Jean Plaidy (49 page)

But she had seemed to like Arthur. Ah, but that was because she had not known then that there might be a chance of getting Henry.

Again he wished he were older. “The years seem as though they’ll never pass,” he commented to Charles Brandon who as a mature seventeen-year-old replied that they went fast enough for him.

Perhaps they did. He had reached the golden age. When I am seventeen where shall I be? wondered Henry.

Margaret came to see him. Her departure for Scotland was imminent and she wanted this brash brother of hers, of whom she was exceedingly jealous mainly because he was to stay in England, to lose a little of his assurance.

He looked splendid, of course he did. He had good looks and in spite of his youth a certain stature. He was taller than all of his companions who were of his age, and he was, of course, too sure of himself. It would give her satisfaction to prick that conceit if it were possible, it would be a little balm to her sorrow. Besides, she told herself virtuously, it would be good for Henry.

“So … our boy is going to be a bridegroom,” she said. “Ah, but that won’t be for a while will it? Our boy has to grow up first.”

“At least I’ll stay here in England. I haven’t to go to some bleak dour old country.”

As usual they sought and found the other’s most vulnerable spot.

“I believe my husband eagerly awaits me,” said Margaret.

“No doubt he will be there to greet you if he can spare the time from his mistresses.”

“I shall know how to deal with them.”

“Make sure they do not know how to deal with you.”

“I will come to my brother for advice. He is so knowledgeable, being eleven years of age he knows everything.”

“I am twelve.”

“Not for a few days.”

“I am mistaken for older.”

“Who makes that mistake? Everybody knows when our noble heir to the throne was born. They all mourn the loss of Arthur. He was the one who was the real Prince of Wales.”

“People seem to think I am more suitable for a king,” said Henry almost modestly.

“Because you’re here … that’s why. They loved poor Arthur. We all did. Particularly Katharine.”

“Katharine will have a new husband now.”

“Poor Katharine. She cannot like the change to a little boy.”

“How do you know?”

“I listen. She has asked her mother to take her away from here … to take her home … so that she doesn’t have to marry you.”

“She wants to marry me.”

“Oh no, she does not. I know she has written to her mother asking to be taken home.”

His eyes narrowed. It couldn’t be true. He was feeling gallant. He would have smiled at her, pressed her hand reassuringly. He liked to play the noble knight. That was what he had been taught to believe in. Chivalry. It was so necessary to knighthood. He had been thinking that he was rescuing Katharine from poverty at Durham House, making her important because of her alliance with him … and all the time she was writing to her mother begging to be taken home!

He would have liked to appear in her eyes as the chivalric knight who was going to rescue her from poverty and uncertainty, who was going to protect her from her fate. It should all have been very much in the knightly tradition and she had spoilt it all by writing to her mother and begging her to take her away.

She was seventeen years old. It was a mature age of course but that had not deterred him. He had cast his eyes on many a woman of her age who had been ready to fondle him. Charles Brandon had talked to him of his adventures with women and Charles had already a reputation of being a rake.

So it was not her age. And to think that he … Henry the Prince of Wales, king-to-be, did not appear in an attractive light to this woman who was so sorely in need of his protection.

His grandmother had explained to him how important the ceremony was. She often talked to him in place of his father who was too busy to do so. His father believed that the Countess of Richmond, being a woman and an extremely clever one, would understand children better than he did.

She was fifty-eight years old, for she had been barely fourteen when her son Henry Tudor had been born so that there was not a great difference in their ages. She seemed very old to Young Henry; she was small and thin and very austere looking; and rarely wore anything but the black and white of a nun. She was very religious, attended Mass five times a day, and spent a great time on her knees praying although she confessed that this resulted in excruciating back pains.

Skelton had said ironically: “That will increase her reward in Heaven.” And Henry had laughed as he always had laughed with Skelton. But he was in awe of his grandmother all the same.

Yet she adored him. He sensed that and he loved her for it. Not that she actually put her adoration into words. That would not have been her way. But her assiduous care for him and the manner in which she looked at him—when she thought he was not aware of it—betrayed her. He was strong, healthy and vigorous and she liked it. Of course Arthur had been something of a paragon with his quiet and studious ways but he had made them anxious in a way he, Henry, never had.

His grandmother’s piety impressed the people although Henry perceived that they did not greatly like her. It was the same with his father. Serious-minded men knew that Henry the Seventh had done a great deal for the country’s prosperity, but they did not like him all the same.

Henry was constantly hearing about his maternal grandfather, Edward the Fourth. There was a king they liked. He had heard the whispered comments of those who had grandparents old enough to remember. “When he came riding through the town the citizens hid their daughters.”

There was a king. Large, handsome and romantic.

Henry thought that when he was a king he would like to resemble his maternal grandfather rather than his father.

Meanwhile he was only twelve years old and he had to attend his betrothal to his brother’s widow.

His grandmother explained to him. “This betrothal will be
per verba de presenti,
which means that it is binding. In fact some of the marriage service will be included in the ceremony.”

“So,” said Henry, “I shall be married to Katharine of Aragon.”

“No, not exactly married. But you will have gone through this form of betrothal.”

“Does it mean that we shall most certainly be married later?”

His grandmother hesitated. She knew what was in the King’s mind and that he was determined to leave a loophole of escape so that he might keep the Spanish Sovereigns on tenterhooks—and at the same time keep that part of the dowry which they had already paid.

Henry noticed her hesitation and was nonplussed. “Why do we go through with such a ceremony if it is not really a marriage?” he demanded.

“The Spaniards want it.”

“Ah, they think I am a desirable husband do they?”

His grandmother gave one of her wintry smiles, which sat oddly on her austere features.

“They know, my boy,” she said firmly, “that you are one of the most desirable
partis
in the whole of Europe.”

“Who are the others equally so?” cried Henry, who could not bear competition without the immediate desire to eliminate it.

“Oh, we cannot go into that,” said his grandmother. “There are a few princes with hopes of inheritance. But you will be the King of England.”

Her face darkened for she thought immediately that he could only be so on the death of his father and her love for her son was almost fanatical and far exceeded even that she felt for her grandchildren.

Henry watched her thoughtfully. He was longing for the day when the crown would be placed on his head; but he realized that it should not be just yet. If it were now there would be too many surrounding him telling him what to do. He wanted that day to come when he would be an unshackled king—when everyone—even his grandmother—must bow to his word. Alas, that day had not yet come; and here he was again chafing against the slothful passage of time.

He was in a sullen mood when he arrived at the Bishop’s House in Fleet Street where the formal betrothal was to take place. It did not diminish even when he saw Katharine looking beautiful in an elegant dress, which was not quite in the style to which he was accustomed and all the more attractive for that. He couldn’t help thinking that the hooped petticoat over which the dress fell in alluring folds was interesting, just as the cardinal’s hat she had worn on their first meeting had been.

She intrigued him in a way because she was different from the other ladies of the Court; he had liked the way she had spoken English and he had fancied that she had liked him very much when she had first come. He knew that she was anxious about her future and that quite a number of her attendants were too, for he had made a point of discovering all about her that her servants could tell him and the latter always liked to have an answer for him. He knew for instance that it was a long time since she had had a new dress and even this one she was wearing for such an important ceremony was one she had brought with her from Spain.

His father was present with his grandmother. They both looked stern and serious. He would have liked to say: “I will not betroth myself to this Princess who prefers her own Court of Spain to mine.”

To mine! His father would be angry at that. He had reminded him once or twice that he was not king yet.

He took Katharine’s right hand and said the lines he had had to learn off by heart to make sure that he did not leave out anything and that he said them in the right manner.

He rejoiced, he said, to contract matrimony with Katharine and to have her for his wife, forsaking all others during the term of their lives.

Katharine had turned to him and she was saying the same thing in rather halting English, which in a way was endearing.

Then she smiled at him, a little fearfully, almost appealingly and all his rancor vanished.

She was beautiful; he liked her maturity; more fervently than ever he wished he were seventeen. Alas, he was a few days from twelve and he must needs wait, but his feelings of chivalry had overcome his resentment. He was foolish to listen to Margaret. She was just annoyed because she had to go away to Scotland.

Katharine was his affianced wife; she looked to him for protection, and chivalrous knight that he was she should not look in vain.

Henry’s moods changed quickly and it was in one of pride and joy that hand in hand with Katharine he emerged from the Bishop’s House into the sunshine of Fleet Street on that June day.

The Prince Discovers His Conscience

 few days later another important event occurred. This was the departure of the Princess Margaret—now known as the Queen of Scotland. On that lovely June day the calvacade set out from Richmond Palace and beside Margaret rode the King. The people flocked into the streets to cheer the pretty Princess as she took her farewell of her country.

She was indeed charming, dressed in green velvet and seated on a white palfrey, and her entourage was magnificent. It was one of those occasions when Dudley and Empson had persuaded the King that to be parsimonious about the Princess’s equipage would be a false economy. They must remember that it was a political occasion and the Scots must realize that the King of England—miser though he might be called—was very rich indeed.