The King's Secret Matter
Page 36
Chapuys tried to soothe her, and it was gratifying to him to know that he brought her some comfort. He looked round the room, at the few candles, at the rushes on the floor. A humble room to provide the death chamber of Isabella’s daughter.
But his visit so comforted her that she seemed to recover.
* * *
IT WAS SIX O’CLOCK on New Year’s Day when a small party of weary travellers arrived at the gate of the Castle. At their head was a woman who declared that they were half dead with fatigue and implored to be given shelter.
The gatekeeper told her that none could be admitted to the Castle unless carrying a written permission from the King to do so; but the woman wept and begged him not to leave her without shelter in this bitter January night.
The gatekeeper was touched by the piteous spectacle the travellers presented, and consented to allow their leader to see Sir Edmund Bedingfeld whom the King had appointed steward to Katharine, but who was in fact her jailor.
When the woman was in his presence, her hooded cloak wrapped tightly about her shivering body, she entreated him to allow her to warm herself at a fire, and she was taken into the hall of the Castle.
“Tell me,” she said as she stretched her white hands to the blaze, “is the Princess Dowager still alive?”
“She is,” was the answer.
“I had heard that she was dead,” said the woman sombrely. “I fear she soon may be.”
“I pray you let me see her.”
“Who are you?”
“I have letters to prove my identity.”
“Then show them to me.”
“This I will do in the morning. They are now in the possession of my women.”
“I should need to see them,” said Bedingfeld, “before I could allow you to visit the Princess Dowager.”
The woman went to her two servants who were standing some distance away, but instead of speaking to them she suddenly ran to the staircase and began to mount it.
Bedingfeld was so astonished that he could only stare after her, and in those few seconds she took the opportunity to get well ahead.
“Who is your mistress?” he demanded of the women; but they shook their heads and would not answer; and by that time the woman was at the top of the first flight of stairs and had come upon one of the Queen’s maids.
“Take me to the Queen. I am a friend whom she will wish to see.”
Bedingfeld cried: “Halt, I say.”
The maid did not listen to him and turning began to run, while the visitor followed her.
The door of Katharine’s bedchamber was thrown open and the maid cried: “Your Majesty, Lady Willoughby has come to see you.”
Then the Queen tried to raise herself, and Maria de Salinas ran to the bedside, threw herself on her knees and embraced her.
When Bedingfeld entered the room he saw the two women in each other’s arms. He saw the tears on the Queen’s wasted cheeks; he heard her say: “So Maria, you came to me; so I am not to die alone. I am not abandoned like some forgotten beast.”
The Queen’s eyes met his over the head of her faithful Maria, and she said: “Leave us. My dear friend has braved much to come to me. I command you to leave us together.”
And Bedingfeld turned quietly and shut the door.
* * *
THERE WERE NOT MANY days left; and Maria de Salinas did not leave the Queen’s bedside. She told Katharine of how she had made the perilous journey unknown to anyone, because she had determined to be with her mistress.
“Oh Maria, how happy you have made me,” sighed the Queen. “The pity of it, there is little time left for us to be together.”
“Nay,” cried Maria, “you will get well now that I am here to nurse you.”
“I am beyond nursing,” replied the Queen; “yet not so far gone that I cannot rejoice in your dear presence.”
Maria refused to leave the Queen’s bedchamber, and during the days that followed she it was who nursed her and sat by her bed talking to her.
There were times when Katharine forgot that she was in her bed in dreary Kimbolton, and believed that she was in the Alhambra at Granada, that she wandered through the Court of Myrtles, that she looked down from her window on to the Courtyard of Lions; and that beside her there was one, benign and loving, her mother Isabella. Maria sitting at her bedside could speak of those days and, with Maria’s hand in hers, they spoke the language of their native Castile; and it seemed to Katharine that the pains of her body and the sorrows of her life in England slipped away from her. Here was sunshine and pleasure amid the rosy towers, she saw the sign of the pomegranate engraved on the walls—the symbol of fertility which she had taken as her own, she forgot with what irony, because the years had slipped away and she was young again.
Maria watched her with startled eyes, for she knew that Katharine’s life was ebbing away.
She sent for the priests and Extreme Unction was given. And at two o’clock in the afternoon of the 7th of January 1536 Katharine died.
* * *
WHEN THE NEWS was brought to Henry he was jubilant.
“Praise be to God,” he cried. “We are delivered from the fear of war. Now I shall be able to treat with the French; for they will be fearful that I shall make an alliance with the Emperor.”
There was another reason for his pleasure. She had been a perpetual embarrassment to him while there were men to believe she was still his wife.
He dressed himself in yellow from head to foot and wore a waving white plume in his cap, declaring that the revelries were to continue because there should be no period of mourning for a woman who had never been his wife.
Queen Anne followed his example and dressed in yellow. Like the King she was relieved by the death of Katharine; but there was a shadow across her relief. She was aware—as were many at Court—how the King’s eyes would light with speculation as they rested on a certain prim but sly maid of honor whose name was Jane Seymour.
Now there was a feverish gaiety about the King and his Queen. Death was waiting round the corner for so many. But through the Court strode the King, the little Elizabeth in his arms, demanding admiration for his daughter. Some wondered what the fate of that other daughter would be, remembering a time when he had walked among them with Mary in his arms.
“On with the dance!” cried the King; and the musicians played while the company danced with abandon.
Queen Katharine was dead; More was dead; Fisher was dead. They formed part of the procession of martyrs.
Dance today! was the order of the Court, for who could know what tomorrow would hold? Whose turn would come next?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Catherine of Aragon, Garrett Mattingly.
The Divorce of Catherine of Aragon, James Anthony Froude.
History of England, James Anthony Froude.
The Lives of the Queens of England, Agnes Strickland.
The Political History of England (1485–1587), H. A. L. Fisher.
The National and Domestic History of England, William Hickman Smith Aubrey.
Henry VIII, A. E. Pollard.
The Private Character of Henry VIII, Frederick Chamberlin.
The Wives of Henry VIII, Martin Hume.
Henry VIII: A Difficult Patient, Sir Arthur S. MacNalty.
Henry the Eighth, Francis Hackett.
History of England under Henry VIII, Edward Lord Herbert.
British History, John Wade.
England in Tudor Times, L. F. Salzman.
The Dictionary of National Biography, Edited by Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee.
Abbeys, Castles and Ancient Halls of England and Wales, John Timbs and Alexander Gunn.
Life of Wolsey, Cavendish.
Wolsey (Great Lives), Ashley Sampson.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 822e3523-0491-445a-9c1f-2c96625b271a
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 13.6.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.22, FictionBook
Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Jean Plaidy
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/