THERE WAS consternation in the Infanta’s party.
A message had been brought to Ayala stating that the King was on his way to meet his son’s bride, who had stayed that night at the residence of the Bishop of Bath in Dogmersfield and was some fifteen leagues from London Bridge.
Ayala did not pass on the news to Puebla. Indeed he was determined to keep it from the man—not only because he disliked him and never lost an opportunity of insulting him, but because he really did believe that Puebla was more ready to serve Henry VII of England than Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain.
Instead he sought out Elvira Manuel.
“The King is on his way to meet us,” he told her abruptly. “He wishes to see the Infanta.”
“That is quite impossible,” retorted Elvira. “You know the instructions of their Highnesses.”
“I do. The Infanta is not to be seen by her bridegroom or anyone at the English Court until she is a wife. She is to remain veiled until after the ceremony.”
“I am determined,” said Elvira, “to obey the commands of the King and Queen of Spain, no matter what are the wishes of the King of England.”
“I wonder what Henry will say to that.” Ayala smiled somewhat mischievously, for he found the situation piquant and amusing.
“There is one thing that must be done,” said Elvira. “To prevent discord, you should go ahead and explain to the King.”
“I will leave at once,” Ayala told her. “In the meantime you should warn the Infanta.”
Ayala set out on the road to East Hampstead; and Elvira, her lips pursed with determination, prepared herself to do battle.
She went to Katharine and told her that the King would make an attempt to see her, and that on no account must he succeed.
Katharine was disturbed. She was afraid that the King of England might consider her extremely discourteous if she refused to receive him.
* * *
* * *
* * *
WHEN ARTHUR JOINED his father at East Hampstead, Henry noticed that his son looked wan and worried.
No, the King decided, the marriage shall not be consummated for a year. In any case I doubt whether Arthur would be capable of consummating it.
“Put your shoulders back, boy,” he said. “You stoop too much.”
Arthur obediently straightened his shoulders. There was no resentment. How differently young Henry would have behaved! But of course there would have been no necessity to criticize Henry’s deportment.
We should get more sons, thought the King anxiously.
“Well, my son,” he said, “very soon now you will be face to face with your bride.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You must not let her think that you are a child, you know. She is almost a year older than you are.”
“I know it, Father.”
“Very well. Prepare yourself to meet her.”
Arthur asked leave to retire and was glad when he reached his own apartment. He felt sick with anxiety. What should he say to his bride? What must he do with her? His brother Henry had talked slyly of these matters. Henry knew a great deal about them already. Henry ought to have been the elder son.
He would have made a good king, thought Arthur. I should have done better in the Church.
He let himself brood on the peace of monastic life. What relief! To be alone, to read, to meditate, not to have to take a prominent part in ceremonies, not to have to suffer continual reproach because a few hours in the saddle tired him, because he could never learn to joust and play the games at which Henry excelled.
“If only,” he murmured to himself, “I were not the first-born. If only I could miraculously change places with my brother Henry, how happy I could be!”
* * *
* * *
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING the King, with the Prince beside him, set out on the journey to Dogmersfield.
Almost immediately it began to rain, and the King looked uneasily at his son while Arthur squirmed in the saddle. His cough would almost certainly come back if he suffered a wetting, and although the rain was fine it was penetrating.
Arthur always felt that it was his fault that he had not been born strong. He tried to smile and look as though there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a ride in the rain.
When they were within a few miles of the Bishop’s Palace the King saw a rider galloping towards his party, and in a very short time he recognized the Spanish Ambassador Ayala.
Ayala drew up before Henry and sweeping off his hat bowed gracefully.
“News has been brought to me that Your Grace is on the way to see the Infanta.”
“That news is now confirmed,” answered the King. “So impatient was our young bridegroom that, having heard that the Infanta was at Dogmersfield, he could wait no longer. He himself has come hot-foot from Wales. He yearns to see his bride.”
Arthur tried to force his wet face into an expression which would confirm his father’s words as the Spanish Ambassador threw a sly smile in his direction which clearly conveyed his knowledge of the boy’s nervousness.
“Alas,” said Ayala, “Your Grace will be unable to see the bride.”
“I…unable to see the bride!” said the King in a cold, quiet voice.
“The King and Queen of Spain insist that their daughter should observe the customs of a high-born Spanish lady. She will be veiled until after the ceremony, and not even her bridegroom may see her face until then.”
The King was silent. A terrible suspicion had come into his mind; he was the most suspicious of men. Why should he not look on the face of the Infanta? What had the Spanish Sovereigns to hide? Was this some deformed creature they were sending him? “Not until after the ceremony.” The words sounded ominous.
“This seems a strange condition,” said Henry slowly.
“Sire, it is a Spanish custom.”
“I like it not.”
He turned his head slightly and said over his shoulder: “We will form a council, my lords. Here is an urgent matter to discuss. Ambassador, you will excuse us. It will take us but a short time to come to a decision, I imagine.”
Ayala bowed his head and drew his horse to the side of the road while the King waved a hand towards a nearby field.
“Come with us, Arthur,” he said. “You must join our council.”
Henry placed himself and his son in the center of the field and his followers ranged themselves about him. Then he addressed them:
“I like this not. I am denied admittance to my son’s bride although she is in my territory. I would not wish to go against the law in this matter. Therefore, the council must decide what should be done. The Infanta has been married to the Prince by proxy. What we must decide is whether she is now my subject; and, if she is my subject, what law could prevent my seeing her if I wished. I pray you, gentlemen, consider this matter, but make it quick for the rain shows no sign of abating and we shall be wet to the skin by the time we reach Dogmersfield.”
There was whispering among those gathered in the field. Henry watched them covertly. He had as usual conveyed his wishes and he expected his councillors to obey them. If any one of them raised objections to what he wished, that man would doubtless find himself guilty of some offence later on; he would not be sent to prison; he would merely have to pay a handsome fine.
All knew this. Many of them had paid their fines for small offences. The King thought no worse of them, once they had paid. It was their money which placated him.
In a few seconds the council had made its decision.
“In the King’s realm the King is absolute master. He need not consider any foreign law or customs. All the King’s subjects should obey his wishes, and the Infanta, having married the Prince of Wales, albeit by proxy, is the King’s subject.”
Henry’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction which held a faint tinge of regret. He could not, with justice, extract a fine from one of them.
“Your answer is the only one I expected from you,” he said. “
It is not to be thought of that the King should be denied access to any of his subjects.”
He led the way out of the field to where Ayala was waiting for him.
“The decision is made,” he said. Then he turned to Arthur. “You may ride on to Dogmersfield at the head of the cavalcade. I go on ahead.”
He spurred his horse and galloped off; and Ayala, laughing inwardly, closely followed him.
The Sovereigns of Spain would learn that this Henry of England was not a man to take orders, thought the ambassador. He wondered what Doña Elvira was going to say when she was confronted by the King of England.
* * *
* * *
* * *
KATHARINE WAS SITTING with her maids of honor when they heard the commotion in the hall below. It had been too miserable a day for them to leave the Bishop’s Palace and it had been decided that they should remain there until the rain stopped.
Elvira burst on them, and never had Katharine seen her so agitated.
“The King is below,” she said. Katharine stood up in alarm.
“He insists on seeing you. He declares he will see you. I cannot imagine what their Highnesses will say when this reaches their ears.”
“But does not the King of England know of my parents’ wishes?”
“It would seem there is only one whose wishes are considered in this place and that is the King of England.”
“What is happening below?”
“The Count of Cabra is telling the King that you are not to be seen until after the wedding, and the King is saying that he will not wait.”
“There is only one thing to be done,” said Katharine quietly. “This is England and when we are in the King’s country we must obey the King. Let there be no more protests. We must forget our own customs and learn theirs. Go and tell them that I am ready to receive the King.”
Elvira stared at her in astonishment; in that moment Katharine looked very like her mother, and it was as impossible for even Elvira to disobey her as it would have been to disobey Isabella of Castile.
* * *
* * *
* * *
SHE STOOD FACING the light, her veil thrown back.
She saw her father-in-law, a man a little above medium height, so thin that his somewhat sombre garments hung loosely on him; his sparse fair hair, which fell almost to his shoulders, was lank and wet; his long gown which covered his doublet was trimmed with ermine about the neck and wide sleeves. There was mud on his clothes and even on his face. He had clearly travelled far on horseback in this inclement weather and had not thought it necessary to remove the stains of travel before confronting her.
Katharine smiled and the alert, crafty eyes studied her intently, looking for some defect, some deformity which would make her parents desirous of hiding her from him; he could see none.
Henry could not speak Spanish and he had no Latin. Katharine had learned a little French from her brother Juan’s wife, Margaret of Austria, but Margaret’s stay in Spain had been short and, when she had gone, there had been no one with whom Katharine could converse in that language. Henry spoke in English: “Welcome to England, my lady Infanta. My son and I have eagerly awaited your coming these many months. If we have rudely thrust aside the customs of your country we ask pardon. You must understand that it was our great desire to welcome you that made us do so.”
Katharine attempted to reply in French but slipped into Spanish. She curtseyed before the King while his little eyes took in the details of her figure. She was healthy, this Spanish Infanta, more so than his frail Arthur. She was a good deal taller than Arthur; her eyes were clear; so was her skin. Her body was sturdy, and if not voluptuous it was strong. She was no beauty, but she was healthy and she was young; it was merely custom which had made her parents wish to hide her from him. Her only real claim to beauty was that abundant hair—thick, healthy hair with a touch of red in its color.
Henry was well satisfied.
She was talking to him now in her own tongue, and, although he could not understand her, he knew that she was replying to his welcome with grace and charm.
He took her hand and led her to the window.
Then he signed to Ayala who had at that moment entered the apartment.
“Tell the Infanta,” said Henry, “that I am a happy man this day.”
Ayala translated, and Katharine replied that the King’s kindness made her very happy too.
“Tell her,” said the King, “that in a few minutes her bridegroom will be riding to the palace at the head of a cavalcade. They cannot be much more than half an hour after me.”
Ayala told Katharine this; and she smiled.
She was standing between the King and Ayala, they in their wet garments, when she first saw her bridegroom.
He looked very small, riding at the head of that cavalcade, and her first feeling for him was: He is so young—he is younger than I am. He looks frightened. He is more frightened than I am.
And in that moment she felt less resentful of her fate.
She determined that she and Arthur were going to be happy together.
* * *
* * *
* * *
IT WAS LATER that evening. Katharine looked almost pretty in candlelight; her cheeks were faintly flushed; her gray eyes alight with excitement. Her maids of honor, all chosen for their beauty, were very lovely indeed. Only Doña Elvira Manuel sat aloof, displeased. She could not forget that the wishes of her Sovereigns had been ignored.
The Infanta had invited the King and the Prince to supper in her apartments in the Bishop’s Palace; and in the gallery the minstrels were playing. The supper had been a prolonged meal; Katharine was continually being astonished at the amount that was eaten in England. At tonight’s feast there had been sucking pigs and capons, peacocks, chickens, mutton and beef, savory pies, deer, fish and wild fowl, all washed down with malmsey, romney and muscadell.
The English smacked their lips and showed their appreciation of the food; even the King’s eyes glistened with pleasure and only those who knew him well guessed that he was calculating how much the feast had cost, and that if the Bishop could afford such lavish entertainment he might be expected to contribute with equal bounty to the ever hungry exchequer.
The Prince sat beside Katharine. He was an elegant boy, for he was fastidious in his ways and his lawn shirt was spotlessly clean as was the fine silk at collar and wristbands; his long gown was trimmed with fur as was his father’s, and his fair hair hung about his face, shining like gold from its recent rainwash.
His skin was milk-white but there was a delicate rose-flush in his cheeks and his blue eyes seemed to have sunk too far into their sockets; but his smile was very sweet and a little shy, and Katharine warmed to him. He was not in the least like his father, nor like her own father. Her mother had once told her of her first meeting with her father and how she had thought him the handsomest man in the world. Katharine would never think that of Arthur; but then before she had seen him Isabella of Castile had determined to marry Ferdinand of Aragon, and she had gone to great pains to avoid all the marriages which others had attempted to thrust upon her.
All marriages could not be like that of Isabella and Ferdinand, and even that marriage had had its dangerous moments. Katharine remembered the conflict for power between those two. She knew that she had brothers and sisters who were her father’s children but not her mother’s.
As she looked at gentle Arthur she was sure that their marriage would be quite different from that of her parents.
Arthur spoke to her in Latin because he had no Spanish and she had no English.
That would soon be remedied, he told her. She should teach him her language; he would teach her his. He thanked her for the letters she had written him and she thanked him for his.
They had been formal little notes, those letters in Latin, written at the instigation of their parents, giving no hint of the reluctance both felt towards their marriage; and now that they had seen each o
ther they felt comforted.
“I long to meet your brother and sisters,” she told him.
“You shall do so ere long.”
“You must be happy to have them with you. All mine have gone away now. Every one of them.”
“I am sorry for the sadness you have suffered.”
She bowed her head.
He went on: “You will grow fond of them. Margaret is full of good sense. She will help you to understand our ways. Mary is little more than a baby—a little pampered, I fear, but charming withal. As for Henry, when you see him you will wish that he had been born my father’s elder son.”
“But why should I wish that?”
“Because you will see how far he excels me in all things and, had he been my father’s elder son, he would have been your husband.”
“He is but a boy, I believe.”
“He is ten years old, but already as tall as I. He is full of vitality and the people’s cheers are all for him. I believe that everyone wishes that he had been my father’s elder son. Whereas now he will doubtless be Archbishop of Canterbury and I shall wear the crown.”
“Would you have preferred to be Archbishop of Canterbury?”
Arthur smiled at her. He felt it would have sounded churlish to have admitted this, for that would mean that he could not marry her. He said rather shyly: “I did wish so; now I believe I have changed my mind.”
Katharine smiled. It was all so much easier than she had believed possible.
Elvira had approached her and was whispering: “The King would like to see some of our Spanish dances. He would like to see you dance. You must do so only with one of your maids of honor.”
“I should enjoy that,” cried Katharine.
She rose and selected two maids of honor. They would show the English, she said, one of the stateliest of the Spanish dances; and she signed to the minstrels to play.
Katharine, the Virgin Widow Page 4