by Jean Plaidy
Any mention of her mother unnerved Katharine. Merely to say or hear her name brought back so clearly an image of that dear presence that she could feel nothing but her bitter loss.
Doña Elvira saw the tears in Katharine's eyes; she seized her opportunity: “Come, Highness, let me take you back to your apartments. You should lie down. You have not recovered from the terrible shock of her death. Who of us have? Do not distress yourself about the love affairs of a lighthearted maid of honor. Trust me…as she always wished you to.”
Katharine allowed herself to be led to her apartments, and there she lay on her bed continuing to think of her mother.
But when her grief abated a little she thought with increasing distrust of Doña Elvira, and although there was nothing she could do now to bring Maria's love back to her she determined from that moment that in future she was going to take a firmer hand in the management of her own household.
IÑIGO SCRATCHED at the door. Maria heard him but she took no notice.
“Maria,” he whispered.
“Go away,” she answered.
“I will when I have spoken to you.”
“I do not wish to see you.”
“But you can hear me as I speak to you through the keyhole.”
She did not answer.
“I know you can,” he went on.
“I have come to say that I am sorry.”
Still she was silent.
“My mother is determined that we shall marry. She always has been. It is no use fighting against my mother, Maria. Maria, do you hate me so much?”
“Go away,” she repeated.
“I shall always be kind to you. I will make you love me. Then you will forget what my mother has done.”
“I shall never forget what she has done.”
“Do you wish to remain locked up here?”
“I do not care what becomes of me.”
“You do, Maria. When you marry me I will take you back to Spain. Just answer one question: Do you want to go back to Spain, Maria?”
“To Spain!” the words escaped her. She thought of her home, of being young again. If she were ever going to forget her faithless lover she might do so at home.
“Ah,” he said, “you cannot deceive me. It is what you long for. If you marry me, Maria, I will take you home as soon as it can be arranged.”
She was silent.
“Can you hear me, Maria? I want to please you. I will do anything you ask.”
“Go away. That is what I ask. That is the way to please me.”
He went away, but he returned a little later. He came again and again; and after a few days she began to look for his coming.
He was always gentle, always eager to please her.
She found that she was able to laugh as she said: “You are not overmuch like your mother, Don Iñigo Manrique.”
He laughed with her; and from that moment their relationship changed.
It was a few days later when she rejoined the maids of honor.
She was subdued and sullen.
“I have agreed to become betrothed to Don Iñigo Manrique,” she told them.
The Protest of the Prince of Wales
THE PRINCE OF WALES WAS APPROACHING HIS FOURTEENTH birthday, and he was determined that it should be celebrated with all the pomp due to his rank.
He would have masques and pageants such as had never been seen during his father's reign. Fourteen was an age when one left childhood behind and became a man.
He was already taller than most men and had the strength of two. People often said that he was going to be a golden giant. He liked to hear that.
He refused to do lessons and commanded John Skelton to plan a masque.
“The kind I like best,” declared the Prince, “are those in which masked men appear at the joust and beg leave to be able to take part. One of them, taller than the rest and clearly noble, in spite of his disguise, challenges the champion.”
“And beats him,” whispered Skelton.
“Yes, and beats him; and then there is a cry of ‘This is a god, for no man on Earth could beat the champion.’ Then the ladies come forward and there is a dance.…”
“And the masked hero will allow only the most beautiful lady to remove his mask,” added Skelton.
“That is so, and when the mask is removed…”
“The god is revealed to be His Grace the Prince of Wales!” cried Skelton. “Fanfares.”
“Why, but that is exactly what I had planned,” cried Henry in surprise.
“Does it not show that our minds are in unison, Your Grace?”
“It would seem so.”
“But then we have had these pageants before, and methinks the unmasked hero has already made his debut. But, there is no reason I can see why he should not appear again…and again and again.”
Henry was never quite sure whether or not Skelton was laughing at him, but because he admired the man and believed he had much to learn from him, he preferred to think he was not, and invariably laughed with him.
“Fourteen,” he mused. “In another year I shall be betrothed.”
“A year will pass like a day, in the full life of Your Royal Highness.”
“It is indeed so, my good John. And have you heard that I am now to marry Marguerite d'Angoulême? They say she is very beautiful.”
“All high-born ladies are said to be beautiful,” answered John.
“It is not true, though their jewels and clothes often make them seem so.”
“I did not speak of what they are but what they are said to be.”
The Prince was thoughtful. Then he said: “They say that Marguerite adores her brother Francis. They say he is handsome and excels at all sports; that there is none like him in the whole of France and, if ever he comes to the throne, he will make a great King.”
“So there are two such paragons—one in England, one in France.”
The Prince drew himself up to his full height. “I believe him not to be as tall as I, and he is dark.”
“A minor paragon,” murmured Skelton.
“And,” went on the Prince, “there is no doubt that I shall one day be King. But Francis will only ascend the throne if old Louis dies childless. He must be beside himself with terror.”
“Why, my Prince, it is not easy for old men to beget children.”
“But for his future to hang on such a thread! His mother and sister call him Caesar. I hope Marguerite is soon brought to England.”
“Your Grace will have much to teach her, and not least of the lessons she will learn will be that there is a Prince more handsome, more excellent, more godlike than her brother.”
The Prince did not answer. His eyes were narrowed in the characteristic way; his small mouth was set. What a King he will make! thought Skelton. His ministers will have to learn to pander to his wishes, or it will go hard with them. Our golden god will be a despot, and heads will doubtless fly like tennis balls.
Henry was thinking of Marguerite. Surely she must come soon. He was going to insist on marrying this girl. Many had been offered to him, and then the offers had been withdrawn. He wanted Marguerite. She was beautiful, he had heard, and it was all very well for Skelton to say that all high-born ladies were beautiful; he did not believe it. Look at Katharine of Aragon in her faded gown, and her face pale and stricken with mourning. He rejoiced that it was Marguerite who had been chosen for him and not Katharine.
While he sat with Skelton a messenger from the King arrived and told the Prince that his father wished to see him without delay.
Skelton watched the Prince as he immediately obeyed the summons. There is one person alone who can deflate our great Prince, mused Skelton—his Royal Father. When he is no longer there, what an inflated King we shall have.
As soon as Henry came into his father's presence the King waved his hand to those attendants who were with him, indicating that he wished to be alone with his son.
He looked at Henry sternly. The boy's glowing heal
th could not but give him the utmost satisfaction, yet he was afraid that young Henry had extravagant tastes. He must have a serious talk with him in the very near future; he must make him realize how carefully his father had built up a firm exchequer. It would be terrible if the wealth of the country and the Tudors were frittered away in useless pageants.
But he had not summoned the boy to talk of extravagance. That could wait. There was a matter which he considered more urgent.
“My son,” said the King, “one day you will be married, and that day is not far distant.”
“I hear, Sire, that a new bride is being suggested now. I like what I hear of Marguerite.”
“Yes, Marguerite,” said his father. “Do you remember that when you were thirteen you were betrothed to another in the house of the Bishop of Salisbury?”
“I remember it well—a hot day. The people cheered me as I came into Fleet Street!”
“Yes.” Henry's tone was curt. “We know full well that the people cheer you wherever you go. Katharine of Aragon is not the match today that she was at that time. Circumstances change. Now that her mother is dead, her father's position is not what it was. I do not trust her father. I feel sure that were a marriage to take place there would still be difficulty about getting the remainder of the dowry. In other words, I do not favor the marriage with Katharine.”
“No, Sire. I…”
The King lifted his hand. “We will not discuss your wishes because they are at this time of no moment.”
The blood flamed into young Henry's face. A protest rose to his lips; then he remembered that this was his father; this was the King. One did not argue with Kings. He tried to suppress his anger. His mouth was tight and his eyes a blazing blue.
“According to what was arranged in the Bishop of Salisbury's house a year ago, when you are fifteen you would marry Katharine. That is in a year's time. I now desire you to make a formal protest. You are to meet Archbishop Warham here in the Palace. He is waiting now. You will solemnly protest that you have no wish for this marriage with Katharine of Aragon.”
“But …” began Henry.
“You will do as you are told, my son. The Archbishop is waiting to see you now.”
All the egoism in the Prince's nature was rising in protest—not against marriage with Katharine but against his father's management of what he considered to be his personal affair. Young Henry knew that royal marriages were usually arranged, but he was no ordinary Prince. He was old enough to have a say in his own affairs.
If he, of his own free will, decided against marrying Katharine, all well and good. But to be told to make such a protest offended his amour propre, which was extremely sensitive.
His father said testily: “This is what you will say: ‘The betrothal was contracted in my minority. I myself was not consulted in the matter. I shall not ratify it when the time comes, and it is therefore null and void.’”
“I should like time to consider this matter,” said Henry boldly.
“That is enough,” his father retorted; “you do as you are told. Come… say those words after me.”
For a few seconds Henry's blazing eyes looked into his father's. But he knew he must obey. He was only a boy not yet fourteen, and this man, whose face was lined with suffering, was the King. He murmured the words he had been told to repeat.
“Again,” said his father.
It was humiliating. Why should I? he asked of himself. Then a cunning thought came into his mind. It would not always be as it was now. One day he would be King, and the man who was now commanding him would be nothing but a moldering corpse. What did words matter? When young Prince Henry was King Henry, then he would have his way and, if he wished to marry Katharine of Aragon, there would be none to deny him his wish.
He repeated the words sullenly.
“Come,” said the King. “I dare swear Warham has arrived already.”
So, in the ground floor apartment in Richmond Palace, young Henry repeated the words which were his formal protest against a marriage with Katharine of Aragon.
Words, thought Henry as he went back to his own apartments. He would never allow a few words to stand between himself and what he wanted.
After that he thought of Katharine of Aragon more frequently. He remembered her as she had been when he had led her to the Palace after her wedding ceremony.
His father had made up his mind that he should never have Katharine, yet his father himself had wanted to marry her. Katharine was now out of reach. She represented a challenge. She had suddenly become quite attractive—more so than Marguerite, who was so enamored of her own brother that she thought him the handsomest boy in the world.
The Treachery of Elvira
DOÑA ELVIRA WAS IN VERY SECRET CONFERENCE WITH HER husband, Don Pedro Manrique. She spoke quickly and quietly, for she was very eager that what she was saying should reach no other ears but those of her husband.
“Juan is certain of it,” she was saying. “If this meeting can be arranged, it will teach Ferdinand the lesson he needs.”
Don Pedro was alarmed. It was true that his wife was a woman who always had her way; but the domestic politics of the Infanta's household were a very different matter from those of Europe. She had become more confident than ever, since she had successfully arranged the betrothal of Iñigo and Maria de Rojas. But Don Pedro wished she would leave intrigue to her brother.
Elvira's great aim was to bring power to the Manrique and Manuel families. Therefore she was going to stand firmly behind her brother, Don Juan Manuel, who at the Court of Brussels represented the Castilian faction, the aim of which was to oust Ferdinand from power and support Philip.
“He is asking your help in this matter?” asked Don Pedro.
Elvira nodded proudly. “Why not? I hold an important position here in England. There is a great deal I could do.”
“What do you propose? Are you going to consult Puebla?”
“That little fool! Indeed I am not. This is a matter which I shall trust to no one.”
“But how do you propose to bring about a meeting between Henry and Philip? And what would Ferdinand's reaction be if this were done?”
“I do not think we should concern ourselves with Ferdinand's reactions. Ferdinand is growing old. He is like a lion whose teeth have been drawn. He understands now that he owed much to Isabella. He is going to realize that it was more than he suspects, even now. Ferdinand's days as a power in Europe are numbered. Once I have arranged this meeting…”
“Elvira, have a care.”
“Oh you are a fool, Pedro. You are too timid. If it had been left to you, Iñigo would still be looking for a bride.”
“All I ask is that you should go warily.”
“Can you not trust me to do that?”
“You are clever, Elvira; you are shrewd. But this is dangerous politics. Tell me what you propose to do.”
She looked at him with a scornful smile, made as though to speak and then paused. “No,” she said, “I think I will tell you afterwards. You are too timid, my dear Pedro. But have no fear. I know exactly how to handle this matter.”
KATHARINE'S MAIDS of honor were helping her to dress when Elvira came to them.
“Is that the best gown you can find for Her Highness?” she demanded, staring at the stiff brocade skirt which had been mended in several places.
“It is the least shabby of Her Highness's gowns,” said Inez de Veñegas.
Elvira clicked her tongue and murmured as though to herself: “A pretty pass…a pretty pass…”
She watched while the maids dressed Katharine's hair, then she waved her hands in a gesture they knew well, shooing them away as though they were chicken.
When they had gone Elvira said: “It distresses me, Highness. I often wonder what your mother would have said if she could see what has befallen you in England.”
“She knew how I was placed, even before she died, yet there was nothing she could do. Had it been possible she would have done it.”
“An Infanta of Spain to be so shabby! I feel it should not be allowed to continue.”
“It has gone on so long that one grows accustomed to it.”
“There is a new Queen of Spain now. I wonder what she would say if she could see her sister.”
“Ah…Juana!” murmured Katharine, and thought of that wild sister who laughed and cried too easily. “It is strange to think of her as Queen in our mother's place.”
“How would you like to see her again?”
Katharine did not speak. To see Juana! It would be the next best thing to seeing her mother.
“I do not see,” whispered Elvira, watching her closely, “why it should not be arranged.”
Katharine turned to her swiftly. “But how?”
“Suppose you wrote to her, telling her of your desire to see her. Do not forget, she is the Queen now. Suppose you told her of your homesickness, your longing to see a member of your family; I feel sure she would be as eager to see you as you are to see her.”
“You mean that I should leave England…?”
“Why not? They could come to the coast to meet you. The King might accompany you; it would be an opportunity for him to meet the new Queen and her husband.”
“Doña Elvira, do you really think…?”
How young she is, thought Elvira. How innocent. How easily she is deluded!
Elvira turned away as though to hide an emotion of which she was ashamed because it showed a weakness.
“I think it is worth trying. Why should you not write a note to your sister, suggesting such a meeting. What harm could that do?”
“I can see no harm in it. I should so rejoice to hear from Juana.”
“Then write the note and we will send it by special courier to Brussels. He shall wait there and bring back your sister's answer to you.”
Katharine rose and went to her table. Her fingers were trembling with excitement as she took up her pen.