Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean - Страница 18

The King said: “Pray leave the Queen and myself. We will share this painful sorrow alone.”

The Friar left them and even when the door shut on them they did not move towards each other; and for some seconds there was silence between them.

It was the King who broke it. “This is a bitter blow.”

She nodded. “He was never strong. I always feared it. Now it has befallen us.”

She lifted her eyes to her husband’s face and she was suddenly aware of a deep pity for him. She looked at the lean face, the lines etched by the sides of his mouth; the eyes which were too alert. She read the thoughts behind that lean and clever face. The heir to the throne was dead, and there was only one male child left to him. There was also a nobility which he would never trust and which was constantly on the alert to shout that the Tudors had no legitimate claim to the throne. All her life Elizabeth had lived close to the struggle to win and keep a crown. It was painful to her now that her husband should not think of Arthur as their dear son, but as the heir.

He would never know what it was to love, to feel acute sorrow such as she was feeling now. Should she feel envious of him because he did not suffer as she did through the loss of their son? No, even in this bitter moment she felt sorry for him because he would never know the joy of loving.

“Why does God do this to us?” demanded Henry harshly. “The Friar has just said that if we receive good at the hands of God, we must patiently sustain the ill He sends us.”

“It is true,” said Elizabeth. She went to the window and looked out on the river as it flowed peacefully past this Palace of Greenwich. “We have much for which to thank God,” she added.

“But this was my eldest son…my heir!”

“You must not grieve. You must remember that you have your duty to do. You have other children.”

“Yet the plague could carry off our children in a few hours.”

“Arthur was not strong enough to withstand the attack. The others are stronger. Why, Henry, your mother had but you, and look to what you have come. You have one healthy Prince and two Princesses.”

“Henry is my heir now,” mused the King.

Elizabeth had left the window and was walking towards him. She had to comfort him.

“Henry,” she said, “we are not old. Perhaps we shall have more children. More sons.”

The King seemed somewhat pacified. He put his arm about her and said with more feeling than he usually displayed: “You have been a good wife to me. But of course we shall get ourselves more sons.”

She closed her eyes and tried to smile. She was thinking of the nights ahead which must be dedicated to the begetting of children. She longed for peace at night. She was growing more and more aware of her need for rest. She thought of the weary months of pregnancy, which must precede a birth.

But it was the duty of Queens to turn their backs on sorrow, to stop grieving for the children who were lost to them, and to think of those as yet unborn.

Henry took her hand and raised it to his cold lips.

He said as he released it: “I see trouble ahead with regard to Katharine’s dowry. If only Arthur had lived another year it should all have been paid over, and perhaps by that time Arthur would have got her with child.”

The Queen did not answer; she fancied that her husband was reproving their delicate son for dying at a time most inconvenient to his father’s schemes.

Poor Henry! she mused. He knows nothing of love. He knows little of anything but statecraft and the best methods of filling the coffers of his treasury.

Why should she say Poor Henry! when he was quite unaware of any lack in his life? Perhaps she should say Poor Katharine, who at this time lay sick at Ludlow, her dowry half paid, her position most insecure. What would happen to Katharine of Aragon now? The Queen of England would do all in her power to help the poor child, but what power had the Queen of England?

* * *

BEFORE THE burnished mirror in his apartment young Henry stood.

He had received the news with mingled feelings. Arthur…dead! He had known it must happen, but it was nevertheless a shock when the news came.

Never to see Arthur again! Never to show off his superior prowess, never to strut before the delicate brother. It made him feel a little sad.

But what great avenues were opening out before him. To be Prince of Wales when one had been Duke of York! This was no trifling title, for one who had been destined to become Archbishop of Canterbury would one day be King of England.

King of England! The little eyes were alight with pleasure; the smooth cheeks flushed pink. Now the homage he received would be doubled, the cries of the people in the streets intensified.

No longer Prince Henry—but Henry, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of England.

“Henry VIII of England!” There were no sweeter words in the English language.

When he contemplated them and all they meant he could cease to grieve for the death of his delicate brother Arthur.

* * *

IN A LITTER, covered with black velvet and black cloth, Katharine travelled from Ludlow to Richmond. How different was this journey from that other which she had taken such a short time before with Arthur!

The weather had changed, but Katharine was unaware of all the beauty of an English spring. She could think only of the husband whom she had lost, the husband who had been no husband.

And then there came a sudden blinding flash of hope as she remembered the fate of her sister Isabella, which was so like her own. Isabella had gone into Portugal to marry the heir to the throne, and shortly after their marriage he had died in a hunting accident. The result was that Isabella had returned to Spain.

Now, thought Katharine, they will send me home. I shall see my mother again.

So how could she be completely unhappy at that prospect? She believed that this time next year her stay in England would be like a distant dream. She would wander through the flagged corridors of the Alhambra; she would look through her windows on to the Courtyard of Lions; she would stray into the Court of Myrtles, and her mother would be beside her. The pomegranate would no longer merely be a device; it would be all about her—growing in the gardens, pictured on the shields and the walls of her parents’ palace. Happiest of all, her mother would be beside her. “You did your duty,” she would say. “You went uncomplaining to England. Now, my Catalina, you shall stay with me for ever.”

Katharine of Aragon would again become Catalina, Infanta, beloved daughter of the Queen.

So, as she went on her way to Richmond, she thought tenderly of Arthur who had been so kind to her in life, and who in death would, she believed, bring her relief from bondage.

* * *

QUEEN ELIZABETH was waiting to receive the widow.

Poor child! she thought. She will be desolate. How will she feel, alone in a strange land? Does she realize how her position has changed? She, who was Princess of Wales, is now merely a Spanish Princess, who has been married in name only. If there had been an heir on the way the circumstances would have changed considerably. But now…what is her position? How sad that girls should be used thus by ambitious men.

The King came to her apartment. He gave her that cool appraising look which she knew meant that he was looking for some sign of pregnancy.

She said: “The Infanta should arrive at Richmond tomorrow, I believe.”

A wary look replaced the speculative one in the King’s eyes.

“I will keep her with me for a while,” went on the Queen. “This is a terrible shock for her.”

“It would not be wise for her to remain at Richmond,” said the King quickly.

The Queen did not answer, but waited for his commands.

“She should be installed with her household outside the Court,” went on the King.