Arthur- Prince of the Roses

by Alison Weir

  ‘Is your Highness quite well?’ Katherine asked.

  ‘A winter rheum, nothing more,’ he replied, coughing again.

  ‘Then I hope you will soon be better!’ she said brightly.

  ‘Your Highness is most kind,’ Arthur said. ‘Forgive me if I did not welcome you as warmly as I should have done. I was tired by the ride to and from Easthampstead, where I met up with the King my father. I will be more myself soon, and better company, I hope. I am pleased that you are here.’ He flushed, and Katherine warmed to him. She had mistaken weariness and perhaps shyness for indifference. Suddenly the world had shifted again. Everything was going to be all right.

  It was midnight before everyone retired. Katherine had enjoyed herself immensely. At the King’s request, she had summoned her musicians to entertain him and Arthur, and to the melodic sound of hautboys and sackbuts, she and her ladies had danced the slow, stately pavaniglia with its two beats to a step. Arthur, somewhat restored after the wine and sweetmeats, wanted to join in, so she and her ladies taught him a dignified baja. Afterwards, as everyone clapped, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  When he took his leave the next morning, he looked a little better.

  ‘Farewell, my lady,’ he said, still speaking Latin. ‘I look forward to seeing you in London.’ He bent to kiss her hand, bowed to her curtsey, and walked off to join his father and their retinue. Her heart went out to him, poor, thin, sickly boy. She sent up a prayer that God would soon restore him to health.