by Jean Plaidy
The Welsh accepted them and liked them. The chieftains called at the castle. One of them brought his son hoping that he would learn to be a squire in the Prince’s household. Arthur accepted him and Griffith ap Rhys became a friend of both Arthur and Katharine, greatly to the delight of the boy’s father and the people of Wales.
Such happy days they were! Katharine had almost ceased to think of Spain and the longing to be with her mother was less than she had thought it possible to be.
Arthur’s health seemed to improve a little. He could ride for longer hours and he and Katharine tried out a few dances together. He was so grateful because if he became breathless she always made some excuse to stop.
They were ideal companions and Arthur was deeply contented with his marriage. He was able to explain to her how he dreaded having to take part in ceremonial and she understood.
“If I am ever king I shall dispense with a great deal of it,” he told her. “It is not necessary, you know. It does not make a good king because he has to dance and make good speeches. . . .”
Katharine agreed with him.
“When we are the King and Queen we will live at Ludlow . . . oh, I know, not for all the time. But we could come here often could we not?”
“We will,” said Arthur.
He could talk to Katharine as he had never been able to talk to anyone before. To her he confided that he had always thought he should have been born second, Henry first. “Henry would have made such a good king and I should have been well enough in the Church.”
“You would not have married me,” she reminded him.
“Ah,” said Arthur. “You are right. Then I would not have anything other than it is.”
News came from the Court. There was to be a grand celebration for Arthur’s sister Margaret was to be betrothed to the King of Scots. The news threw a certain gloom over the household at Ludlow. The thought of having to leave his newly found peace for the ceremonies of Court depressed Arthur.
Katharine comforted him but his depression frightened her a little. Surely their future life when Arthur was king would be a continuation of such occasions.
She would have to talk to him of this; she would have to stand beside him, help him to overcome his shyness. She was confident that together they would face whatever lay before them.
And then the good news. The King thought it was not necessary for the Prince of Wales to come to Court. His brother Henry would play his part in the ceremonies and Arthur should stay at Ludlow.
Arthur was overcome with joy and Katharine was delighted to see him so relieved; but afterward she thought of the matter and she knew that the reason his father had not wished him to be present was because he feared the journey to Richmond would be too strenuous for him and might have a damaging effect on his health.
She was very anxious when he looked so tired, but she assured herself that he was better since they had lived quietly at Ludlow. All was going to be well. She would look after him, make sure he did not exert himself and in time, she assured herself, his health would improve.
She must count her blessings. She was lucky. She only had to look back a little way to remember how she had been dreading her marriage; and here she was with the gentlest of husbands, who was kind and clever, interesting and tender. What good fortune was hers! She would write home and tell her mother how happy she was.
Another ceremony! How young Henry loved them—particularly, as on this occasion, when his brother was not present. That gave him added importance. He walked beside the King and was accorded the homage which would have been Arthur’s if he had been present, so that he could imagine that he was the Prince of Wales—king-to-be.
And he was secretly delighted by the reason for this occasion. Margaret was to be married—by proxy it was true—to the King of Scotland. Soon his sister would depart and he would be relieved of her irritating presence. Margaret was too much like himself, too forceful, too aware of her dignity, always trying to push herself forward. Moreover she was perceptive. She saw through him too easily and often put into words something which was only a thought in his mind. It was disconcerting. She was clever and older than he was. Perhaps she wished that she had been a boy and then . . . if anything happened to Arthur . . . she would have been the Sovereign.
Arthur was constantly in his mind—the health of Arthur, the possibilities of his death. Such thoughts were best hidden and the notion that Margaret guessed at them disturbed him a great deal. Therefore it was comforting to reflect that Margaret was destined for Scotland. It was a pity of course that their father had decreed that she was too young to leave England immediately.
Well, she would have to go in time and Skelton had told Henry that when she did get there she would find a situation which would engage all her talents to unravel.
What did he mean by that? Winks and nudges and those intriguing innuendos which were so characteristic of Skelton.
“James the King is a wild laddie, my lord. He abounds in love.”
“Well, is that not a good thing?”
“Love for women, my lord, reckless love for women. Mind you, none could compare with your own illustrious grandsire, so I’ve heard, but I’d be ready to swear James of Scotland runs him pretty close.”
“But when he is married to Margaret . . .”
“Ah, when he is married to Margaret! Marriage . . . that is the time when men repent of their sins; they have sown their wild oats and now settle down to sow a few tame ones, eh. I would I were there to see how Dame Margaret handles the Boyds, the Kennedys, the Drummonds . . . Ah, and how they handle her!”
Henry laughed. “She will know what to do, I promise you.”
“ ’Twill be a sight worth seeing I am sure.”
“And now I am to go to this matter at Richmond . . . in my brother’s place.”
“It becomes you well, my lord . . . your brother’s place . . .”
And there was Skelton, his expression changing from one of lewdness to speculation.
And so to Richmond and the ceremony. His father looked at him with a certain criticism as though reproaching him for his too healthy looks and his exuberant manner. The King might not like them but the people did, and Henry shrewdly suspected that the people’s approval was more important to him than even his father’s. It was not real criticism, Henry understood. It was only the wistful thought of how pleased he would be if Arthur had one half of Henry’s good health.
The Queen was looking pale though she had made attempts to disguise this. Skelton—who had a way of learning such things—said that the apothecary was constantly sending remedies to her and she often sent monks and priests to make pilgrimages to the well-known shrines of the country to pray for her.
Margaret was radiant. She had few qualms about going to Scotland. It was typical of Margaret that she could not imagine herself failing to succeed at anything. If she had heard rumors of her future husband’s irregular life she gave no sign of it. She would be sure that as soon as he clapped eyes on her and realized his good fortune nothing else would be of great importance to him.
They heard Mass in the chapel and then went from the chapel to the Queen’s great chamber where the marriage by proxy would be performed.
Henry listened to the voices.
“I, Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, procurator of the right excellent, right high and mighty Prince James, by the grace of God King of Scotland, my sovereign lord, having sufficient authority power and commandment to contract matrimony, per verba de presenti in the name of my said sovereign Lord with thee Margaret . . .”
On and on . . . He would be glad when this was over and the feasting began. There would be jousts . . . dancing and he would excel at them all.
And now her turn: “I, Margaret, first begotten daughter of the right excellent high and mighty Prince and Princess, Henry by the grace of God King of England and Elizabeth, Queen of the same . . .”
By the grace of God, thought Henry. Skelton said, By the grace of good fortune,
Lady Luck who came to Bosworth Field.
“Good fortune was the grace of God surely,” Henry had argued.
“It is a matter which could be debated,” was the answer.
He was wicked, Skelton was. If the King knew what treason he uttered . . .
But I like him, thought Henry. No matter what he says . . . and he laughs at me sometimes . . . still for some strange reason I would have him near me.
At last . . . it was over. Now the feasting. The Queen was leading her daughter by the hand toward the dinner table. Two queens together. Henry felt a flush of anger. Margaret was a queen. Above a duke in rank, he supposed. It was insufferable.
But at the jousting and the pageants he excelled. He was sure everyone was watching him.
“A triumph, a triumph,” said Skelton later. “The bride conducted herself with grace and charm. And now we have a queen in the nursery we must take heed of our manners.”
“Queen! It is but a proxy marriage.”
“Queen never-the-less. You will see that henceforth she will be named always as the Queen of Scotland.”
“I hope she is soon sent to Scotland. Perhaps she won’t give herself such airs there.”
“Margaret will always be Margaret . . . and Henry Henry,” said Skelton.
“They treated me as the Prince of Wales.”
“As they would, my lord . . . if the Prince himself were absent.”
“Skelton . . . I wonder . . .”
“I have had news from Ludlow. The Prince is happy with his bride. He is breathless still and I believe spits blood, which he tries to hide . . . but it is hard to hide the secrets of the bedchamber from zealous servants’ eyes.”
“Skelton . . . you know something . . .”
“All I know I would tell my lord.” He put his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “The love between the royal pair increases. They are very tender . . . and much in each other’s company.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you put two loving people together . . . if they be man and wife . . . well, what would you . . . nature being what it is?”
“They must not have a child,” said Henry.
“Who says so? Great Harry. And he should be obeyed. But there are times when God turns a deaf ear even to princes. What we must pray for, my dear lord . . . is good fortune . . . and the grace of God.”
Spring was beautiful in England. It seemed particularly so after the dark days of winter; now the air had a balminess in it and the whole of nature seemed to be aware that spring was coming. Arthur showed Katharine wild daffodils when they rode out together and the mingling white of the daisies and gold of the dandelions seemed enchanting to her.
She was watchful of him, always declaring when she saw him begin to weary that she had been too long in the saddle and was tired. He was always solicitous, but he knew that she was thinking of him and he loved her for it.
They touched hands; they kissed; sometimes he would put an arm about her and hold her to him; but their endearments never went beyond that. They were watchful, Arthur remembering his father’s injunction; Katharine, aware of something she did not fully understand but fearing that it would be dangerous for Arthur, kept her emotions in check.
Perhaps it occurred to both of them that it could not last; perhaps that was why they were determined to enjoy those days to the full.
Change hit them suddenly.
One of the attendants came in to say that there was a case of sweating sickness in the town of Ludlow.
There was immediate consternation in the castle. Everyone was awaiting a summons from the King. They were sure that when the news reached him, Arthur would be removed at once.
But no message came. And then it was too late.
It was inevitable that the weakest member of the household should be the victim.
There was despair in the castle. Katharine prayed for the life of her young husband. Surely God could not be so cruel as to take him away now that they were becoming so happy together? The King would send down the finest physicians in the land. Arthur’s life must be saved.
But few survived the dreaded sweating sickness. Arthur most certainly could not.
They brought the news to her. She stared at them unbelievingly. Dead! Arthur. She could not believe it. She would not believe it.
“’Tis true, my lady,” they said. “God knows what the King will do when he hears this doleful news.”
She felt bereft, desolate. A wife and no wife . . . a virgin widow.
If only the marriage had been consummated. If only she could have had Arthur’s child. Then she would have had something to live for.
Now . . . she was alone.
The King was at Greenwich when he heard that Arthur’s Chamberlain had arrived from Ludlow and was urgently requesting to be brought to him.
Henry was seized with trembling for a terrible foreboding had come to him.
“Bring him to me with all speed,” he said, “and as soon as he comes.”
Arthur’s Chamberlain was heavy-hearted as he rode to Greenwich where the Court was in residence. He dreaded telling the King the tragic news and he decided that he would impart it first to the Council and ask their advice as to the best way of breaking it.
The Council was dismayed and after some consultation decided that it would be best for the King’s Confessor to tell him and this was arranged.
When Henry heard the discreet knock on the door he knew that it was his Confessor who stood without and, suspecting nothing, he bade him enter.
The man’s woebegone expression sent quivers of alarm running through the King’s mind and he immediately thought of Arthur.
“You have ill news,” he said.
The Confessor replied: “I have, my lord, and you are going to need all the strength that God can give you.”
“It is my son,” said the King quietly.
“It is, my lord.”
“He is sick?”
The Confessor did not answer.
“Dead!” cried the King. “Dead . . . !”He turned away. He could never bear any man to see his emotion. Why had he loved this boy who had been such a disappointment to him? All his hopes had been in Arthur although he had been frail from birth. It was a mistake to become involved with others. He had always known this and tried to avoid it. Why was Arthur the one person who had made him diverge from the path of wisdom so that he must suffer constant anxiety—as he had since the boy had been born!
Now this was the final blow.
He turned to the Confessor. “Send the Queen to me. I must be the one to break this news to her.”
“My lord, would you wish to kneel first in prayer.”
“I would wish first to see the Queen. I would not want her to hear this news from any but myself.”
The Confessor bowed and retired and returned shortly after with the Queen.
She was alarmed. She knew from Henry’s expression that something terrible had happened. He had lost something dear to him. His crown . . . his . . . son!
“What is it?” she said. “Is it . . . ?”
He nodded. “Arthur,” he said quietly. “He died of the sweating sickness.”
She covered her face with her hands. Henry was so overcome with emotion that he could not speak. She lowered her hands and looked at him and saw the anguish in his face and she knew how deeply he whose feelings were usually so well hidden was suffering and suddenly the need to comfort him was more important to her than anything else.
“Our beloved son,” she said quietly. “His health was always an anxiety. We were always expecting this. Henry . . . we have another son. Thank God for him. We have two fine daughters.”
“That is true,” said Henry. “But Arthur . . .”
“Arthur was our firstborn . . . so gentle always. Such a good boy. But he was never strong in health. In Henry we have one who will step into his shoes. We should be thankful for that.”
“I am,” he said. “We have one son left to us. .
. .”
“Your mother had but one son, and look you, he is King of England, the comfort of his realm, the comfort of his Queen and his children.”
“Elizabeth, you are a good wife to me . . . a good mother to our children.”
“Subdue your grief, my lord. Remember God wills that we go on . . . even after such a bitter blow. We are young yet. Who knows we may have more princes. But we have Henry and he is a fine strong boy.”
The King was silent. “You comfort me,” he said.
And she left him for she could no longer contain her grief and when she reached her own chamber she threw herself onto her bed and gave way to it.
She had loved Arthur as much as Henry had—more tenderly, as a mother does. This was her firstborn. Her beloved child . . . loved, she must admit, beyond the others. Her grief was such that it overwhelmed her and when her women found her they were alarmed for her and sent for her physician.
He went to the King and told him that he must comfort the Queen.
So then it was Henry’s turn and he went to her and talked to her quietly of Arthur—Arthur as a child, Arthur growing up, how delighted they had been with his cleverness, how perpetually anxious for his health.
“Somehow,” he said, “I knew that it would happen . . . and now it has. Dear Elizabeth, we must be brave. We must go on. You were telling me this and now I am telling you. We have our son Henry. We will get more sons, and perhaps in time we shall cease to mourn so bitterly.”
There were three weeks when the Prince of Wales lay in state and then began the funeral procession from Ludlow Castle to the Cathedral at Worcester.
There was one among the mourners who wept with the others, but he could not suppress the fierce joy in his heart.
This was what he had always longed for. To be the firstborn. But that was of no consequence now. Miraculously he was there in the place he had longed for.
No longer Duke of York, but Prince of Wales.
“Henry the King,” he murmured to himself. “Henry the Eighth.”