters, Anabaptists, Quakers—all blurred into one tangle of fanaticism. A man needed only to speak of Christ’s inward light to be marked.
Among the districts most watched were Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill, where George Whitehead had lately preached in public, his voice carrying plain words of peace while others cried for the sword. He was twenty-two now, but as notorious as any criminal. His words cut against the temper of the times.
The prisons swelled. Friends dragged from their meetings were crowded into Newgate and Bridewell; women were left all night in the cold for no crime but silence in worship. Rumor carried their sufferings through the city like sparks borne on wind.
It was into this charged and perilous part London where George, his plain hat drawn low over his brow, made his way to a certain shop where Anne Greenwell awaited him.
Anne came quickly through the crowd, her cloak drawn close. She was not tall, but she carried herself with the straight poise of one who had already endured more than most women. Her eyes caught his, and she smiled faintly as she joined him.
“Friend George,” she said, “the watchmen were questioning at Newgate again this morning. Four women kept all night in the cold. I have been to see them.”
“Thou put thyself in danger,” he answered.
“That is no reason to keep silence and withhold comfort. We are all in danger.”
“They call us ‘plotters’ now, and ‘seducers of the people.’ I would rather thou prayest for their spiritual comfort.”
“I would rather I work out my faith in person,” she retorted “as you do.”
They walked quickly together and turned into a narrower street, away from the press of Fleet. Here the noise dwindled, though the reek of tallow and sewage remained.
George studied her face. “I have not yet heard thee speak of thine own time in prison. Only what was done to others.”
Anne hesitated. Her hands tightened in her cloak. “It is not a tale I bring forward willingly. Yet perhaps it is time thou shouldst know.”
They came to the doorway of a Friend’s shop—shutters half drawn. Within was a hidden anteroom where bolts of cloth were stacked to the rafters. The merchant, a silent ally, gestured to them within and disappeared further into the shop where a meeting was taking place. George closed the door yet lingered. They stepped into a shadowy corner behind the entry to speak further.
Anne lowered her hood. “It was ‘fifty-six, in Cheapside. I was but 32 years old then. We had gone to stand against the market-day oaths. The sheriff’s men struck at us with staves. I was thrown down—not gently, George, but as a dog is tossed into the gutter. I was then brought to the Compter, locked three nights among drunkards and harlots. They jeered, spat upon me, tugged my gown. I prayed to be kept whole of mind.”
George’s jaw tightened. He could picture it too well.
She continued, “They charged me as a disturber, fined me beyond my means. When I would not pay, I was set with thieves and debtors, lice crawling at my wrists, food barely fit for swine. Yet…” her voice steadied, “yet I was not alone. The Light was with me in that hole. Others listened as I prayed, and one poor woman said she had not remembered God in twenty years, till she heard my praises to Him. When I was released, I was not ashamed of the bonds, but glad.”
For a long moment George was silent, even as he heard someone speaking in the hidden room. He thought of the hours he had longed for a confidante, someone who would understand the strange mixture of fear and resolve that imprisonment bred. Here, at last, was one who did not shrink from speaking of both the pain and the blessing.
“Thou wert faithful,” he said. His voice carried more weight than he intended.
Anne’s eyes softened. “We are all called to be faithful, George. Even when it costs us dear.”
Before he could answer, the shop door burst open, pushing them further into shadow. Two constables crowded in, cudgels drawn, the smell of beer heavy on their breath.
“I can hear ‘em—in the back!” the first barked. “I told you, these are seditious folk that keep unlawful meetings.”
The merchant emerged quickly, attempting to keep the men at the front of the store, but they shoved him roughly aside. George thought to come out and speak to thus distract them, but Anne held him back, pulling his cloak over his head just as more officers pressed in from the street. Soon all were busily tearing at the bolts of cloth, throwing them down to reveal the meeting room, men jumping up from a bench on one side, women on the other.
“Make haste,” Anne whispered, pulling him around the door and out to the street, her skirts whipping through the doorway. George followed, his heart pounding as shouts rang through the shop. They stopped and looked each way, unsure of whence another group of constables might emerge. A hand waved at them from a narrow passage and they followed quickly down a narrow alleyway, beneath hanging laundry and open windows where at any moment a head might emerge and shout them down.
There was a great crash behind them, the cries of women being dragged to the streets. Their guide pulled them back suddenly into a dark doorway, and from this vantage point they could watch as two young women, their bonnets pulled away, struggling against the constables’ blows. Whitehead looked to see who it was that summoned them to the alley and found to his surprise it was Minta.
“I come to seek help to bring Father home,” she said. “Though I see now it were foolish, and it’s a good thing I was late setting the Blakelings’ dinner.”
There were yet more Friends pulled down to the streets and as they watched, careful to remain out of sight, George again fought the urge to help, though he knew not how. He felt a surge of anger, and with it the sharper stab of helplessness.
Anne laid a hand on his sleeve. “We cannot save them now. But we can meet again tomorrow. And the day after, till London tires of locking us all away.”
“Friend George,” Minta urged, “there is none at th’windows yet, and just a few steps farther is only brick. Let us hurry now.”
There was no time to discuss it—Minta and Anne were already stepping quickly away, their hoods covering their heads. As he followed, the tumult in the shop faded. Soon they were melting into the crowd at Ludgate.
They would not always escape, this he knew well. Yet in Anne’s words he felt the echo of something deeper than chance: a vow that neither prison nor constable could break.
Marriage
London, May 1662
The Channel had been cruel. For ten weeks, the Santa Catarina had tossed and pitched like a cork, ropes screaming in the wind, sails torn by violent gusts, to be mended in the storm-dark hours. When Catherine of Braganza finally set foot on English soil on the morning of May 13, 1662, the sun was timid, and the streets of Dover seemed muddy and cautious. She had left behind Lisbon, a city of sunlight and tile, convents and cloisters where incense lingered thick as silk, and a court accustomed to a queen who was both devout and adored. Here in England, the air was colder, the customs unfamiliar, the language imperfectly learned and often misunderstood. Religion…best left unsaid.
The port teemed with attendants, scribes, and a small detachment of English soldiers. Couriers bore the royal letters, and behind them a cluster of trunks and chests, piled high and bound with straps of leather, each bearing the Braganza seal. One she sought with her eyes, not holding silks, jewels, or coins, but rather a prized chest packed with China tea, carefully wrapped in tin-lined boxes and silk. Catherine’s eyes lingered on it with anticipation. “Chá…” she whispered softly with a smile, the idea of a peaceful cup nesting firmly within her. Not simply a beverage but a piece of home, a ritual of comfort she had practiced since childhood.
The English courtiers, conversely, were concerned with value, not ceremony. Working swiftly—as the dock workers were not ones to tarry—the king’s Chancellor, Edward Hyde oversaw the inventory with ledger in hand; noting fine cloths, silverware, spices, and the tea. Its monetary worth far exceeded most items in the dowry. He decided swiftly: most of the chests would be sent for sale, a significant contribution to the Crown’s finances. He did not yet see that the Chinese tea was more than currency to an inhabitant of the Portuguese court.
Once at the palace of Whitehall, Catherine gratefully sat in the parlor to which she was shown and let the weariness of her tempestuous journey fall away. At last she was here, and what might become of her next was at the very least a matter of civility. She summoned the King’s Steward who awaited command nearby, for Charles as it happened was away at the moment on what he claimed to be business, though in reality he was awaiting the imminent birth of his firstborn. Avery approached with a bow and words spoken rather quickly, that she could not quite understand.
“Quero chá, por favor,” she responded, voice soft but insistent, carrying the accent of her childhood in Lisbon.
Among the courtiers who included the highest-ranking lords and ladies of the region, there were none who spoke Portuguese. They had supposed this young bride to be reared properly with an English tutor.
A murmur ran through the room. All eyes turned to a young translator who had been hanging back, looking out a window for all the world as if he wished he could run away. Michale Brudenell, youngest son of the Earl of Cardigan. The man had bragged to one and all about his son’s productive education in Lisbon.
Face pale and sweaty with fear, Michale stepped forward from the window and bowed. It was perhaps too deep of a bow, for he nearly entangled his scabbard in the gown of the lady behind him. Flushed with nerves, he motioned wordlessly toward Catherine with an expression she supposed was meant to be solicitous.
She repeated slowly with a voice she hoped would display great patience and kindness toward this obvious dolt. “Quero chá, por favor.”
“Qu-quero—” Brudenell stammered, “The senhora…desires…um, chá. Please.”
The Earl of Oxford frowned. “And what is a ‘chah?’”
“It is an herbal drink, my lord,” Brudenell offered helpfully. “Made from leaves. They drink it in cups.”
Hyde tilted his head, and turning to the lady asked loudly as if she were deaf, “Would you like a…drink?” He made the signs of drinking and she nodded. With that he motioned for Avery to fetch a beverage.
Lady Upton, as yet straightening the lace of her gown that had been tried sorely by Brudenell’s scabbard, pulled the earl aside and offered an explanation. “I believe, Clarendon, this ‘cha’ is one of those Chinese beverages. I have taken it for medicinal purposes myself. I also believe it is tried by some of the younger people in local coffeehouses. Most usually on a dare or at the loss of a wager.”
It now dawned on the earl that the princess was requesting something she could not have. “A lady of expensive tastes, indeed,” he muttered. For if this was the chest of China tea from the dock, it was at that very moment on its way to market. The value of the box was enough to purchase a small estate.
Avery returned, a bit flushed, carrying on a tray an elaborate drinking cup filled with freshly drawn ale, warm from the cask. This was passed to Hyde who presented it personally with a small bow.
Catherine took the cup with curiosity and sniffed at the brew inside. Her lips pressed together; she could not mask her displeasure. Ale, however fine, was not tea. It was, in fact, nothing like the fragrant leaves that had been her comfort since childhood. Nor was it the beverage that reminded her of home, which her mind and body sorely craved in this moment.
With everyone watching she sipped, politely at first, then withdrew. “Eles não entendem nada,” she murmured softly—they understand nothing. And to make matters worse, Brudenell hardly understood any word besides “nothing.” The princess then haughtily pronounced a phrase used in her country to denigrate ladies of society who were not up to par, “Sem chá.” She sniffed, as did her very shocked ladies in waiting who exchanged sly glances with each other behind their lacy fans. No tea, she’d said. A household without tea. This was quite the insult in Portugal.
Hyde frowned. “I was given to understand she was working diligently to learn English to please her new husband.”
The elderly courtesan beside him smiled, “My dear Lord Clarendon, I doubt she has the presence of mind at this moment to remember much of it. Keep in mind, she was given to understand the most handsome and eligible bachelor in the world would be receiving her today.” She exchanged a sympathetic glance with the princess, who now seemed to remember a little of her newly acquired language.
“No tea,” Catherine repeated in English with a chiding look at Lady Upton, directing her gaze to Hyde. “Sem chá.” She bitterly held out the glass of beer, and Lady Upton took it from her with a polite bow and a grandmotherly smile before passing it to Hyde, who gave it unceremoniously to the waiting Royal Steward.
The amusement of her entourage—now madly fluttering their fans to cover their giggles—further frustrated Hyde, and he began to feel like his court was beginning to be the butt of what would become an international joke. He muttered to Avery, “Get me a priest. One of those Jesuits who is fluent in Portuguese.”
Meanwhile it occurred to Catherine that this court did indeed have tea—the very chest that had accompanied her on her voyage. She could feel her face flush with rage, such a rage that even as Avery was quickly making his way down the corridor, the would-be queen jumped up and made her own retreat, saying, “Cadê meu chá? Eles o levaram!” Where is my tea? They have taken it!
The gathering of nobles watched helplessly as she nearly ran…not to a secondary receiving room, nor outside to the garden, but to the stairs and, they assumed, onward to her bedchamber with her ladies following close behind. All looked at the ceiling as a door slammed somewhere.
“Well,” said Lady Upton, “the course of love never did run smooth.”
Negotiations
The next day, with no signal that the new lady of the house might emerge, Charles paced behind his throne, a small cluster of Privy Councilors seated at the table, as they listened to Clarendon’s report on the matter of the Chinese tea.
“Your Majesty,” the earl said, “the chest of “cha” is already accounted for in the dowry. The merchants shall transport it for sale. Much value is at stake, and it cannot be diverted lightly.”
The king frowned. He had never been married; had never been faced with the delicate balance between personal desire and public expectation. This tea, he realized, was more than a leaf. It was her habit, her comfort, and a ritual she might well carry with her through life.
“Has anyone tried offering her a drink of my coffee?” he asked, for he’d been enamored of the drink ever since it was brought to him by the Ottoman ambassador to celebrate Charles’ restoration to the crown.
The suggestion brought a wave of displeasure to the table, for the king had liked “his coffee” so much that the ambassador was gifted the right to sell it in any quantity, without tax nor tariff.
“My lord,” said Clarendon, “she threw the bowl at me.”
He laughed at Hyde. “Did she hit you with it?”
“No, my lord, she lacks good aim. However, it stained the rug and wallpaper.”
The thought brought the king great amusement until he remembered he had neither funds to replace the rug nor the paper. Yet to the question at hand, there seemed but one answer. “Surely a queen—a queen of England mind you—might enjoy a drink without endangering the finances of the kingdom?”
The earl’s face tightened. “Sire, the dowry is to benefit the Crown. Were every item to be consumed or used at leisure, the net gain is lost. Funds are allocated, and expenditure must be measured.” He looked around the table at the doubting faces. “I could buy a ship with that cask, fully equipped!”
Charles nearly growled, “I have looked into the value myself. You might buy a merchant ship. Somewhat equipped.” With an irritated sigh he glanced toward the window where the sun caught the Thames in pale flashes, “Honestly, Hyde, there are times when you sound like that accountant who preceded me.”
Another newly appointed earl spoke into the moment. Edward Montagu, the first Earl of Sandwich sat in quiet authority to the king’s right, on the last in the line of chairs where he might make use of the arm rest. His brown hair flowed fashionably long over the shoulders of a leather coat. Around his waist was a sash of red and gold, representing the title bestowed upon him. He was the man Charles had selected to command the fleet which brought Catherine safely to England. This he had done with what he felt was great success given the storm through which they travelled. There was some rankling at the docks, however, since the dowry he accepted was less valuable in gold bullion than promised.
“I must say, Clarendon, that I could hardly find such a ship as you might purchase with that case of tea. It would hardly be seaworthy, to my mind.”
“Pah!” was all Hyde could say, as he scowled toward the man he secretly blamed for a dowry which while valuable, might have been more so.
“Your Majesty,” said Montagu, “I find the China tea quite indispensable. On the journey I gave some to your bride out of my own medicine case to ease her journey. It is not so much to ask, for the settling of a royal stomach.”
“You gave to her a few leaves. We are speaking of—”
“Gentlemen!” Charles glared at the two, then rubbed his forehead. “Would that she’d kept enough within her personal positions.”
Montagu had a ready answer, “She could hardly have known that the English are not so infatuated with tea as the Portuguese court.” He sat forward, “Your Majesty, if the leaves are nourishment to her—essential to her daily sustenance—then they are not merely luxury but provision. This we are obligated to provide in accordance with contract.”
Charles’ shoulders sagged. “Then I must pay whether through dowry or my purse. A new husband gains nothing but a wife’s requirements, it seems.” He paced, thinking of the perilous voyage, the storm, and the girl’s small frame. Anyone could see she was exhausted from her weeks at sea. It was also clear she required more than the usual fare that satisfied English palates.
The King’s Steward opened the door at that moment and stood at attention, exchanging a glance with his master.
“Yes, Avery.”
“Your majesty, Dom Francisco de Melo.”
With a glance at Montagu, Charles gave a brief wave of his fingers. “Let him come.” He seated himself and prepared to receive the Chamberlain from Lisbon.
In another moment the door opened for Catherine’s representative. With a bow, de Melo stationed himself at the gap formed by the ends of the two curved rows of chairs, exchanging a nod with Montagu.
The Portuguese Chamberlain stood with authority at just under six feet in height; a dignified nobleman in his forties, both lean and grave of bearing. Hyde had noticed at the docks the man had a habit of folding his hands at all times as if forever at court, with dark eyes that missed nothing. Fiercely loyal to his queen, de Melo carried himself with the quiet pride of the Braganza household.
The men all waited silently. Just as Charles wondered whether some means of communication had been prepared, the priest stepped in from the hall, then stopped a respectful distance from the man for whom he would translate. He bowed briefly to the king.
Clarenden nodded and held up a hand in introduction. “Ah. Your majesty, this is Brother Michael. He spent many years at the College of Saint Anthony, erm, Colégio de Santo Antão.” He nodded at de Melo, who returned a tight smile due in part to the man’s poor accent and secondly in consequence of the suffering of his Princess. “I have advised this priest,” Hyde continued, “of our dilemma so he might explain to the lady and her courtiers.”
“Your majesty,” began Brother Michael, stepping forward to present the facts he had obtained from de Melo. It was in the form of a list, which he held up as if it were an official charter. “I have been given the requirements of the princess’s household.” His tone carried more gravity than the words warranted, as though he had been entrusted with a list of state secrets rather than a brief menu. “This tells us the tea was never meant to be treated as common trade goods. It was placed there at her express request and given as an accustomed comfort. In point of fact, the King of Portugal provided it as solace for his daughter.”
“Solace!” Charles caught the word but quelled a brief pang of guilt. A flash of thought passed through his mind that while he might not be a worthy husband, yet Portugal was glad of the match and he would not apologize for what others claimed were his lapses in judgement.
The priest paused, eyes flicking briefly to Dom Francisco, and in Portuguese asked with studied care: “Senhor, é dom, ou costume?”
Hyde asked with irritation, “What are you saying there? This is the Chamber of the King, not a place for secrets.”
“I am asking,” said Brother Michael, “whether this tea is a gift—part of the dowry—or related to their household customs.”
De Melo replied evenly, with the faintest narrowing of the eyes: “Costume, senhor padre—um hábito de vida. Para a rainha, o chá é como o pão na mesa, ou a água no poço.”
Brother Michael lifted his chin, savoring the words before he relayed them. “Yes, your majesty. A habit of life, not a gift. That is the sense. For the princess, he says, tea is as bread at table, ‘o chá é como o pão na mesa.’ It is, ‘água no poço.’ Water from the well.”
Charles leaned back, smiling at the turn of phrase. “Water from the well, bread at table—aye, and perhaps as my oak in Boscobel. A man clings to what gives him life, and God help the official who would barter it for coin.” He fixed Clarendon with a look, then, noticing the Portuguese Chancellor’s blank expression, turned to the priest.
“Father, you must tell him the miraculous story of my salvation up in the tree. Forget not I was hunted three days by the devilish Parliamentarians. I think he will take the religious meaning.”
Brother Michael blanched. To render the king’s favorite saga sentence by sentence into Portuguese—thus enduring it twice over—was more punishment than duty. He cast about for escape.
Hyde rescued him, his voice clipped. “Majesty, perhaps the tale is best shared with the full retinue at once—should there be questions. As for the matter at hand, I recommend the queen retain enough of the Chinese tea for six months’ daily use. The remainder…to market.”
The decision rankled, yet the Earl of Clarendon with his ledger would not relent. Eventually the group arrived at an awkward settlement not far from the proposed compromise, one that balanced necessity of State with personal comfort, to prevent further grievance and a complete failure of the treaty. For in the end, a cup of tea was the only offer that might lure the princess from her rooms.
Friends of Freedom 