by Jean Plaidy
She spread her hair about her pillows, for he liked it in that way and her hair was her one real beauty.
He burst into the apartment, and she saw him standing on the threshold with Mary on one side of him and Brandon on the other. Behind him were other friends and courtiers.
“Why, Kate,” he cried advancing, “we come to see how you are. Are you not weary of bed? We plan a great entertainment for you. So get well quickly.”
“Your Grace is kind to me,” answered the Queen.
“Your King takes pleasure in pleasing you,” replied Henry.
The courtiers were surrounding her bed, and she felt very tired but she smiled, because one must always smile for the King, that golden boy whose strict upbringing under his father’s rule had been perhaps a little too severe for his exuberant nature.
He was a little irritated by the sight of her. She must lie a-bed, and he was impatient with all inactivity. He was urging her to shorten the period of rest, but she dared not. She had to preserve her strength; she had to remember that this was one of many births which must follow over the coming years.
The baby in his cradle cried suddenly as though he came to his mother’s aid.
The King immediately swung round and the procession, with him at its head, went towards the cradle.
Henry took the child in his arms, and he looked at it with wonder.
“Do you realize,” he said, to those who crowded about him, “that this infant could one day be your King?”
“We trust not until he is an old graybeard, Your Grace.”
It was the right answer. The King laughed. Then he began to walk up and down the Queen’s bedchamber, the child in his arms.
The Queen watched smiling.
He is but a boy himself, she thought.
AS SOON AS KATHARINE left her bed she prepared to leave Richmond for Westminster. The King had gone on before her; impatient and restless, he had already journeyed to Walsingham, there to give thanks for his son at the Shrine of the Virgin.
But he had now returned to Westminster and was there waiting to receive the Queen.
Katharine, who still felt weak, would have enjoyed some respite, perhaps a few weeks of quiet at Richmond; but she knew that was too much to hope for because Henry begrudged every day he spent hidden from the public gaze. So did the people. Wherever he went they crowded about him to bless his lovely face and express their pleasure in him.
The people would not be excluded from the festivities at Westminster. One of the reasons why they loved their new King was because he showed them with every action, every gesture, that he was determined to be a very different King from his father. One of his first acts had been the public beheading of his father’s ministers, Dudley and Empson, those men whom the people had regarded as the great extortioners of the previous reign. Nothing could have been more significant. “These men imposed great taxes on my beloved people; they have brought poverty and misery to thousands. Therefore they shall die.” That was what the young King was telling his people. “England shall now be merry as she was intended to be.” So they cheered themselves hoarse whenever they saw him.
It seemed fitting to them that their handsome young King should be covered in glittering jewels, that his satin and velvet garments should be more magnificent than anyone had ever worn before. And because he was always conscious of the presence of the people, always determined to extract every ounce of their affection, he constantly won their approval.
They were now looking forward to the festivities at Westminster almost as eagerly as Henry was himself. Therefore there could be no delay merely because the Queen would have liked a little longer to recover from giving the King and country an heir.
All along the route the people cheered her. She was Spanish and alien to their English ways, but their beloved King had chosen her for his wife and she had produced a son; that was enough to make the people shout: “Long live the Queen!”
Beside Katharine rode her beautiful and favorite lady-in-waiting, Maria de Salinas, who had been with her ever since she had left Spain. It was significant that even when they were alone together she and Maria spoke English nowadays.
“Your Grace is a little weary?” asked Maria, anxiously.
“Weary!” cried Katharine, faintly alarmed. Did she look weary? The King would be hurt if she did. She must never show him that she preferred to rest rather than to frolic. “Oh no…no, Maria. I was a little thoughtful, that was all. I was thinking how my life has changed in the last few years. Do you remember how we suffered, how we patched our gowns and often had to eat fish which smelt none too good because it was the cheapest that could be bought in the market, how we wondered whether my father would send for us to return ignobly to Spain, or whether the King of England would ever pay me an allowance?”
“After such humiliation Your Grace can now enjoy all the fine gowns that you wish for, all the good food that you care to order for your table.”
“I should be ungrateful indeed, Maria, if I allowed myself to be tired when so much is being arranged for my pleasure.”
“Yet weariness is something over which we have no control,” began Maria.
But Katharine laughed: “We must always have control over our feelings, Maria. My mother taught me that, and I shall never forget it.”
She smiled, inclining her head as the people called her name. Maria had guessed that she was weary; no one else must.
THE QUEEN WAS SEATED in the tiltyard, for the tournament would soon begin. All about her were signs of the King’s devotion. His enthusiasm was such that when he was gratified the whole world must know it. This woman whom his father had tried to withhold from him, but whom he had insisted on marrying, had proved his wisdom in marrying her, for she had quickly given him a son. He wanted everyone to know in what esteem he held her, and everywhere Katharine looked she could see those entwined initials H and K. They were on the very seat on which she sat—gold letters on purple velvet.
If my mother could see me now, she would be happy, thought Katharine. It was nearly seven years since her mother had died and ten since she had seen her, yet she still thought of her often and when something happened which was particularly pleasing, it was almost as though she shared her pleasure with her mother. Isabella of Castile had been the greatest force in her daughter’s life and when she had died it seemed to Katharine that something very beautiful and vital had gone from her life. She believed that perhaps in the love she would bear towards her own children she would find some consolation for this aching loss; but that was in the future.
The ordinary people were crowding into the arena. They seemed always to be present. Henry would be pleased; he would triumph of course at the tournament and he liked his people to see him victorious. He would seem like a god to them in his glittering armor, with his looks which were indeed unrivalled, and his great height—no one at Court was taller than Henry. Katharine wondered what chance of favor a man would have who happened to be an inch taller than the King.
She suppressed such thoughts. They came to her now and then but she constantly refused to entertain them. Her Henry was a boy and he had the faults of a boy. He was young for his years, but she must always remember that he had been repressed during his boyhood by a father who had always feared he might be spoiled by others, and who was eager that the eighth Henry should rule in a manner similar to that of the seventh.
All about her was the glittering Court. Henry was not present so she knew that he would appear later in the guise of some wandering king, perhaps a beggar, or a robber, some role which would make the people gasp with surprise. He would either tilt in his new role and as the conqueror disclose who he really was, or show himself before the joust and then proceed to conquer. It was the old familiar pattern, and every time Katharine must behave as though this were the first time it had happened. Always her surprise that the champion was in truth the King must appear to be spontaneous and natural.
What is happening to me? she asked herself
. There had been a time when she was happy enough to enter into his frolics. Was that because in the first year of their marriage she had felt as though she were living in a dream? The period of humiliation had been so close in those days; now that it was receding, was she less grateful?
A hermit was riding into the arena and there was a hush in the crowd. He wore a gray gown and tattered weeds.
No, thought Katharine, he is not quite tall enough. This is not the great masquerade.
The hermit was approaching her throne and, when he was before her, he bowed low and cried aloud: “I crave the Queen’s Grace to permit me to tilt before her.”
Katharine said as was expected: “But you are no knight.”
“Yet would I ask your royal permission to test my skill, and it shall all be for Your Grace’s honor.”
“A hermit…to tilt in my honor!”
The crowd began to jeer, but Katharine held up her hand.
“It is strange indeed to find a hermit in the tiltyard, and that he should wish to tilt stranger still. But our great King has such love for all his subjects that he would please them each and every one. The lowliest hermit shall tilt before us if it is his wish. But I warn you, hermit, it may cost you your life.”
“That I would willing give for my Queen and my King.”
“Then let it be,” cried Katharine.
The hermit stepped back, drew himself to his full height, threw off his gray tattered robe, and there was a Knight in shining armor—none other than Charles Brandon himself.
The Princess Mary, who was seated near the Queen, began to clap her hands, and all cheered.
Brandon now asked the Queen’s permission to present to her a knight of great valor who was desirous, like himself, of tilting in her honor.
“I pray you tell me the name of this knight,” said Katharine.
“Your Grace, his name is Sir Loyal Heart.”
“I like well his name,” said Katharine. “I pray you bring him to me.”
Brandon bowed and there was a fanfare of trumpets as Sir Loyal Heart rode into the arena.
There was no mistaking that tall figure, that gold hair, that fresh fair skin which glowed with health and youth.
“Sir Loyal Heart!” shouted the ushers. “Who comes to tilt in honor of the Queen’s Grace.”
Before the Queen’s throne Henry drew up, while the people roared their approval.
Katharine felt that her emotions might prevent her in that important moment making the right gesture. Sir Loyal Heart! How like him to choose such a name. So naïve, so boyish, so endearing.
Surely I am the most fortunate of women, she thought; Mother, if you could but see me now, it would make up for all you have suffered, for my brother Juan’s death, for my sister Isabella’s death in childbirth, for Juana’s madness. At least two of your daughters inherited what you desired for them. Maria is the happy Queen of Portugal, and I am happier still, as Queen of England, wife of this exuberant boy, who shows his devotion to me by entwining my initials with his, by riding into the arena as Sir Loyal Heart.
“How happy I am,” she said in a voice which was not without a tremor of emotion, “that Sir Loyal Heart comes hither to tilt in my honor.”
There was nothing she could have said which would have pleased Henry more.
“The happiness of Sir Loyal Heart equals that of Your Grace,” cried Henry.
He had turned—ready for the joust.
The tournament was opened.
DARKNESS CAME EARLY in February, and the Court had left the tiltyard for the whitehall of Westminster. This did not mean that the festivities were over. They would go on far into the night, for the King never tired and, until he declared the ball closed, it must go on.
He had scored great success in the tiltyard to the delight of the people. But none was more delighted than Henry. Yet now that the party had entered the Palace he had disappeared from Katharine’s side.
This could only mean one thing. Some pageant or masque was being planned in which he would play a major part. Several of his friends had crept away with him, and Katharine, talking to those who remained about her, tried to compose her features, tried to display great expectation while she hoped that she would be able to register that blank surprise when she was confronted with some denouement which she had guessed even before the play had begun.
One must remember, she reminded herself, that he has been brought up in a most parsimonious fashion. She knew that his father had ordered that his doublets must be worn as long as they held together and then turned if possible; he and the members of his household had been fed on the simplest foods and had even had to save candle ends. All this had been intended to teach him the ways of thrift. The result? He had rebelled against thrift. He was ready to dip into his father’s coffers to escape from the parsimony, which had been anathema to him, in order to satisfy his extravagance. His nature was such that he must passionately long for all that was denied him—so for him the scarlet and gold, the velvet and brocade; for him the rich banquets, the pomp and the glory. It was fortunate that the thrift of Henry VII had made it possible for Henry VIII to indulge his pleasure without resorting to the unpopular methods which his father had used to amass his wealth.
Katharine looked about the hall, which had been so lavishly decorated, and tried to calculate the cost to the exchequer. The English love of pageantry was unquestionable. What great pains had been taken to turn this hall into a forest. There were artificial hawthorns, maples and hazels, all so finely wrought that they looked real enough. There were the animals, a lion, an antelope, and an elephant all cleverly made. She did not know the price of the commodities necessary to make these things but she guessed it was high, for clearly no expense had been spared. There were beautiful ladies to roam the mock forest and they, with the wood-woos, who were wild men of the forest, had to be specially apparelled. The maids of the forest wore yellow damask, and the wood-woos russet sarcenet; she knew the high cost of these materials.
Should she remonstrate with the King? Should she point out that such pageants were well enough when there was some great event to celebrate—as there was at this time the birth of their son—but this was one among many. Since Henry had come to the throne feasting had followed feasting, and pageant, pageant.
She imagined herself saying: “Henry, I am older than you…and I had the advantage of spending my early years with my mother who was one of the wisest women in the world. Should you not curb these extravagances?”
What would be his response? She pictured the brows being drawn together over those brilliant blue eyes, the pout of a spoiled boy.
Yet was it not her duty?
One of the courtiers was at her elbow. “Your Grace?”
“You would speak with me?”
“Your Grace, I know of an arbor of gold, and in this arbor are ladies who would show you their pastime in the hope that they might please your Grace. Would you wish to see this arbor?”
“I greatly desire to see it.”
The courtier bowed, and then, drawing himself to his full height, he declaimed: “Her Grace Queen Katharine wishes to see the arbor of gold.”
A curtain which had been drawn across one end of the hall was then pulled back to disclose a pavilion in the form of an arbor. This was composed of pillars about which artificial flowers made of silk and satin climbed naturalistically. There were roses, hawthorn and eglantine, and the pillars had been decorated with ornaments of pure gold.
This arbor was carried by stout bearers and placed close to the Queen’s throne. She saw that in it were six of the most lovely girls, and that their dresses were of white and green satin which appeared to be covered with gold embroidery; but as they came closer she realized that what she had thought was embroidery were two letters entwined—the familiar H and K. She stared in admiration, for it was indeed a pretty sight, and as she did so six men dressed in purple satin which, like the gowns of the girls, was adorned with the entwined letters, sprang forth to st
and three on either side of the arbor.
Each of these knights had his name on his doublet in letters of real gold; and there was one among them who stood out distinguished by his height and golden beauty; and across his doublet were written the words Sir Loyal Heart.
The ordinary people who revelled in these antics of the Court had pressed into the hall and now cheered loudly, calling “God bless his Grace! God bless the Queen!”
Henry stood before her, his face expressing his complete joy.
Katharine applauded with her ladies, and the King clapped his hands—a signal for the ladies to step from the arbor.
Each of the six ladies was taken as a partner by one of the six men.
“Make a space for us to dance!” commanded Sir Loyal Heart. And the bearers wheeled the arbor back through the forest to the end of the hall where the people who had crowded into the Palace from the streets stood agog watching all this splendor.
“Come,” cried the King to the musicians, and the music began.
Henry danced as he loved to dance. He must leap higher than any; he must cavort with greater verve. Katharine watching him thought: He seems even younger now than he did the day we married.
“Faster! Faster!” he commanded. “Who tires? What you, Knevet?” The glance he threw at Sir Thomas Knevet was scornful. “Again, again,” he commanded the musicians, and the dance continued.
So intent were all on the dancing of the gay young King that they did not notice what was happening at the other end of the hall.
One man, a shipmaster whose trade had brought him to the port of London, murmured: “But look at the trimmings on this arbor. These ornaments are real gold!”
He put up his hand to touch one, but another hand had reached it before him. A gold ornament was taken from the arbor, and several crowded round to look at it.
In a few moments many of the spectators had plucked a gold ornament from the arbor; and those at the back, who saw what was happening, determined not to be left out, pressed forward and in the space of a few minutes that arbor was denuded of all the gold ornaments which had made it such a thing of beauty.
