by Jean Plaidy
“Henry, I swear this to be untrue.”
“Swear if you will. But who trusts a Spaniard?”
“You talk to me as though I were a stranger…and an enemy.”
“You are a Spaniard!” he said.
She reached for the table to steady herself.
Evil rumors had been in the air of late. She had disregarded them as mere gossip: If the Queen does not give the King a child soon, he may decide that she is incapable of bearing children and seek a divorce.
She had thought at the time: How can people be so cruel? They make light of our tribulations with their gossip.
But now she wondered what had set such rumors in motion. When his eyes were narrowed like that he looked so cruel.
She turned away.
“I must go to my apartment,” she said. “I feel unwell.”
He did not answer her; but stood glowering while she walked slowly and in an ungainly manner from the apartment.
SHE WAS WAITING NOW—waiting for the birth of the child which would make all the difference to her future. If this time she could produce a healthy boy, all the King’s pleasure in his marriage would return. It was merely this run of bad luck, she told herself, which had turned him from her. So many failures. It really did seem that some evil fate was working against them. No wonder Henry was beginning to doubt whether it was possible for them to have a family; and because he was Henry, he would not say, Is it impossible for us to have children…but, for her? He would not believe that any failure could possibly come from himself.
She prayed continually: “Let me bear a healthy child. A boy, please, Holy Mother. But if that is asking too much, a girl would please, if only she may be healthy and live…just to prove that I can bear a healthy child.”
In her apartments the device of the pomegranate mocked her. It hung on embroidered tapestry on the walls; it was engraved on so many of her possessions. The pomegranate which signified fruitfulness and which she had seen so many times in her own home before she had understood the old Arabic meaning.
How ironic that she should have taken it as her device!
She dared not brood on the possibility of failure, so she tried to prove to Henry that she was completely faithful to his cause. When the French ambassadors arrived she received them with outward pleasure and the utmost cordiality; she gave a great deal of time to the sad young Mary, helping her to live through that difficult time, cheering her, recalling her own fears on parting from her mother, assuring her that if she would meekly accept her destiny she would eventually triumph over her fears.
She was invaluable at such a time. Even Henry grudgingly admitted it and, because he knew that she was telling him that she had cut off her allegiance to her own people and was determined to work entirely for his cause, he softened towards her.
With the coming of that July the negotiations for the French marriage were completed and the ceremony by proxy was performed.
Mary, her face pale, her large eyes tragic, submitted meekly enough; and Katharine, who was present at the putting to bed ceremony, was sorry for the girl. Quietly she looked on while Mary, shivering in her semi-nakedness, was put to bed by her women, and the Duc de Longueville, who was acting as proxy for the King of France, who was put to bed with her, he fully dressed apart from one naked leg with which he touched Mary. The marriage was then declared to be a true marriage, for the touching of French and English body was tantamount to consummation.
IN OCTOBER of that year Mary was taken with great pomp to Dover, there to set sail for France. Katharine and Henry accompanied her, and Katharine was fearful when she saw the sullen look in Mary’s eyes.
It was a sad occasion for Katharine—that stay at Dover Castle while they waited for storms to subside, for she could not help but remember her own journey from Spain to England and she understood exactly how Mary was feeling.
How sad was the fate of most Princesses! she thought.
She was eager to comfort her young sister-in-law, and tried to arouse Mary’s interest in her clothes and jewels; but Mary remained listless except for those occasions when her anger would burst out against a fate which forced her to marry an old man whom she was determined to despise because there was another whom she loved. The marriage had done nothing at all, Katharine saw, to turn her thoughts from Charles Brandon.
They seemed long, those weeks at Dover. Henry strode through the castle, impatient to have done with the painful parting and return to London, for there could be no real gaiety while the Queen of France went among them, like a mournful ghost of the gay Princess Mary.
Again and again Katharine sought to comfort her. “What rejoicing there will be in Paris,” she said.
But Mary merely shrugged her shoulders. “My heart will be in England,” she said, “so I shall care nothing for rejoicing in Paris.”
“You will…in time.”
“In time!” cried Mary, and her eyes suddenly blazed wickedly. “Ah,” she repeated, “in time.”
There were occasions when she was almost feverishly gay; she would laugh, a little too wildly; she would even sing and dance, and the songs were all of the future. Katharine wondered what was in her mind and was afraid.
Her women doubtless had a trying time. Katharine had noticed some charming girls among the little band who were to accompany Mary to France. Lady Anne and Lady Elisabeth Grey were two very attractive girls and she was sure they were helping in upholding Mary’s spirits.
One day when she went to Mary’s apartments she saw a very young girl, a child, there among the women.
Katharine called to her and the little girl came and curtsied. She had big, dark eyes and one of the most piquantly charming faces Katharine had ever seen.
“What are you doing here, my little one?” she asked.
“Your Grace,” answered the child with the dignity of a much older person, “I am to travel to France in the suite of the Queen. I am one of her maids of honor.”
Katharine smiled. “You are somewhat young for the post, it would seem.”
“I am past seven years old, Your Grace.” The answer was given with hauteur and most surprisingly dignity.
“It would seem young to me. Do you travel with any member of your family?”
“My father is to sail with us, Your Grace.”
“Tell me the name of your father, my child.”
“It is Sir Thomas Boleyn.”
“Ah, I know him well. So you are his daughter…Mary, is it?”
“No, Your Grace. Mary is my sister. My name is Anne.”
Katharine, amused by the precocity of the lovely little girl, smiled. “Well, Anne Boleyn,” she said, “I am sure you will serve your mistress well.”
The child swept a deep and somewhat mannered curtsey, and Katharine passed on.
The Open Rift
WHEN MARY HAD SAILED FOR FRANCE THE COURT RETURNED to Richmond, and with the coming of the winter Katharine felt that she had regained a little of her husband’s esteem which she had lost through the treachery of her father.
December was with them and plans for the Christmas festivities were beginning to be made. There were the usual whisperings, the secrets shared by little groups of courtiers, plans, Katharine guessed, for a pageant which would surprise her; there would doubtless be a Robin Hood or a Saracen Knight to startle the company with his prowess and later disclose himself to be the King. No round of gaiety would be complete without that little masquerade.
She felt old and tired, contemplating the excitement going on about her—like a woman among children. How was it possible for her to feel excitement about a pageant when she was so concerned with her own allimportant and most pressing problem. Is it true, she asked herself, that I am growing old, far in advance of the King?
It was a cold day and she awakened feeling tired. This was proving a difficult pregnancy and she wondered whether she was less robust than she had been; an alarming thought, because she foresaw many pregnancies ahead of her, and if her health failed
, how could she go on attempting to bear children? And if she did not, of what use was she to her King and country? The word Divorce was like a maggot in her brain.
Because she felt too tired to talk she dismissed her women and sat alone. She went to her prie-dieu and there she prayed, remaining on her knees for nearly an hour, begging, pleading that this time she might have a healthy child.
She rose and stood for some time before the embroidered tapestry on the wall, which portrayed her device of the pomegranate.
This time all will be well, she promised herself.
She thought she would take a walk in the gardens, and as she wished to be alone she went down by a rarely frequented spiral stone staircase.
As this part of the Palace was seldom used, it was very quiet here. She felt a curiosity about it and wondered why it had been neglected. She paused on the staircase to open a door, and saw a pleasant enough room. Entering, she found that the windows looked out on a courtyard in which grass grew among the cobbles. There was little sun in this part and she idly supposed that was why it was so rarely used.
She shut the door quietly and went on. Halfway down the staircase was another door and, as she passed this, hearing the sound of voices, she paused and listened. Surely that was Henry’s voice.
She must be mistaken, for she had heard that he had gone off with the hunt that day. Impulsively she opened the door, and thus discovered what most members of the Court had known for many months. There could be no mistake. Bessie Blount, Lady Taillebois, was lying on a couch and Henry was with her. There could be no doubt whatever what they were doing: rarely could any have been discovered so completely in flagrante delicto. Katharine gave a gasp of horror.
Henry turned his head and looked straight at her, and in that second of time shame, fury, hatred flashed from his eyes.
Katharine waited for no more; she turned, shut the door, and stumbled back the way she had come. As she missed her footing and fell, the cold stone struck into her body, and she felt a sharp pain that was like a protest from the child; but she picked herself up and hurried on.
When she reached her own apartments she shut herself in.
One of her women came to her and asked if she were ill.
“I am merely tired,” she said firmly. “I wish to be alone that I may rest.”
HENRY CAME into the room, his face was scarlet and his eyes sparkled with anger.
He had been caught by his wife in an extremely compromising situation with another woman, and he was deeply ashamed of the figure he had cut in her eyes. When Henry was ashamed of himself he was angry, and because he had always come to terms with his conscience before he indulged in what might be considered sinful, he was always prepared to defend his virtue. Thus he was doubly angry when he was shamed, and as he could never be angry with himself the flood of that anger must be allowed to flow over someone else.
He stood glowering at her as she lay on her bed.
She did not attempt to rise as she would have done on any other occasion. For one thing she felt too ill and there was a dull nagging pain in her womb which terrified her.
He said: “Well, Madam, what have you to say?”
She was suddenly too tired to placate him, too weary to hide her anger. She was no longer the diplomatic Queen; she was the wronged wife.
“Should I have anything to say? Should not you be the one to explain?”
“Explain! Do you forget I am the King? Why should I be called upon to explain?”
“You are also my husband. What I saw…horrified me.”
Henry was thinking of what she had seen and he grew hot with indignation—not with himself and Bessie for being thus together, but with Katharine for shaming them.
“Why so?” he asked, battling with the rage which threatened to make him incoherent.
“You ask that! Should I be delighted to see you behaving thus…with that woman?”
“Listen to me,” said Henry. “I brought you to your present eminence. What were you when I married you? Daughter of the King of Spain. A man who neglected you and used you to trap me. Yet I married you. Against the advice of my ministers I married you…because I pitied you…because I thought you would make me a good wife…would give me children. And what have you given me? Stillborn children! One son who lived for a few days! Madam, I am beginning to wonder whether you are incapable of bearing children.”
“Is it for this reason that you dally thus shamelessly in daylight with the women of your Court?”
“This is but one woman,” he said, “and her I love dearly. She gives me such pleasure, Madam, as is beyond your ken. I have given you the chance to bear me sons; I have considered your health; I have not disturbed your nights. And because, in my consideration for you, I have found another to allay those desires which methinks are natural to all men, you play the shrew.”
“I see,” said Katharine, “that I have been mightily mistaken. I thought you a virtuous man. I did not know you.”
“Find me one more virtuous in this Court! I hear Mass regularly each day…and more than once a day. I have sought to please God and his saints.…”
“They must be delighted by such spectacles as I have just witnessed.”
“You blaspheme, Madam.”
“You commit adultery—by far the greater sin.”
Henry’s face was purple with rage.
“You forget your position, Madam.”
Katharine rose from her bed and came to stand before him.
“I have never forgotten my position,” she said. “I was ready to show my gratitude. I have spent long hours on my knees praying for a healthy child. Has it occurred to you that our failure might in some measure be due to yourself?”
“I understand you not,” he said coldly.
“The sensual appetites of men when indulged, so I have heard, may make them sterile.”
Henry was purple with rage. He was so furious that he could not speak for some seconds, and Katharine went on: “I know you have blamed me for our inability to get healthy children; knowing what I now know I am of the opinion that the cause may well come from you.”
“This…is monstrous!” cried the King.
She turned away from him for in that moment the pain of her body was greater than the pain of her mind. Her face was twisted with the effort to keep back her cry of agony.
Henry watched her and, guessing that the shock she had suffered might have brought about a premature birth, he swallowed his anger and going to the door began bellowing for her women.
When they came running, he said: “The Queen is ill. See to her.”
Then he strode back to his own apartments; all who saw him scuttled away; even his dogs were aware of his moods and, instead of bounding towards him, they slunk after him keeping a good distance between themselves and that glittering angry figure.
IT WAS OVER—yet another failure.
It was no consolation to know that the child was male.
“Oh God,” moaned Katharine, sick and weak in her bed, “have You deserted me then?”
She was ill for several weeks and when she rose from her bed the Christmas festivities were in full progress.
She joined them and the King was cool to her, but now there was no longer anger between them. His attitude implied that she must accept with a good grace whatever she found in him; and since she was his Queen he would be at her side on public occasions.
But change had come to the Court. The Queen had aged visibly. Her body was no longer that of a young woman; it bore the marks of several pregnancies and had lost its shapeliness; her hair, still long and plentiful, was without that bright color which had been so attractive and had done so much to lighten the somewhat heavy nature of her face; now that it was dull mouse-color she looked much darker than before, and as her skin had become sallow she was thought of as a dark woman.
The King had changed too. He would never be so easily duped by his political enemies in future. He was still the golden, handsome King, but he wa
s no longer a boy; he was a young man in the very prime of life. A certain bloom of innocence had been rubbed off. Now he led Bessie Blount in the dance and caressed her openly before his courtiers, no longer attempting to conceal the fact that he spent his nights with her. Often they would ride together to Jericho with a little company of friends and stay there, while Katharine remained behind at Richmond, Westminster or Greenwich.
Bessie was accepted as the chief mistress, and although there were others—little lights-o’-love who amused him for a while—none took Bessie’s place.
The courtiers smiled. “It is natural,” they said. “And since the Queen is so dull and has lost what beauty she had, and as she is fast becoming an old woman, who can blame young Henry?”
It was hurtful to Katharine, but she hid her feelings; yet she wondered whether she would be able to get a child now.
So much had happened in a year.
Now she spent most of her time sewing with her women, hearing Mass, praying in her own apartments, making pilgrimages to such places as the shrine at Walsingham.
Often she thought of those days when Henry had seemed contented with his wife. But it was not only the husband whom she had lost. She often remembered how, at one time when he had received foreign dispatches, he brought them to her and they read them together. He never did this now.
There were two others who had supplanted her.
There was Cardinal Wolsey in state affairs, and in his bed there was Bessie Blount.
A Venetian Embassy and a Cardinal’s Hat
IT WAS NEW YEAR’S NIGHT AND THERE MUST BE ENTERTAINment at the Court to celebrate such an occasion; so the great hall of Westminster had been decorated with cloth of gold, and at night, by torchlight, it was a beautiful sight indeed.
The people had crowded in to watch the royal sport; and on such an occasion Henry liked to show his people that he lived in the splendor expected of a King.
Katharine was seated on a dais at one end of the great hall as she had sat so often before. About her were her ladies, and she was glad to have with her her dear Maria de Salinas who, with her husband, was paying a visit to the Court. Maria had heard of the King’s open liaison with Elizabeth Blount and had condoled with Katharine about this. It was the way of Kings, she said, and not to be taken seriously. Why, even the people accepted the fact that the King must have his mistress.
