The Shadow of the Pomegranate
Page 25
He wanted to hold her; and he was delighted when she did not cry as he picked her up. He would sit, looking a little incongruous, that big figure, glittering with jewels, holding the baby somewhat awkwardly yet so tenderly in his arms.
He insisted on having her brought to the banqueting hall or his presence chamber when his courtiers were present or when he was receiving foreign ambassadors.
‘My daughter,’he would say proudly, and take her in his arms, rocking her to and fro.
She never cried as most children would, but her large solemn eyes would stare at that big face at this time all suffused with tenderness and love.
The ambassadors would look on, admiring the baby, and the courtiers were continually discovering new likenesses to the King.
‘She has the temper of an angel,’ said the Venetian ambassador.
‘You are right there,’ cried Henry. ‘By God, Mr Ambassador, this baby never cries.’
Mary was almost perfect in the eyes of the King. If she had but been a boy she would have been quite so.
Before Ferdinand’s death he had recalled Caroz and sent in his place Bernardino de Mesa, a very different type from Caroz. De Mesa was a Dominican friar, quiet, seemingly humble but in truth one of the shrewdest of Spaniards. It was a masterstroke for Ferdinand to have sent him because his outward meekness was just what was needed to offset Wolsey’s arrogance and ostentation.
Ferdinand had realised too late that the Cardinal was the real ruler of England. However, de Mesa immediately began an attempt to repair the damage Caroz had done; and it was on de Mesa’s suggestion that Ferdinand had sent Henry the handsome present.
But Ferdinand was dead; de Mesa would have a new master; Katharine was no longer interested in politics as her attention was focused on her daughter; but Wolsey favoured the Spanish ambassador because he was knowledgeable in that field which was one of the utmost interest to the Cardinal – the Papal Court.
De Mesa waited apprehensively for new policies. While Ximenes was Regent he imagined that there would be little change; but what would happen when young Charles took the reins of government, guided no doubt by his Flemish favourites?
De Mesa sought to speak to the Queen of these matters but Katharine had become half-hearted, since her father’s perfidy and death had shocked her deeply.
She no longer wanted to feel herself a Spaniard; she had her daughter to absorb her; and all the time de Mesa was seeking to draw her attention to European politics she was thinking: How she grows! To think that we can dispense with Katharine Pole’s services now! She will be easily weaned. Was there ever such a good-tempered child? They say sweet temper means good health. Soon she will have her own household, but not yet. For a while her place will be in her mother’s apartments.
She smiled absently at the Spanish ambassador, but she did not see him; she saw only the bright eyes of her daughter, the round, chubby cheeks and that adorable fluff of reddish hair on the top of the exquisite little head which so delighted the child’s father.
And when Henry’s sister, Margaret, Queen of Scotland, came to London to seek her brother’s help against her enemies, Katharine’s great interest was in discussing Margaret’s children with her and trying to win her sister-in-law’s admiration for the beloved little Princess.
Chapter XVI
‘’PRENTICES AND CLUBS’
The following spring there was disquiet in the streets of London. During recent years many foreigners had settled there, and these people, being mostly exiles from their native lands – serious people who had fled perhaps for religious reasons – were by nature industrious. Day in, day out, they would be at their work, and so they prospered. There were Flemings who were expert weavers; Italians who were not only bankers but could make the finest armour and swords. The Hanseatic traders brought over leather, rope, wax, timber, nails and tar; and of course since the coming of Katharine to London to marry Prince Arthur there had always been Spaniards in London.
Life was hard for the citizens of London. During the cruel winter many had died of starvation in the streets and there had been rumblings of dissatisfaction all through the year.
With the coming of spring the young apprentices gathered in the streets and talked of the injustice of foreigners’ coming to their city and making a good living, while they and their kind lived in such poor conditions.
They themselves could not understand the joy some of these cordwainers and weavers, these glaziers and lacemakers found in the work alone. They did not seem to ask for pleasure as the apprentices did. They cared for their work with the passion of craftsmen, and those who lacked this skill were angry with those who possessed it.
They met in Ficquets Fields and near the Fleet Bridge, and talked of these matters.
There was one among them, a youth named Lincoln, who demanded: ‘Why should we stand by and see foreigners take away our livings? Why should we allow the foreigners to live in our city at all?’
The ignorant apprentices shook their fists. They had a leader; they craved excitement in their dull lives. They were ready.
So on May morning of the year 1517, instead of rising early to go and gather May flowers in the nearby countryside, the apprentices gathered together and, instead of the cry ‘Let’s a-maying’, there were shouts of ‘’Prentices and Clubs!’
The revolt had begun.
The apprentices stormed into the city; there were hundreds of them and they made a formidable company. Through the streets of London they came, carrying flaming torches in their hands; they broke into the shops of the foreigners; they came out carrying bales of silk, the finest lace, jewels, hats, textiles.
When they had ransacked these shops and houses they set them on fire.
News was brought to the King at Richmond.
Henry was first angry; then alarmed. The people could always frighten him because he had a dread of unpopularity.
He decided to remain at Richmond until others had the revolt under control.
Chaos reigned in London.
The under-sheriff of the city, Sir Thomas More, pitying the plight of the apprentices and knowing that they would be quickly subdued, went among them, risking his life, for tempers were running high, imploring them to stop their violence.
Wolsey meanwhile had taken the position in hand and had sent for the Earl of Surrey who arrived with troops and very soon had hundreds of people under arrest and others hanging from gibbets which had been quickly erected throughout the city.
Meanwhile Henry waited at Richmond, determined not to go into his capital until order was restored.
It was eleven days after the uprising that he rode into the city and took his place on a dais in Westminster Hall. With him came three Queens – Katharine, Mary – who had been Queen of France and was far happier to be Duchess of Suffolk – and Margaret, Queen of Scotland.
‘Bring the prisoners to me,’ cried Henry, his brows drawn together in a deep frown, ‘that I may see these people who would revolt against me.’
There was a sound of wailing from the spectators as the prisoners were brought in. There were some four hundred men and eleven women, all grimy from their stay in prison, all desperate, for they knew what had happened to their leaders and they expected the same fate to befall themselves; they even came with ropes about their necks; and in the crowd which had pressed into the hall and clustered round it were the families of these men and women.
The King raged in his anger. They had dared rise against his merchants; they had burned the houses of his citizens; they deserved the worst death which men could devise.
His troops were stationed about the city; his guards surrounded him, and he was eager to show these people the might of the Tudor.
Wolsey came close to him. He said: ‘Your Grace, I beg of you in your clemency spare these men.’
Henry’s little eyes glittered. He hated them, those wildeyed men and women. They had dared show criticism of his rule. Yet . . . they were the people. A King must always please his people.
Yes, he knew. But here was the spirit of the masque again. He must play his part as he always had done.
He scowled at Wolsey and said: ‘These prisoners should be taken from here and hanged by the neck on gibbets prepared for them within the city.’
Katharine was watching the faces of some of the women who had pressed into the hall. They were mothers, and some of these boys who stood there on the threshold of death, the halters round their necks, had been their babies.
It was more than she could bear. Stripping off her headdress so that her hair fell about her shoulders – as became a supplicant – she threw herself at the King’s feet.
‘Your Grace, I implore you, spare these prisoners. They are young. Let them grow to serve Your Grace.’
Henry, legs apart, his fingers playing with the great pearl which hung about his neck, regarded her with assumed tenderness and said: ‘You are a woman, Kate, and soft. You know nothing of these matters . . .’
Katharine turned to Mary and Margaret and they, seeing the appeal in her eyes and being moved themselves by the sight of those miserable prisoners and their sorrowing families, loosened their hair and knelt with Katharine at the King’s feet.
Henry regarded them, and his eyes were a brilliant blue.
Three Queens knelt at his feet! What a spectacle for his people!
He appeared to consider.
Wolsey – the great Cardinal who, when he went abroad, rode through the streets in a procession which rivalled that of a king’s – also appealed to Henry.
His appeal was a warning, but there was no need for the warning. Henry was about to make the grand gesture.
‘I am not proof against such pleading,’ he declared. ‘And I know full well that these foolish men and women now regret their folly. They shall live to be my very good subjects.’
There was a sudden shout of joy. The prisoners took the halters from their necks and threw them high into the air.
Henry stood watching them – sons rushing into their mother’s arms, wives embracing husbands – a smug smile of pleasure on his face.
As Katharine watched, the tears flowed down her cheeks.
Chapter XVII
THE KING TRIUMPHANT
Little Mary was growing up to be a model child. She was now two years old and had her separate establishment at Ditton Park in Buckinghamshire. Katharine could not bear to be separated from the child, and consequently she spent a great deal of time in her daughter’s nursery; and she contrived to be often at Windsor Castle so that the child could be ferried over to her there.
Katharine was going to supervise her education as Isabella had her children’s. She was going to take her mother as an example; Mary should learn to love and depend on her mother as she, Katharine, had on hers.
Already Mary was showing great promise. She had a lively intelligence, could speak clearly and knew how to receive important personages. It was a constant delight to present them to her that she might charm them as she charmed her parents.
Henry was almost as devoted as Katharine. He enjoyed taking the child in his arms or on his knees and playing with her. Only occasionally would the frown appear between his eyes, and Katharine would know then that he was thinking: Why is this child not a boy?
Mary quickly showed an aptitude for music, and, young as she was, Katharine taught her how to play on the virginals. The Queen would sit with the little girl on her lap, the four-feet-long box in which the keyboard was set, placed on the table; and there the childish fingers would pick out the notes.
Her progress was amazing, and Henry as well as Katharine liked to show off her talent as much as possible.
What happy days they were; and to crown her pleasure, Katharine discovered that she was once more pregnant.
‘Now we have a healthy girl, we must get us a boy,’ said Henry.
His tone was playful but there was a faint threat beneath it. He was determined to have a boy . . . from someone.
Autumn had come and the King hunted all through the day and returned in the late afternoon to banquets and masques.
Katharine was spending the days in happy preoccupation with her domestic affairs. There was so much to occupy her days. She liked to sit sewing with her women; and it was her delight to embroider Henry’s linen, and garments for little Mary. She had moved away from the sphere of politics and was happier for it.
Her hopes of bearing another healthy child were high. Mary was a joy in more ways than one. Not only was she her charming self but she was a promise of future children, a symbol which insisted that what could be done once could be done again.
This was the happiest of her pregnancies – apart from the first one. This time she could feel almost complacent.
‘But let it be a boy,’ she prayed. ‘O Holy Mother, intercede for me and give me a boy.’
She was seated at the table on the dais; the hunters had returned hungry from the forest, and Henry was in his place at the centre of the table where there was much jesting and laughter.
Elizabeth Blount was present. Katharine always looked for her among the guests, and she marvelled that Henry could have been faithful to a woman for so long. Elizabeth was, of course, a beauty; and she was entirely the King’s. The marriage to Sir Gilbert Taillebois was one in name only. They could be certain of this. Sir Gilbert would not dare to be a husband to Elizabeth while she was the King’s paramour.
Poor Gilbert! thought Katharine with some contempt. He stands by, like a cur, waiting for his master to throw the bone after he has finished gnawing it.
She felt no jealousy of Elizabeth; she felt nothing but this great desire to bear a son.
She did notice, however, that Elizabeth looked different tonight. She was even more attractive than usual. A diamond glittered at her throat. A gift from the King of course. She was dressed in blue velvet with cloth of silver, and those colours were very becoming to her fair beauty. She was subdued tonight. Had she perhaps noticed that the King was less attentive? Yet she seemed radiant. Had she another lover?
Katharine ceased to think of the woman. It was no concern of hers if Henry discarded a mistress, because there would be another if he dispensed with this one. She was not a giddy girl to look for faithfulness in a man such as Henry.
There was a burst of laughter at the table. The King had made a joke. It must be the King’s, for only his jokes provoked such abandoned laughter.
Katharine set her face into a smile, but she was not thinking of the King nor of Elizabeth Blount.
The child stirred suddenly within her.
‘Holy Mother, give me a healthy child . . . a healthy male child.’
Henry’s hand touched that of Elizabeth in the dance. She raised her eyes to his and smiled.
He pressed her hand warmly. He too had noticed the change in her tonight.
‘But you are more fair than ever,’ he whispered.
‘Your Grace . . .’Her voice faltered.
‘Speak up, Bessie.’
‘There is something I must tell you.’
‘What is this?’
‘I . . . wish to tell you as soon as we can be alone.’
‘You’re frightened, Bessie. What’s wrong?’
‘I pray Your Grace . . . When we are alone.’
Henry narrowed his eyes, but she was whirled away from him in the dance.
She was waiting for him in the ante-chamber where he had bidden her go.
‘Slip away,’ he had said when their hands had touched again in the dance. ‘I will join you. None will notice us.’
At one time she would have smiled at his belief that, when he did not wish to be noticed, he never was. As if everyone in the hall was not aware of the movements of the King! But tonight she was too preoccupied with her thoughts and fears.
He sh
ut the door and stood looking at her.
‘Well, Bessie?’
‘Your Grace . . . I . . . we . . . I am with child.’
Henry stared at her.
Then he began to laugh. ‘By God, Bessie,’ he cried, ‘I had begun to think you were a barren woman. When I considered all the nights we have been together . . . and no sign of a child. I began to wonder what was wrong with you . . . or . . .’
He frowned, as though admonishing himself.
He came towards her then, and there was a tender smile on his lips.
‘Your Grace is not displeased . . .?’
Bessie was thinking: This will be the end. He will not want a pregnant woman. There will be someone else. Nothing will ever be the same again.
‘Displeased!’ He took her face in his hands and gently pinched her cheeks. ‘There’s nothing could have pleased me more.’
He seized her in his arms and held her so tightly that she would have cried out with the pain if she had dared. Then he swung her into his arms and held her up, looking at her.
Displeased! he was thinking. He had said that nothing could please him more; that was not true. If Bessie gave him a son he would be delighted, but a legitimate son was what he desired more than anything on Earth.
Now that Bessie carried their child he could look more closely at the fears which had been trying to intrude into his mind.
When there was failure to produce children it was natural to presume that something might be wrong with the would-be parents – both of them perhaps. Katharine was not barren. She could become pregnant; her failure lay in not giving birth to a healthy male child. Among her offspring there had been boys – but still-born, or, as in the case of the first, living only a few days.
If Bessie Blount bore a healthy child, it would prove, would it not, that the fault did not lie with him.
True there was Mary – but one living girl in all those pregnancies! It was almost as though God was against him in some way, as though He had said, you shall not have a male heir.