The queen, though compassionate by nature, would not attend a Protestant service of any kind. Charles looked up at the sky and examined the moisture collecting on his hat, coat, and arms. "Beastly day for it," he remarked. "Can they blame me for the weather, George?" Charles asked with some humor. "They shouldn’t, Sire," Villiers replied, speaking of the subjects Charles ruled. "But I think they will, just the same." "I doubt not," the king muttered, taking long strides to the chapel door. The constant downpour of rain, the frustration of not putting a quick end to the Dutch conflict, one mistress pregnant, a heatedly pursued woman still a virgin, and countless other miseries did not plague him overmuch. But the damn rain spoiled his walks in St. James Park, and that had made him a trifle cross. The chapel was dim. Inside, the others waited: Castlemaine, Frances Stewart, a minor few courtiers and ladies; and near the front of the chapel stood Lord Seavers and his friend Preston Tilden.
