Jean Plaidy (53 page)

He questioned one of the men who had gone to the Court of Angoulême because he wanted to hear a firsthand account of someone who had actually seen her.

“I would like you to tell me the absolute truth,” he said. “Hold nothing back. I shall take it ill if I find that you have given me too glowing a picture that was not true.”

“I would not dream of doing so, my lord,” was the answer. “But I can tell you that Marguerite of Angoulême is one of the most beautiful ladies I have ever seen. She is brilliantly clever. She writes poetry and enjoys the company of poets. She is the constant companion of her brother, the young Duc d’Angoulême.”

“And what of him?”

“He is handsome, gracious, sparkling, my lord.”

Henry frowned; he did not like other people to be too brilliant.

“They are indeed a most beautiful trio.”

“Trio?”

“The mother, the brother, and the sister. They are always together but the object of their adoration is Duc François.”

“He is younger than I.”

“Yes, my lord, by a few years. He loves his sister dearly and she loves him. She is probably the more cultivated of the two—very learned in Greek, Latin and Philosophy. It is clear that the Duchess hopes her son will be the King of France she calls him her king, her lord and her Caesar.”

Henry was envious. He would have enjoyed being so adored. He thought of his sister—another Margaret—who had pretended to be contemptuous of him. And there was certainly no adoration from his father; as for his mother, she had been kind and tender, but he could not imagine her calling him Caesar.

He began to feel mildly irritated with these perfect beings.

“And Marguerite, what does she call this wonder brother of hers?”

“Caesar indeed. All their hopes and dreams and love are centered on that boy. I wonder he has not more conceit of himself than he has … but that is great enough. His mother talks of nothing else but the wonders of this boy … nor does the sister. It seems that a short while ago he let loose a wild boar in the courtyard at Amboise, which set the palace guards to flight but François himself chased the boar up the apartments, killed it with his sword and sent it rolling down the great staircase to the courtyard. They speak of all he does as though they were the greatest deeds worthy of the Court of King Arthur. I tell you, my lord, what the mother and sister feel for François of Angoulême is sheer idolatry. They think there is no one in the world like him … nor ever will be.”

“I daresay Madame Marguerite is of the opinion that no man can match her brother.”

“That is so, my lord. It is the law at Angoulême.”

Indeed, was it! The more he heard of this Marguerite the less inclined he felt to take her.

He was rather glad when no more was heard of the possibility. It might be that wily old Louis the Twelfth had put a stop to it.

But it made Henry thoughtful. Katharine, meek, turning to prayer because she felt frustrated and may possibly have heard of that rather shameful repudiation of her, seemed rather attractive.

How grateful she would be if in spite of everything he married her. How different from flamboyant Marguerite. He imagined her coming to the Court. All the time she would be comparing him to this brother of hers. Caesar indeed! Oh yes, there was much to be said for meek and grateful women.

He began to think of Katharine somewhat romantically. He visualized himself going to her and saying: “They were against our marriage. When I was young they forced me to sign a paper. I did so, but I had no intention of breaking my promises. And here I am, Katharine, ready to rescue you and make you my ever-loving queen.”

She would never forget what he had done. She would realize that he was a very perfect knight whose honor prevailed through all vicissitudes.

She would be grateful to him for the rest of their lives.

His conscience was so happy that it was lying dormant.

I shall marry Katharine, he told himself, no matter what the opposition.

And he looked ahead into a misty future. It might well be that when the time came there would be no one to go against his wishes.

The future looked glorious and rosy. He would dream of Katharine and the chivalrous rescue.

Shipwreck

hat winter of the year 1506 was a bleak one. Katharine had suffered miserably from the cold. Her position had certainly not improved and since the death of her mother she had become an encumbrance in Spain as well as in England.

She very much feared the King; she felt that his attitude toward her was entirely cynical. He, who had professed affection for her and such delight when she had come to marry Arthur, was now grudging her the small allowance he had made her and letting her see that he very much regretted that she had ever come to England.

Life was so cruel. She was in this position through a sudden twist of fate. If Arthur had lived she might now be the happy mother of children, the future Queen. If her mother had lived none would have dared treat her in this way. She often wondered if her father had ever really cared for her at all. It seemed to her that his children had been merely the means of helping him to increase his power. She knew that was inevitable to a certain extent but when one of them was placed in a position such as she was, surely some family feeling might have been revived to help that unfortunate one.

She had pawned so many of her jewels that she was afraid they would not last much longer. The Prince of Wales would be fifteen in June. That had once been the time considered possible for his wedding.

Would it take place? If it did she would be lifted out of her misery. It
must
take place.

For the last year her life had gone from bad to worse. The King was displeased with her father and the alliance between them, which had begun with the marriage of Katharine and Arthur was severely strained. There were the perpetual differences about Katharine’s dowry, and both of them refusing to help her, each using the other as an excuse. So it seems that I, thought Katharine, am of no importance to either of them.

They were both acquisitive; they were both ruthless in their determination to achieve power and hold it. What did they care for a poor defenseless girl? It had been so different when Queen Isabella was alive.

In the previous year Ferdinand had remarried. Katharine had been shocked when she heard for she could not bear to think of another in her mother’s place, particularly as he had married a young girl and rumor said he doted on her. Katharine believed he had always been a little jealous of Isabella. She had been his superior in every way, mentally as well as in her possessions, but they had appeared to be fond of each other. Isabella certainly had been of him, but always she had realized his weaknesses and always he had resented her power.

Now he had a young girl, Germaine de Foix, and this fact brought anxious furrows to the brow of the King of England for Germaine de Foix was a niece of Louis the Twelfth of France, which must mean bonds of friendship between Spain and Henry’s old enemy, France.

Henry had not said definitely that there would be no marriage with the Prince of Wales. He did not want to do that. In fact to have abandoned her altogether would have meant a return of her dowry and he was not prepared to let that go out of the country. But she knew that he was sending out feelers for a possible bride for the Prince of Wales. She knew that Marguerite of Angoulême had been suggested for young Henry and her mother Louise of Savoy for the elder.

She fancied that rejection from Angoulême had been the reason for these propositions coming to nothing, and she had heard that Louise had seen a picture of the King and found it repulsive, as no doubt she did his parsimonious habits. The real reason perhaps was that she was so wrapped up in her son François, the young Duke whom she called her Caesar, that she could not bear to be parted from him; and the same applied to Marguerite.

In any case the King was still seeking a bride and there had been no further suggestions for the Prince of Wales.

Just before Christmas she begged an audience with the King and after a while this was granted.

She was amazed by his frail looks. He was thin and there was a yellowish tinge to his skin, but his eyes were sharp and shrewdlooking as ever.

“My lord,” she said, “I cannot go on as I am. I have had no new clothes for two years; my servants are not paid. I must be able to live with dignity.”

“Have you applied to your father?” he asked.

“My father says I should apply to you.”

He lifted his shoulders. “You are his daughter.”

“I am yours too. I was Arthur’s wife.”

“That was scarcely a marriage, dear lady. Your father does not behave in a seemly fashion I hear.”

She began to feel hysterical. She must have help from somewhere. She could not go on in this way. Her apartments were cold and there was no means of heating them.

She told him this; her voice was raised and she was near to tears.

The King looked shocked.

“Pray calm yourself, my lady,” he said. “I think that you forget what is due from us both.”

She had clenched her fists together, “I am desperate … desperate. Either help me or send me to my father.”

The King said: “For the moment you should go back to your apartments. You are overwrought. I will do something to relieve your situation.”

What he had done was to invite her to come to Court for Christmas. This had disconcerted her. How could she mingle with the fine ladies of the Court in her threadbare gowns? Yet how could she spend the money which such a visit would necessarily require?

But because it was the King’s command that she should go to Court she must do so, and when she was installed in a small apartment there one of the King’s ambassadors came to her. He came, he said, on the command of the King to discuss her difficulties. She should rejoice for the King had given the matter his consideration.

She was tremendously relieved … but only for a few moments. When she heard the King’s solution, she was overcome with dismay.

“My lady, the King realizes that the upkeep of Durham House is beyond your means. Therefore he offers you a home here at Court. He is dismissing the members of your household whom you will no longer need. He says it is small wonder that you cannot pay your servants. The answer is that you have far too many. He is dismissing all but five of your ladies, and he is leaving you your Master of Hall, your treasurer and your physician. Then you will have your apartments here at Court. Thus you will be in a position to live in accordance with your means.”

She was dumbfounded. He had helped her by taking away most of those who were her friends.

She was so distraught that she sent at once for her Confessor. She wanted to pray with him, to ask him to help her to bear this fresh burden, which had been put upon her by a cynical king.

He could not be found and when she sent for her physician he told her that her Spanish Confessor was one of those who had been dismissed.

So here she was at Court—even more wretched than she had been at Durham House. Her expenses might have decreased but her misery had intensified.

There was only one ray of hope at that time. On occasions she saw the Prince of Wales. He was always aware of her, she knew. Sometimes their eyes would meet and in his would be a smile, which was almost conspiratorial.

What did that mean? she wondered.

She looked for him on every occasion. She felt happier when he was there.

There was only one way she could escape from his intolerable situation. That would be through marriage with the Prince of Wales.