The Shadow of the Pomegranate

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘I know her,’ growled Henry. ‘She is with the Queen.’

  ‘A lady of high virtue, Your Grace. And much pride, like her brother.’

  ‘A prim piece,’ said Henry, and his eyes were cruel. Then he shouted: ‘Send for Buckingham.’

  Compton left him, but Buckingham was not at Court. He, with Anne and Lord Huntingdon, were on their way to the convent which Buckingham had ordered should be made ready to receive his erring sister.

  The King’s anger had had time to cool by the time Buckingham stood before him; but Henry was not going to allow anyone to interfere in his affairs.

  He scowled at the Duke.

  ‘You give yourself airs, sir Duke,’ he said.

  ‘If Your Grace will tell me in what manner I have displeased you I will do my best to rectify my error . . . if it be in my power.’

  ‘I hear you have sent your sister into a convent.’

  ‘I thought she needed a little correction, Your Grace.’

  ‘You did not ask our permission to send her there.’

  ‘I did not think Your Grace would wish to be bothered with a family matter.’

  The King flushed hotly; he was holding fast to his rising temper. The situation was delicate. He was wondering how much of this had reached the Queen’s ears and hoping that he could give vent to his anger in such a manner that Katharine would never hear of it.

  ‘I am always interested in the welfare of my subjects,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Her husband thought she was in need of what the convent could give her.’

  ‘I could order her to be brought back to Court, you know.’

  ‘Your Grace is, by God’s mercy, King of this realm. But Your Grace is a wise man, and knows the scandal which would be bruited about the Court and the country itself, if a woman who had been sent by her husband into a convent should be ordered out by her King.’

  Henry wanted to stamp his feet in rage. Buckingham was older than he was and he knew how to trap him. How dared he stand there, insolent and arrogant! Did he forget he was talking to his King?

  For a few moments Henry told himself that he would send for Anne; he would blatantly make her his mistress and the whole Court – ay, and all his subjects too – must understand that he was the King, and when he ordered a man or woman to some duty they must obey him.

  But such conduct would not fit the man his subjects believed him to be. He was uncertain. Always he thought of the cheering crowds who had come to life when he appeared; he remembered the sullen looks which had been thrown his father’s way. He remembered too the stories he had heard of his father’s struggle to take the throne. If he displeased the people they might remember that the Tudor ancestry was not as clean as it might be – and that there were other men who might be considered worthy to be kings.

  No. He would remain the public idol – perfect King and husband; but at the same time he would not allow any subject of his to dictate to him what should be done.

  ‘My lord Buckingham,’ he said, ‘you will leave Court. And you will not present yourself to me until I give you leave to do so.’

  Buckingham bowed.

  ‘You may go,’ went on the King. ‘There is nothing more I have to say to you. I should advise you to be gone in an hour, for if I find you lingering after that I might not be so lenient.’

  Buckingham retired, and the King paced up and down like a lion in a cage.

  He summoned one of his pages to him and said: ‘Send for Lady Fitzwalter. I would have immediate speech with her.’

  The page rushed to do his bidding and soon returned with Elizabeth Fitzwalter.

  She looked disturbed, Henry was pleased to notice. A prim woman, he thought, with none of her sister’s voluptuousness. The sight of her reminded him of Anne, and he was furious once more to contemplate what he had lost.

  ‘Lady Fitzwalter,’ he said, ‘you are, I believe, one of the Queen’s women.’

  She was bewildered. Surely he knew. He had seen her so often when he was in the Queen’s company.

  ‘Did I say you are one of Her Grace’s women? It was a mistake, Lady Fitzwalter. I should have said you were.’

  ‘Your Grace, have I offended . . .?’

  ‘We do not discuss why we banish from our Court those who do not please us, Lady Fitzwalter. We merely banish.’

  ‘Your Grace, I beg to . . .’

  ‘You waste your time. You would beg in vain. Go back to your apartment and make all haste to leave Court. It is our wish that you are gone within the hour.’

  The startled Lady Fitzwalter curtseyed and retired.

  Henry stared at the door for a few minutes. He thought of voluptuous Anne and realised suddenly how urgently he desired a change, a new woman who was as different from his wife as could be.

  Then he began to pace up and down again . . . a lion, not sure of his strength, but aware of the cage which enclosed him. The bars were strong, but his strength was growing. One day, he knew, he would break out of the cage. Then there would be nothing – no person on Earth to restrain him.

  Elizabeth Fitzwalter came unceremoniously into the apartment where the Queen sat sewing with Maria de Salinas.

  Katharine looked with surprise at her lady-in-waiting, and when she saw how distraught Elizabeth was she rose quickly and went to her side.

  ‘What has happened to disturb you so?’ she asked.

  ‘Your Grace, I am dismissed from the Court.’

  ‘You, dismissed! But this is impossible. None has the authority to dismiss you but myself. Why . . .’ Katharine paused and a look of horror spread across her face. There was one other who had the power of course.

  Elizabeth met Katharine’s gaze, and Katharine read the truth there.

  ‘But why?’ demanded the Queen. ‘On what grounds? Why should the King dismiss you?’

  ‘I find it hard to say, Your Grace. I am to leave at once. I have been told to make ready and go within the hour. I pray you give me leave to make ready.’

  ‘But surely the King gave you a reason. What of your brother?’

  ‘He has already gone, Your Grace; and my sister also.’

  ‘So the King is displeased with all your family. I will go to see him. I will ask him what this means. He will keep nothing from me.’

  Maria de Salinas, who loved Katharine sincerely and with a disinterested devotion, laid her hand on the Queen’s arm.

  ‘Well, Maria?’

  Maria looked helplessly at Elizabeth as though asking for permission to speak.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Katharine. ‘If it is something I should know, it is your duty to tell me.’

  Neither of the women spoke, and it was as though each was waiting for the other to do so.

  ‘I will go to the King,’ said Katharine. ‘I will ask him what this means, for I see that you both know something which you believe you should keep from me.’

  Maria said: ‘I must tell Her Grace. I think she should know.’

  Katharine interrupted sternly: ‘Come Maria, enough of this. Tell me at once.’

  ‘The Countess of Huntingdon has been taken away from Court by her husband and brother because they . . . they feared the King’s friendship.’

  Katharine had grown pale. She was almost certain now that she was with child and had been wondering whether she could tell the King. She had looked forward to his pleasure and had told herself how thankful she should be to have such a faithful husband.

  She looked from Maria to Elizabeth and her gaze was bewildered. The King’s friendship for a woman could surely mean only one thing.

  But they must be mistaken. They had been listening to gossip. It was not true. He had always been faithful to her. He had firm notions on the sanctity of marriage: he had often told her so.

  She said quietly: ‘Pray go on.’

  ‘Sir William Compton acted as His Grace’s emissary in the matter,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Francesca Carceres discovered what was happening and warned me. I told my brother and, as a result, my sister
has been sent to a convent. But the King was displeased with my brother and myself.’

  ‘I cannot believe this to be true.’

  ‘Your Grace, pray sit down,’ whispered Maria. ‘This has been a shock.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Queen, ‘it has been a shock, a shock that such rumours can exist. I believe it all to be lies . . . lies.’

  Maria looked frightened. Elizabeth whispered: ‘Your Grace, give me leave to retire. I have to prepare with all speed to leave Court.’

  ‘You shall not go, Elizabeth,’ said Katharine. ‘I will speak to the King myself. There has been some terrible mistake. What you believe has happened is . . . an impossibility. I will go to him now. You will see, he will give me the explanation. I will tell him that I wish you to remain. That will suffice.’

  Katharine walked from the apartment, while Maria looked after her sadly; and Elizabeth, sighing, went to make ready to leave.

  It seemed to Henry that he saw his wife clearly for the first time.

  How sallow her skin is! he thought, comparing her with Anne Stafford. How serious she was! And she looked old. She was old of course, compared with him, for five years was no small matter.

  She seemed distasteful to him in that moment, because he felt guilty, and he hated to feel so.

  ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘I have heard some disturbing news. Elizabeth Fitzwalter comes to me in great distress and says that you have commanded her to leave Court.’

  ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘She should be gone within an hour of our giving her the order to leave.’

  ‘But she is one of my women, and I do not wish her to go. She is a good woman and has given me no offence.’

  The colour flamed into his face. ‘We will not have her at Court,’ he shouted. ‘Mayhap it escapes your notice, but our wishes here are of some account.’

  Katharine was afraid, yet she remembered that she was the daughter of Isabella of Castile, and it ill became any – even the King of England – to speak to her in such a manner.

  ‘I should have thought I might have been consulted in this matter.’

  ‘No, Madam,’ retorted Henry. ‘We saw no reason to consult you.’

  Katharine said impetuously: ‘So you had the grace to try to keep it from my notice.’

  ‘We understand you not.’

  She realised then that he was using the formal ‘we’, and she guessed he was attempting to remind her that he was the King and master of all his dominions, even his Queen. She saw the danger signals in his eyes, for his face always betrayed his feelings, but she was too hurt and unhappy to heed the warning.

  ‘It is true then,’ she burst out, ‘that the woman was your mistress . . .’

  ‘It is not true.’

  ‘Then she was not, because Buckingham intervened in time.’

  ‘Madam, if the King wishes to add to his friends it is no concern of any but himself.’

  ‘If he has sworn to love and cherish a wife, is it not his wife’s concern if he takes a mistress?’

  ‘If she is wise and her husband is a King, she is grateful that he is ready to give her children . . . if she is able to bear them!’

  Katharine caught her breath in horror. It is true then, she thought. He blames me for the loss of our two children.

  She tried to speak but the words would not pass the lump of misery in her throat.

  ‘We see no reason to prolong this interview,’ said Henry.

  Her anger blazed suddenly. ‘Do you not? Then I do! I am your wife, Henry. You have told me that you believe that husbands and wives should be faithful to each other; and as soon as a wanton woman gives you a glance of promise you forget your vows, you forget your ideals. The people look upon you as a god – so young, so handsome, so model a king and a husband. I see now that your vows mean nothing to you. You think of little but seeking pleasure. First it is your pageants, your masques . . . now it is your mistresses!’

  He was scarcely handsome in that moment. His eyes seemed to sink into his plump red face. He hated criticism and, because he was so deeply conscious of his guilt, he hated her.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you should do your duty. It is what is expected of you.’

  ‘My duty?’ she asked.

  ‘Which is to give me sons. You have made two attempts and have not been successful. Is it for you to criticise me when you have failed . . . so lamentably?’

  ‘I . . . failed? You would blame me then. Do you not know that I long for sons as much as you do? Where have I failed? How could I have saved the lives of our children? If there is a way, in the name of the saints tell it to me.’

  Henry would not look at her. ‘We lost them both,’ he mumbled.

  She turned to him. She was about to tell him that she had hopes of bearing another child; but he looked so cruel that she said nothing. She was bewildered, wondering if this man who was her husband was, after all, a stranger to her.

  Henry felt uneasy. He hated to know that Katharine had become aware of his flirtation with Anne Stafford. Looking back it was such a mean little affair – it had not even approached its climax. He felt small, having sent Compton to do his wooing for him, and taking such a long time to make up his mind whether he should or shouldn’t, and so giving Buckingham time to whisk his sister away.

  He was angry with everyone concerned in the affair and, as Katharine was the only one present, he gave vent to his venom and let it fall upon her.

  ‘It may be,’ he said coldly, ‘that the difference in our ages is the cause. You are five years older than I. I had not realised until today how old you are!’

  ‘But,’ she stammered, ‘you always knew. I am twenty-five, Henry. That is not too old to bear healthy children.’

  Henry looked past her, and when he spoke – although he did so more to himself than to her – she felt a cold terror strike at her.

  ‘And you were my brother’s wife,’ was what he said.

  She could bear no more. She turned and hurried from his presence.

  Before Lady Fitzwalter had left Court the news was circulating. ‘The King and Queen have quarrelled bitterly. This is the first quarrel. Perhaps there will be fewer of those entwined initials. Perhaps this is the end of the honeymoon.’

  Maria de Salinas helped the Queen to her bed. Never had Maria seen Katharine so distraught; for even in the days of humiliating poverty she had never given way to her grief but had stoically borne all her trials.

  ‘You see, Maria,’ said Katharine, ‘I feel I did not know him. He is not the same. I have glimpsed the man behind my smiling happy boy.’

  ‘He was angry,’ said Maria. ‘Perhaps Your Grace should not have spoken to him on the matter yet.’

  ‘Perhaps I should never have spoken to him on the matter. Perhaps the love affairs of Kings are to be ignored by all, including their wives. My father was not entirely faithful to my mother. I wonder if she ever complained. No, she would be too wise.’

  ‘You are wise too. Perhaps your mother had to learn also to curb her jealousy.’

  Katharine shivered. ‘You speak as though this is but a beginning, the first of many infidelities.’

  ‘But he was not unfaithful, Your Grace.’

  ‘No, the lady’s brother and her husband intervened in time. It is naught to do with the King’s virtue. I think that is why he is so angry with me, Maria . . . because he failed.’

  ‘He is young, Your Grace.’

  ‘Five years younger than I. He reminded me of it.’

  ‘It will pass, dearest lady.’

  ‘Oh, Maria, I am so tired. I feel bruised and wounded. I have not felt so sad . . . so lost . . . since the old days in Durham House when I thought everyone had deserted me.’

  Maria took the Queen’s hand and kissed it. ‘All did not desert Your Grace.’

  ‘No. You were always there, Maria. Oh, it is good to have staunch friends.’

  ‘Let me cover you. Then you should try to sleep. When you are rested you will feel stronger.’

&nbs
p; Katharine smiled and closed her eyes.

  It was later that night when she was awakened by pains which gripped her body and brought a sweat upon her skin.

  She stumbled from her bed, calling to her ladies as she did so; but before they could reach her she fell groaning to the floor.

  They put her to bed; they called her physicians; but there was nothing they could do.

  On that September night Katharine’s third pregnancy ended. It had been brief, but the result was no less distressing.

  Once more she had failed to give the King the son for which he longed.

  She was ill for several days, and during that time she was tormented with nightmares. The King figured largely in these – an enormous menacing figure with greedy, demanding hands which caressed others, but when he turned to her, held out those hands, crying: ‘Give me sons.’

  Chapter III

  THE SECRET LIFE OF THOMAS WOLSEY

  As the days passed they took some of Katharine’s sorrow with them, and she began to look at her life in a more philosophical way. Through the ages Kings had taken mistresses who bore them children, but it was the children who were born in wedlock who were heirs to their father’s crown. She must be realistic; she must not hope for impossible virtue from her lusty young husband.

  More than ever she thought of her mother, who had borne the same tribulations before her; she must endeavour as never before to emulate Isabella and keep the memory of her as a bright example of how a Queen should live.

  As for Henry, he was ready enough to meet her halfway. Reproaches would only result in sullen looks; and the pout of the little mouth, the glare of the little eyes in that large face implied that he was the King and he would do as he wished. But any signs of a desire on her part to return to the old relationship brought immediate response; dazzling smiles would light up his face; he would be boisterously affectionate, sentimental, calling her his Kate – the only woman who was of any real importance to him.

  So Katharine set aside her illusions and accepted reality; which was, she assured herself, pleasant enough. If she could have a child – ah, if she could have a child – that little creature would make up to her for all else. That child would be the centre of her existence; and her husband’s philandering would be of small importance compared with the delight that child would bring her.