Katharine of Aragon

by Jean Plaidy

  His arm about her they went into the great hall where the feast was waiting.

  He ate while he talked—mainly of those great victories, Thérouanne and Tournai—and from his talk it would appear that he and he alone had captured them. Maximilian had been there, yes… but in a minor role. Had he not placed himself under Henry's banner; had he not received pay for his services?

  “And you looked after our kingdom well in our absence, Kate. You and Surrey together with the help of all those good men and true I left behind me. So Jemmy the Scot is no more. I wonder how Margaret likes being without a husband. 'Tis a sad thing, Kate, to be without a husband. You missed me?”

  “Very much, Henry.”

  “And we lost the child. A boy too. Alas, my Kate. But you lost him in a good cause. I have heard how you worked for England… when you should have been resting….” His eyes were slightly glazed; he was remembering past experiences in Flanders. That sly court Madam, lady to the Duchess; that kitchen girl. By God, he thought, I have profited more than my Kate realizes by my Flanders campaign.

  “Well, Kate, it grieves me. But we are young yet.…”

  She thought: He has learned soldiers' ways in Flanders.

  His eyes were warm, his hands straying to her thigh. But she was not unhappy. She had been afraid that he would blame her for the loss of the child as he had on other occasions.

  He was drinking freely; he had eaten well.

  “Come,” he said, “‘twas a long ride to Richmond. 'Tis bed for us, Kate.”

  His eyes were warm; so that all knew that it was not to rest he was taking her.

  She did not object; she was filled with optimism.

  There would be another time, and then it should not fail.

  THE COURT was gay that Christmas. There was so much to celebrate. Henry was looking forward to the next year's campaign. His sister Margaret was looking after his interests in Scotland; and at the Palace of Richmond masques, balls and banquets were arranged for Henry's delight.

  One day Lord Mountjoy, when talking to the Queen, mentioned a relative of his whose family were eager that she should have a place at Court.

  William Blount, Lord Mountjoy, was one of Katharine's greatest friends. He was her chamberlain and one of the few seriously inclined men of the Court; Katharine had a great regard for him and had tried to influence the King in favor of this man. Mountjoy's friends were the learned men on the fringe of the Court—men such as Colet, Linacre, Thomas More.

  So far the King had shown little interest in the more serious-minded of his subjects. His greatest friends were those men who danced well or excelled at the joust, men such as William Compton, Francis Bryan, Nicholas Carew, Charles Brandon.

  But it sometimes seemed to Katharine that Henry grew up under her eyes. He had remained a boy rather long, but she was convinced that eventually the man would emerge and then he would take an interest in the scholars of his Court.

  “I'm thinking of this relative of mine,” Mountjoy was saying. “She is fifteen or sixteen…a comely child, and her parents would like to see her enjoy a place in Your Grace's household.”

  “You must bring her to me,” said Katharine. “I doubt not we shall find room for her here.”

  So the next day Mountjoy brought little Bessie Blount with him to the Queen's presence.

  The girl curtseyed, and blushed at Katharine's scrutiny, keeping her eyes modestly downcast. A pretty creature, thought Katharine, and one who, if she could dance, would fit well into the Christmas masque.

  “Have you learned the Court dances?” asked Katharine.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And you wish to serve in my household. Well, I think that can be managed.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Can you play a musical instrument or sing?”

  “I play the lute, Your Grace, and sing a little.”

  “Then pray let me hear you.”

  Bessie Blount took the instrument which one of Katharine's women offered her and, seating herself on a stool, began to pick out notes on the lute and sing as she did so.

  The song she sang was the King's own song:

  “Pastance with good company

  “I love, and shall until I die.

  “Grudge who will, but none deny;

  “So God be pleased, this life will I

  “For my pastance

  “Hunt, sing and dance.”

  And as she sat there singing, her reddish gold hair falling childishly about her shoulders, the door was burst open and the King came in.

  He heard the words of the song and the music; he saw the child who sang them; and the words he was about to utter died on his lips. He stood very still, and those who were with him, realizing the command for silence in his attitude, stood very still behind him.

  When the song came to an end, the King strode forward.

  “Bravo!” he shouted. “‘Twas well done. And who is our performer?”

  Bessie had risen to her feet and the flush in her cheeks matched her hair.

  She sank to her knees, her eyes downcast, her long golden lashes, a shade or two darker than her hair, shielding her large violet-colored eyes.

  “Ha!” cried Henry. “You should not feel shame, my child. 'Twas worthy of praise.” He turned to the company. “Was it not?”

  There was a chorus of assent from those who stood with the King, and Katharine said: “This is little Bessie Blount, Your Grace, Mountjoy's relation. She is to have a place in my household.”

  “I am right glad to hear it,” said Henry. “As she sings like that she will be an asset to your court, Kate.”

  “I thought so.”

  Henry went to the girl and took her chin in his hands. She lifted her awestruck eyes to his face.

  “There is one thing we must ask of you, Mistress Bessie, if you belong to our Court. Do you know what it is?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Then we'll tell you, Bessie. 'Tis not to be afraid of us. We like our subjects who play our music and sing it well, as you do. You've nothing to fear from us, Bessie. Remember it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He gave her a little push and turned to the Queen.

  Mountjoy signed to the trembling girl that she should disappear. She went out quickly and with relief, while Henry began to talk to the Queen about some item of the pageantry. But he was not really thinking of that; he could not dismiss the picture of that pretty child sitting on the stool, so sweetly singing his own music.

  NEVER HAD THE KING seemed so full of vigor as he did that Christmas. That year the pageants were of the gayest, the banquets more lavish than ever before. Katharine hid her weariness of the continual round of pleasure which lasted far into the night, for it seemed that the King never tired. He would hunt through the day, or perhaps joust in the tiltyard, a splendid figure in his glittering armor inlaid with gold which seemed not to hamper him at all. His laughter would ring out at the splintering of lances as one by one his opponents fell before him.

  Often he tilted in what was meant to be a disguise. He would be a strange knight from Germany, from Flanders, from Savoy; even from Turkey. The massive form would enter the tiltyard in a hushed silence, would challenge the champion, and, when he had beaten him would lift his visor; then the people would go wild with joy to recognize the well-known features, the crown of golden hair.

  Katharine never failed to display a surprise which she was far from feeling. He would come to her, kiss her hand and tell her that his exploits were all in her honor. At which she would kiss him in return, thank him for the pastance, and then chide him a little for risking his life and causing her anxiety.

  Henry enjoyed every moment. There was nothing he desired more than to be the popular, dazzling, godlike King of England.

  It seemed, thought Katharine, that he had become a boy again. But there was a difference.

  On occasions he would sit pensively staring before him; the music he played on his lute was
plaintive. He was kinder, more gentle than he had ever been to Katharine and seemed to take great pains to please her.

  Henry was changing subtly because he was falling in love.

  She was a slip of a girl of sixteen with hair of that red gold color not unlike his own; but shy and innocent as she was, she could not remain long in ignorance of his interest and its significance. In the dances which were arranged for the Queen's pleasure she would often find herself as his partner; their hands would touch and a slow smile would illumine the royal features. Bessie smiled shyly, blushing; and the sight of her, so young, so different from the brazen members of his Court, increased the King's ardor.

  He watched her at the banqueting table, at the masques, in the Queen's apartments, but he rarely spoke to her.

  He was surprised at his feelings. Previously he had believed that, if he desired, it was for him to beckon and the girl to come willingly. It was different with Bessie. She was so young, so innocent; and she aroused such tender feeling within him.

  He even began to question himself. Should I? It would be so easy… like plucking a tender blossom. Yet she was ready for the plucking. But she was fragile and strangely enough he would not be happy if he hurt her.

  Perhaps he should make a good match for her and send her away from Court. It was astonishing that he, who desired her so ardently, should think of such a thing; but it was his conscience which suggested this to him, and it was significant that it should never have worried him so insistently as it did over this matter of Elizabeth Blount.

  During the masque they danced together.

  He was dressed in white brocade of the Turkish fashion and he wore a mask over his face, but his stature always betrayed him, and everyone in the ballroom paid great deference to the unknown Turkish nobleman.

  The Queen was seated on a dais with some of her women about her, splendidly clad in cloth of silver with many colored jewels glittering about her person. She was easily tired, although she did not admit this: so many miscarriages were beginning to take their toll of her health. Often after supper she would make an excuse to retire and in her apartments her women would undress her quickly so that she might sink into an exhausted sleep. She was aware that meanwhile Henry capered and danced in the ballroom. It was different for him. He had not suffered as she had from their attempts to get children; she was nearly thirty; he was in his early twenties, and she was beginning to be uncomfortably aware of the difference in their ages.

  Now she watched him leaping, cavorting among the dancers. Did he never tire? He must always remind them of his superiority. She imagined the scene at the unmasking; the cries of surprise when it was seen who the Turkish nobleman really was—as if everyone in the ballroom was not aware of this. She herself would have to feign the greatest surprise of all, for he would surely come to her and tell her that it was all in her honor.

  How much more acceptable would a little peace be to me, she thought.

  Henry wound his way among the dancers because he knew that she was there and he must find her. No mask could hide her from him. She was as delicate as a flower and his heart beat fast to think of her.

  He found and drew her towards an embrasure. Here they could feel themselves cut off from the dancers; here Katharine could not see them from her dais.

  “Mistress Bessie,” he began.

  She started to tremble.

  His big hand rested on her shoulder then strayed down her back.

  “Your Grace …” she murmured.

  “So you have seen through the mask, Bessie.”

  “Anyone must know Your Grace.”

  “You have penetrating eyes. Can it be because you have such regard for your King that you know him, however he tries to hide himself?”

  “All must know Your Grace. There is none like you.”

  “Ah…Bessie.”

  He seized her hungrily and held her against him for a few seconds.

  He put his face close to her ear and she felt his hot breath on her neck. “You know of my feelings for you, Bessie. Tell me, what are yours for me?”

  “Oh…Sire!” There was no need for more; that was enough.

  His pulse was racing; his desire shone in the intense blue visible through the slits of the mask. He had abandoned all thought of restraint. Only this evening he had been thinking of a good match for her. A good match there should be, but this was for afterwards.

  “I have sought to restrain my ardor,” he said, “but it is too strong for me, Bessie.”

  She waited for him to go on, her lips slightly parted so that she appeared breathless; and watching her, his desire was an agony which demanded immediate satisfaction.

  But they were here in the ballroom, barely hidden from the rest of the company.

  Tonight? he thought. But how could he leave the ball? Oh, the restraint set upon a King! All his actions watched and commented upon; too many people were too interested in what he did.

  There must be no scandal, for Bessie's sake as well as his own.

  He made a quick decision. For the sake of propriety his desire must wait… for tonight.

  “Listen, Bessie,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall hunt, and you must join the hunt. You will stay close beside me and we will give them the slip. You understand?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  He let his hand caress her body for a few seconds, but the emotions this aroused startled him, so he gave her a little push and murmured: “Back to the dance, girl.” And she left him to stand there in the embrasure, trying to quell the rising excitement, trying to steel himself to patience.

  HE RODE WITH COMPTON and Francis Bryan beside him, the rest falling in behind. He had caught a glimpse of her among the party. She rode well, which was pleasing.

  He said to Compton: “We must not forget this day that we have ladies with us. The hunt must not be too fierce.”

  “Nay,” answered Compton, “since Your Grace is so considerate of the ladies, so must we all be.”

  It was impossible to keep secrets from Compton. He was one of those wise men who seemed to read the King's secrets before Henry had fully made up his mind to share them. Bryan was such another. His friends had often hinted that the King should live less virtuously. “For,” Compton had said, “if Your Grace sinned a little the rest of us would feel happier about our own sins.”

  He could rely on their help and, as they already guessed his feelings towards Bessie and were waiting for the culmination of that little affair, Henry decided that he would use their help.

  “When I give the sign,” he said, “I wish you to turn aside from the rest of the party with me… keep about me to cover my retreat.”

  Compton nodded.

  “And see that Mistress Blount is of our party.”

  Compton winked at Bryan knowing Henry could not see the signal. There was scarcely a man in the party who would not understand. But Henry always believed that those about him only saw that which he wished them to see.

  “Your Grace,” said Compton, “I know of an arbor in the woods which makes an excellent shelter.”

  “He has dallied there himself,” put in Bryan.

  “Well, Sire, it is an inviting arbor. It calls out to be of use.”

  “I would like to see this arbor and perhaps show it to Mistress Blount.”

  “Your humble servants will stand guard at a goodly distance,” said Compton. “Near enough though to prevent any from disturbing Your Grace and the lady.”

  Henry nodded. Alas, he thought, that love must be indulged in thus shamefully. If I were but a shepherd, he thought, and she a village maid!

  The thought was entrancing. To be a shepherd for an hour's dalliance one afternoon! And such was his nature—he who was more jealous of his rank and dignity than any man—that when he sighed to be a shepherd he really believed that it was his desire.

  He saw her—his village maiden—among the women. Gracefully she sat her horse; and her eyes were expectant. It is a great honor I do her, Henry assured himself.
And I'll make a goodly match for her. It shall be a complaisant husband who will be happy to do this service for his King.

  It was easily arranged under the skilful guidance of Compton and Bryan; and even the sun shone its wintry light on the arbor; and the lovers did not feel the chill in the air. They were warmed by the hunt—not only of the deer but for the quenching of their desire.

  Henry took her roughly into his arms; kissed her fiercely; then expertly—for he had learned of these matters in Flanders—he took her virginity. She wept a little, in fear and joy. She was overcome with the wonder that this great King should look her way. Her modesty enchanted him; he knew too that he would teach her passion and was amazed by the new tenderness she discovered in his nature.

  He wanted to dally in the arbor; but, he said, even a King cannot always do as he wishes.

  He kissed his Bessie. He would find means of coming to her apartments that night, he promised. It would not be easy, but it must be done. He would love her forever; he would cherish her. She had nothing to fear, for her destiny was the King's concern and she would find him her great provider.

  “Nothing to fear, my Bessie,” he said running his lips along the lobe of her ear. “I am here…I your King…to love you forevermore.”

  DURING THE WEEKS that followed Henry was a blissful boy. There were many meetings in the arbor; and scarcely anyone at Court did not know of the King's love affair with Elizabeth Blount, except Katharine. Everyone contrived to keep the matter from her, for as Maria de Salinas, now Lady Willoughby, said on her visits to Court, it would only distress the Queen, and what could she do about it?

  So Katharine enjoyed the company of a gentler Henry during those weeks; and she told herself that his thoughtfulness towards her meant that he was growing up; he had come back from Flanders no longer the careless boy; he had learned consideration.

  He was a gentler lover; and he frequently said: “Why, Kate, you're looking tired. Rest well tonight. I shall not disturb you.”

  He even seemed to have forgotten that desperate need to get a child. She was glad of the rest. The last miscarriage together with all the efforts she had put into the Scottish conflict had exhausted her more than anything that had gone before.