by Jean Plaidy
There was whispering among those gathered in the field. Henry watched them covertly. He had as usual conveyed his wishes and he expected his councillors to obey them. If any one of them raised objections to what he wished, that man would doubtless find himself guilty of some offence later on; he would not be sent to prison; he would merely have to pay a handsome fine.
All knew this. Many of them had paid their fines for small offences. The King thought no worse of them, once they had paid. It was their money which placated him.
In a few seconds the council had made its decision.
“In the King’s realm the King is absolute master. He need not consider any foreign law or customs. All the King’s subjects should obey his wishes, and the Infanta, having married the Prince of Wales, albeit by proxy, is the King’s subject.”
Henry’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction which held a faint tinge of regret. He could not, with justice, extract a fine from one of them.
“Your answer is the only one I expected from you,” he said. “It is not to be thought of that the King should be denied access to any of his subjects.”
He led the way out of the field to where Ayala was waiting for him.
“The decision is made,” he said. Then he turned to Arthur. “You may ride on to Dogmersfield at the head of the cavalcade. I go on ahead.”
He spurred his horse and galloped off; and Ayala, laughing inwardly, closely followed him.
The Sovereigns of Spain would learn that this Henry of England was not a man to take orders, thought the ambassador. He wondered what Doña Elvira was going to say when she was confronted by the King of England.
KATHARINE WAS SITTING with her maids of honor when they heard the commotion in the hall below. It had been too miserable a day for them to leave the Bishop’s Palace and it had been decided that they should remain there until the rain stopped.
Elvira burst on them, and never had Katharine seen her so agitated.
“The King is below,” she said. Katharine stood up in alarm.
“He insists on seeing you. He declares he will see you. I cannot imagine what their Highnesses will say when this reaches their ears.”
“But does not the King of England know of my parents’ wishes?”
“It would seem there is only one whose wishes are considered in this place and that is the King of England.”
“What is happening below?”
“The Count of Cabra is telling the King that you are not to be seen until after the wedding, and the King is saying that he will not wait.”
“There is only one thing to be done,” said Katharine quietly. “This is England and when we are in the King’s country we must obey the King. Let there be no more protests. We must forget our own customs and learn theirs. Go and tell them that I am ready to receive the King.”
Elvira stared at her in astonishment; in that moment Katharine looked very like her mother, and it was as impossible for even Elvira to disobey her as it would have been to disobey Isabella of Castile.
SHE STOOD FACING the light, her veil thrown back.
She saw her father-in-law, a man a little above medium height, so thin that his somewhat sombre garments hung loosely on him; his sparse fair hair, which fell almost to his shoulders, was lank and wet; his long gown which covered his doublet was trimmed with ermine about the neck and wide sleeves. There was mud on his clothes and even on his face. He had clearly travelled far on horseback in this inclement weather and had not thought it necessary to remove the stains of travel before confronting her.
Katharine smiled and the alert, crafty eyes studied her intently, looking for some defect, some deformity which would make her parents desirous of hiding her from him; he could see none.
Henry could not speak Spanish and he had no Latin. Katharine had learned a little French from her brother Juan’s wife, Margaret of Austria, but Margaret’s stay in Spain had been short and, when she had gone, there had been no one with whom Katharine could converse in that language. Henry spoke in English: “Welcome to England, my lady Infanta. My son and I have eagerly awaited your coming these many months. If we have rudely thrust aside the customs of your country we ask pardon. You must understand that it was our great desire to welcome you that made us do so.”
Katharine attempted to reply in French but slipped into Spanish. She curtseyed before the King while his little eyes took in the details of her figure. She was healthy, this Spanish Infanta, more so than his frail Arthur. She was a good deal taller than Arthur; her eyes were clear; so was her skin. Her body was sturdy, and if not voluptuous it was strong. She was no beauty, but she was healthy and she was young; it was merely custom which had made her parents wish to hide her from him. Her only real claim to beauty was that abundant hair—thick, healthy hair with a touch of red in its color.
Henry was well satisfied.
She was talking to him now in her own tongue, and, although he could not understand her, he knew that she was replying to his welcome with grace and charm.
He took her hand and led her to the window.
Then he signed to Ayala who had at that moment entered the apartment.
“Tell the Infanta,” said Henry, “that I am a happy man this day.”
Ayala translated, and Katharine replied that the King’s kindness made her very happy too.
“Tell her,” said the King, “that in a few minutes her bridegroom will be riding to the palace at the head of a cavalcade. They cannot be much more than half an hour after me.”
Ayala told Katharine this; and she smiled.
She was standing between the King and Ayala, they in their wet garments, when she first saw her bridegroom.
He looked very small, riding at the head of that cavalcade, and her first feeling for him was: He is so young—he is younger than I am. He looks frightened. He is more frightened than I am.
And in that moment she felt less resentful of her fate.
She determined that she and Arthur were going to be happy together.
IT WAS LATER that evening. Katharine looked almost pretty in candlelight; her cheeks were faintly flushed; her gray eyes alight with excitement. Her maids of honor, all chosen for their beauty, were very lovely indeed. Only Doña Elvira Manuel sat aloof, displeased. She could not forget that the wishes of her Sovereigns had been ignored.
The Infanta had invited the King and the Prince to supper in her apartments in the Bishop’s Palace; and in the gallery the minstrels were playing. The supper had been a prolonged meal; Katharine was continually being astonished at the amount that was eaten in England. At tonight’s feast there had been sucking pigs and capons, peacocks, chickens, mutton and beef, savory pies, deer, fish and wild fowl, all washed down with malmsey, romney and muscadell.
The English smacked their lips and showed their appreciation of the food; even the King’s eyes glistened with pleasure and only those who knew him well guessed that he was calculating how much the feast had cost, and that if the Bishop could afford such lavish entertainment he might be expected to contribute with equal bounty to the ever hungry exchequer.
The Prince sat beside Katharine. He was an elegant boy, for he was fastidious in his ways and his lawn shirt was spotlessly clean as was the fine silk at collar and wristbands; his long gown was trimmed with fur as was his father’s, and his fair hair hung about his face, shining like gold from its recent rainwash.
His skin was milk-white but there was a delicate rose-flush in his cheeks and his blue eyes seemed to have sunk too far into their sockets; but his smile was very sweet and a little shy, and Katharine warmed to him. He was not in the least like his father, nor like her own father. Her mother had once told her of her first meeting with her father and how she had thought him the handsomest man in the world. Katharine would never think that of Arthur; but then before she had seen him Isabella of Castile had determined to marry Ferdinand of Aragon, and she had gone to great pains to avoid all the marriages which others had attempted to thrust upon her.
All
marriages could not be like that of Isabella and Ferdinand, and even that marriage had had its dangerous moments. Katharine remembered the conflict for power between those two. She knew that she had brothers and sisters who were her father’s children but not her mother’s.
As she looked at gentle Arthur she was sure that their marriage would be quite different from that of her parents.
Arthur spoke to her in Latin because he had no Spanish and she had no English.
That would soon be remedied, he told her. She should teach him her language; he would teach her his. He thanked her for the letters she had written him and she thanked him for his.
They had been formal little notes, those letters in Latin, written at the instigation of their parents, giving no hint of the reluctance both felt towards their marriage; and now that they had seen each other they felt comforted.
“I long to meet your brother and sisters,” she told him.
“You shall do so ere long.”
“You must be happy to have them with you. All mine have gone away now. Every one of them.”
“I am sorry for the sadness you have suffered.”
She bowed her head.
He went on: “You will grow fond of them. Margaret is full of good sense. She will help you to understand our ways. Mary is little more than a baby—a little pampered, I fear, but charming withal. As for Henry, when you see him you will wish that he had been born my father’s elder son.”
“But why should I wish that?”
“Because you will see how far he excels me in all things and, had he been my father’s elder son, he would have been your husband.”
“He is but a boy, I believe.”
“He is ten years old, but already as tall as I. He is full of vitality and the people’s cheers are all for him. I believe that everyone wishes that he had been my father’s elder son. Whereas now he will doubtless be Archbishop of Canterbury and I shall wear the crown.”
“Would you have preferred to be Archbishop of Canterbury?”
Arthur smiled at her. He felt it would have sounded churlish to have admitted this, for that would mean that he could not marry her. He said rather shyly: “I did wish so; now I believe I have changed my mind.”
Katharine smiled. It was all so much easier than she had believed possible.
Elvira had approached her and was whispering: “The King would like to see some of our Spanish dances. He would like to see you dance. You must do so only with one of your maids of honor.”
“I should enjoy that,” cried Katharine.
She rose and selected two maids of honor. They would show the English, she said, one of the stateliest of the Spanish dances; and she signed to the minstrels to play.
The three graceful girls, dancing solemnly in the candlelit apartment, were a charming sight.
Arthur watched, his pale eyes lighting with pleasure. How graceful was his Infanta! How wonderful to be able to dance and not become breathless as he did!
The King’s eyes were speculative. The girl was healthy, he was thinking. She would bear many children. There was nothing to fear. Moreover Arthur was attracted by her, and had seemed to grow a little more mature in the last hour. Was he ready? What a problem! To put them to bed together might terrify this oversensitive boy, might disclose that he was impotent. On the other hand, if he proved not to be impotent, might he not tax his strength by too much indulgence?
What to do? Wait? There could be no harm in waiting. Six months perhaps. A year. They would still be little more than children.
If Henry had only been the elder son!
Ayala was at the King’s elbow, sly, subtle, guessing his thoughts.
“The Infanta says that she does not wish Your Grace to think that only solemn dances are danced in Spain; she and her ladies will show you something in a different mood.”
“Let it be done,” answered the King.
And there was the Infanta, graceful still, dignified, charming, yet as gay as a gipsy girl, her full skirts twirling in the dance, her white hands as expressive as her feet. Katharine of Aragon could dance well.
The King clapped his hands and the Prince echoed his father’s applause.
“We are grateful to the ladies of Spain for giving us such enjoyment,” said Henry. “I fancy our English dances are not without merit; and since the Infanta has danced for the Prince, the Prince should dance for the Infanta. The Prince of Wales will now partner the Lady Guildford in one of our English dances.”
Arthur felt a sudden panic. How could he match Katharine in the dance? She would despise him. She would see how small he was, how weak; he was terrified that he would be out of breath and, if he began to cough, as he often did at such times, his father would be displeased.
Lady Guildford was smiling at him; he knew her well, for she was his sisters’ governess and they often practiced dancing together. The touch of her cool fingers comforted him, and as he danced his eyes met the grave ones of the watching Infanta, and he thought: She is kind. She will understand. There is nothing to fear.
The dance over he came to sit beside her once more. He was a little breathless, but he felt very happy.
THIS WAS HER wedding day. She was waiting in the Bishop’s Palace of St. Paul’s to be escorted to the Cathedral for the ceremony. She would be led to the altar by the Duke of York, whom she had already met and who disturbed her faintly. There was something so bold and arrogant about her young brother-in-law, and an expression which she could not understand appeared on his face when he looked at her. It was an almost peevish, sullen expression; she felt as though she were some delicious sweetmeat which he desired and which had been snatched from him to be presented to someone else.
That seemed ridiculous. She was no sweetmeat. And why should a boy of ten be peevish because his elder brother was about to be married?
She had imagined this; but all the same she felt an unaccountable excitement at the prospect of seeing the Duke of York again.
She had ridden into London from Lambeth to Southwark by way of London Bridge, and her young brother-in-law had come to escort her.
He was certainly handsome, this young boy. He swept into the apartment as though he were the King himself, magnificently attired in a doublet of satin, the sleeves of which were slashed and ruched somewhat extravagantly; there were rubies at his throat. His face was broad and dimpled; his mouth thin, his eyes blue and fierce, but so small that when he smiled they seemed to disappear into the smooth pink flesh. His complexion was clear, bright and glowing with health; his hair was shining, vital and reddish gold in color. There could be no mistaking him for anyone but a Prince. She found it hard to believe that he was merely ten years old, for he seemed older than Arthur, and she wondered fleetingly how she would have felt if this boy had been her bridegroom instead of his brother.
They would not have married her to a boy of ten. But why not? There had been more incongruous royal marriages.
He had taken off his feathered hat to bow to her.
“Madam, your servant,” he had said; but his looks belied the humility of his words.
He had explained in Latin that he had come to escort her into London. “It is my father’s command,” he said. “But had it not been I should have come.”
She did not believe that, and she suspected him of being a braggart; but she was conscious of the fascination he had for her and she realized that she was not the only one who was conscious of his power.
He had stared at her thick hair which she was to wear loose for the journey into London, and had put out a plump finger to touch it.
“It is very soft,” he had said, and his little eyes gleamed.
She had been aware that she seemed strange to him, with her hair flowing thus under the hat which was tied on her head with a gold lace; beneath the hat she wore a headdress of scarlet.
“Your hat,” he had told her, “reminds me of that which Cardinals wear.”
And he had laughed, seeming but a boy of ten in that moment.
He had ridden on one side of her as they came through the streets while on the other side was the Legate of Rome. The people had lined the streets to see the procession and she had noticed that, although many curious glances came her way, eyes continually strayed to the young Prince riding beside her. He had been aware of this and she had noticed that he lost no opportunity of acknowledging his popularity and, she suspected, doing all he could to add to it.
The citizens of London had organized a pageant to show their welcome for the Spanish Princess whom they regarded as their future Queen, and in the center of this pageant had been Saint Katharine surrounded by a company of virgins all singing the praises of the Princess of Wales.
She had smiled graciously at the people and they had cheered calling: “Long live the Princess of Wales! God bless the Infanta of Spain! Long live the Prince of Wales! Long live the Duke of York!”
And the young Duke of York had lifted his bonnet high so that the light caught his golden hair, and Katharine admitted that he was indeed a handsome Prince.
When they had reached the Bishop’s Palace, which was adjacent to the Cathedral, it had been the young Duke of York who took her hand and led her in.
That had happened some days before, and now this was her wedding day; and once again that young boy would walk beside her and lead her to the altar where his brother would be waiting for her.
She stood still in her elaborate wedding finery; indeed she found it not easy to move. Her gown stood out over the hoops beneath it, and on her head she wore the mantilla of gold, pearls and precious stones. The veil cascaded over her head and shielded her face. She was dressed as a Spanish Princess and the style was new to England.
Henry came to her and looked at her in blank admiration.
Then he spoke: “Why, you are beautiful!”
