Katharine of Aragon (56 page)

Katharine cried out in pain, and Maria called to those who were waiting: “The child is about to be born.”

IT HAD BEEN
a boy. She turned her face into the pillows and wept silently.

She would meet Henry on his return and her arms would be empty. He would look at her with those blue eyes, cold and angry. So you have failed once more! those eyes would say. And a little more of his affection would be lost.

They brought news to her as she lay in bed mourning for the lost boy.

“Your Grace, the Scots attacked Surrey's men six miles south of Coldstream. They fought there on Flodden Hill and it is victory, Your Grace, with the King of Scots dead and his men slain or in retreat. It is such a victory that warms the heart. They can never rally after this.”

She lay still. So her efforts had not proved in vain. She had helped to save England for Henry, and she had lost him his child.

But how could she rejoice wholeheartedly? A Kingdom for the life of a child! Her mother had paid the same price. But how different had been the position of Isabella of Castile from that of Katharine of Aragon!

IN THE STREETS
they were singing of victory. The battle of Flodden Field would be remembered down the ages, because it would be years before the Scots would be in a position to rise again. And this had been achieved with the King away from home and the Queen in control of the Kingdom.

“Long live Queen Katharine!” cried the people.

And she smiled and thought: How happy I should have been if I could have stood at the windows holding my child in my arms.

The people were singing Skelton's song:

And on the other side of the Border they were mournfully bewailing their dead.

But it was victory, thought Katharine, even though the child was lost. Had the Scots triumphed the kingdom might have been lost. As for the child—she was telling herself what so many others had told her: You are young yet. There is still time.

She sat down to write to Henry.

“Sir,
My lord Howard hath sent me a letter open to Your Grace within one of mine by which you shall see the great victory which our Lord hath sent your subjects in your absence.…To my thinking this battle hath been to Your Grace and all your realm, the greatest honor that could be and more than should you win all the crown of France. Thanked be God for it and I am sure Your Grace forgetteth not to do so.”

She went on to say that she was sending him the coat of the King of Scotland for his banner. She would have sent the body of the King of Scots himself, but those about her had persuaded her against this. She wished to know how the dead King's body should be buried and would await Henry's instructions on this matter.

“I am praying God to send you home shortly, for without this no joy here can be accomplished. I am preparing now to make my journey to our Lady of Walsingham.”

She did not mention the death of the child. As yet she could not bring herself to do so.

AS HENRY RODE WITH MAXIMILIAN TO THE COURT OF THE
Duchess of Savoy in the town of Lille he felt completely happy.

The townsfolk had come out to see him and, as he rode among them, they shouted greetings; and when he asked Maximilian what they said, the Emperor answered him: “But this is not a King, this is a God.”

His own subjects could not have been more appreciative and, when some of the beautiful women placed garlands about his neck, he took their hands and kissed them and even went so far, when the girls were pretty, to kiss their lips.

He came as a conqueror and he could never resist such homage.

Margaret of Savoy greeted him with pleasure. He thought her fair enough but she seemed old to him, twice widowed, or one might say three times if her first betrothal to the Dauphin of France were counted. Henry found some of the pretty girls of Lille more to his taste.

As for Margaret herself, she seemed mightily taken with that seasoned charmer, Brandon, and Henry, amused, made a point of bringing them together on all occasions.

So this was Charles, he mused, studying the fourteen-year-old boy, who was to be his brother-in-law. He could not help feeling complacent at the sight of him for, when Ferdinand and Maximilian died, this boy could be heir to their dominions which constituted a great part of Europe not to mention those lands overseas which their explorers had discovered and brought under their sway.

This boy would therefore be one of the rivals with whom Henry would juggle for power in Europe. It was an amusing thought. The boy's somewhat bulging eyes suggested that he needed great concentration to understand what was being said; he seemed to find difficulty in closing his mouth; his hair was yellow and lustreless; his skin so pale that he looked unhealthy.

His mother's mad, thought Henry. And, by God, it seems that the boy too could be an idiot.

Charles, however, greeted his grandfather and the King of England in the manner demanded by etiquette and he appeared to be endeavoring to take in everything that was being said.

He's far too serious for a boy of that age, Henry decided. Why, when I
was fourteen, I looked eighteen. I was already a champion at the jousts and I could tire out a horse without a hint of fatigue to myself.

So it was comforting to discover that this future ruler was such a puny, slow-witted young fellow.

“My grandson,” said Maximilian, “may well inherit the dominions on which the sun never sets. 'Tis so, is it not, Charles?”

Charles was slow in replying; then he said: “‘Tis so, Imperial Highness, but I trust it will be long ere I do so.”

“And what's your motto, Grandson? Tell the King of England that.”

Again that faint hesitation as though he were trying very hard to repeat a lesson. “‘More Beyond,' Grandfather.”

“That's right,” said Maximilian.

Then he put an arm about the boy and held him against him, laughing.

“He's a good fellow, my grandson. He's a Fleming all through. None of your mincing Spaniards about Charles. And he works hard at his lessons. His tutors are pleased with him.”

“We're all pleased with him,” said Henry, laughing at his own subtlety.

THOSE WEEKS SPENT
at Lille were delightful ones for Henry. He had changed since coming to France. Previously he had been more or less a faithful husband. Often he wished to stray, and in the case of Buckingham's sister had been prepared to do so; but he had always had to fight battles with his conscience. He was possessed of deep sensual appetites and at the same time wished to see himself as a religious and virtuous man. He wanted to be a faithful husband; but he desperately wanted to make love to women other than his wife. The two desires pulled him first in one direction, then in another; and always it seemed that he must come to terms with his conscience before indulging in his pleasures.

He had persuaded himself that when he was at war and far from home, he could not be expected to eschew all sexual relationships. The same fidelity must not be expected of a soldier as of a man who was constantly beside his wife. He reckoned that all monarchs of Europe would have laughed at what they would call his prudery.

He is young yet, they would say. He believes it is possible to remain faithful to one woman all his life. What a lot he has to learn!

His conscience now told him that it was no great sin, while he was abroad, to make a little light love here and there.

The women expected it.

“By God,” he told himself on the first lapse. “I could not so have disappointed her by refusing to grant that which she so clearly desired.”

And once the first step was taken, others followed and thus the King of England was finding the life of a soldier a highly interesting and exhilarating one.

With each new love affair he thought less kindly of Katharine. She was his wife; she was the daughter of a King; but, by God, he thought, she knows less of the arts of loving than the veriest tavern wench.

Brandon was his closest companion, and Brandon's reputation, he had always known, was a none too savory one.

He watched Brandon with the women and followed his example even while he shook his head over the man and was shocked by his conduct.

I am King, he excused himself. The woman will remember all her life, what she and I have shared. It was but a kindness on my part. But Brandon!

Always Henry saw his own acts shrouded in mystic glory. What he did was right because he was the King; it was entirely different if another did the same thing.

He was a little worried about Brandon because his sister Mary was so fond of the fellow, and he was afraid that one day she would be so foolish as to ask to be allowed to marry him. What would she say if she could see that bloodless boy to whom she was betrothed—and side by side with handsome, wicked Brandon!

Brandon was now even daring to carry on a flirtation with the Duchess Margaret; and such was the fascination of the man that Margaret seemed nothing loath.

He had watched the exchange of glances, the hands that touched and lingered.

By God, he thought, that fellow Brandon now has his eyes on the Emperor's daughter.

He thought about the matter until some hot-eyed wench sought him out in the dance and, when they had danced awhile, found a quiet room in which to explore other pleasures.

Each new experience was a revelation.

What did we know—Katharine and I—of making love? he asked himself. Was our ignorance the reason for our lack of children?

It behooved him to learn all he could.

There must be children, so what he did was really for England.

CHARLES BRANDON
was hopeful. Was it possible that he could marry Margaret of Savoy? The prospects were glittering. He could look into a future which might even lead to the Imperial crown, for this crown was never passed to a hereditary heir. The Empire was composed of vassal states and Emperors were elected from a few chosen candidates.

The Emperor's grandson was a feeble boy who, Brandon was sure, would never win the approval of the electors. But Margaret was powerful and rich. Votes were won through bribery and the husband of Margaret would stand a very fair chance.

It was a dizzy prospect, and he brought out all his charm to dazzle the woman. He did not even have to make a great effort for she was attractive and he could feel real affection for her. Poor woman, she had been unfortunate first to have her betrothal to the Dauphin ruthlessly terminated by an ambitious King of France; then her marriage to the heir of Spain was short-lived, her child, which came after her husband's death, still-born; then had followed the marriage with the Duke of Savoy who had soon left her a widow.

Surely she was in need of such solace as one of the most glittering personalities of the English Court—or any Court for that matter—could give her.

Brandon had for some time been thinking a great deal of another Princess who he was sure would be delighted to be his wife. This was none other than the King's own sister, young Mary. Mary was a girl of great determination and too young to hide her feelings; Brandon had been drawn to her, not only because of her youthful charms and the great glory which would surely come to the King's brother-in-law, but because there was an element of danger in the relationship, and he was always attracted by danger.

But Mary was betrothed to the pale-eyed anemic Charles, and she would never be allowed to choose her husband; but Margaret of Savoy was a widow, and a woman who would make her own decisions.

That was why he was growing more and more excited and blessing the fate which had brought him to Lille at this time.

He was elated because he believed that the King was not ill-disposed to a marriage between himself and Margaret. Henry knew how his sister felt towards him, and Henry was fond of young Mary. He would hate to deny her what she asked, so it would be helpful to have Brandon out of her path, to let Mary see she had better be contented with her fate, because Brandon, married to the Duchess Margaret, could certainly not be the husband of the Princess of England.

So Brandon made up his mind that he would take an opportunity of asking Margaret to be his wife.

When they walked in the gardens, Margaret allowed herself to be led aside by Brandon, and, as soon as they were out of earshot of their companions, Brandon said to her familiarly: “You spoil that nephew of yours.”

Margaret's eyes dwelt fondly on young Charles who was standing awkwardly with his grandfather and Henry, listening earnestly to the conversation.

“He is very dear to me,” she answered. “I had no children of my own so it is natural that I should care for my brother's son.”

“It is sad that you never had children of your own. But you are young yet. Might that not be remedied?”

Margaret saw where the conversation was leading and caught her breath in amazement. Would this arrogant man really ask the daughter of Maximilian to marry him as unceremoniously as he might—and she was sure did— invite some peasant or serving woman to become his mistress?