The Shadow of the Pomegranate

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Listen,’ commanded Henry, ‘I would have the Queen know our pleasure. There is to be a pageant . . .’

  They listened, all eager to join in the fun. The new King was a complete contrast to his father, and in this new reign to be young, gay, witty, to excel at the jousts, could lead the way to fortune. There was not a courtier, as there was not a man or woman in the street, who did not rejoice in the accession of Henry VIII.

  They were joined by the King’s sister, the young Princess Mary, said by many to be the loveliest girl at Court. Henry’s eyes glistened with affection as they rested on her. She was now fifteen, full of life as became a Tudor, inclined to take liberties with her brother which no one else would dare; and he seemed to like it.

  ‘Well, sister,’ he said, ‘are you ready to join in our fun?’

  Mary swept a deep curtsey and smiled at her brother. ‘Always ready to be at Your Grace’s side.’

  ‘Come here to me,’ said Henry.

  She came and he slipped his arm through hers. She was a beauty, this little sister. Tudor, all Tudor. By God what a handsome race we are! thought Henry; then he remembered his father’s somewhat sere, sour face, and laughed.

  ‘It will be necessary for you to show a little decorum, my child,’ said Henry.

  ‘Yes, Your Grace. I live but to please Your Grace.’

  She was laughing at him, imitating his sycophantish courtiers, but he did not object. He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched it.

  Mary cried out. ‘Too much pressure of the royal fingers,’ she explained, taking those fingers and kissing them.

  ‘I shall miss you, sister, when you leave us.’

  Mary frowned. ‘It will be years yet.’

  Henry looked at her; he could see the shape of her breasts beneath her bodice. Fifteen! She was a woman. It could not be long before she left England for Flanders to marry Charles, grandson of Maximilian and Ferdinand of Aragon, and heir to great dominions. He did not want to lose Mary, but, as he told himself sadly, a King must not think of his own feelings.

  She guessed his thoughts and pouted. She was going to raise difficulties when the time came for her to go.

  ‘It may be,’ she said suddenly, and her lovely face was radiant, ‘that Your Grace will discover he cannot bear to part with his little sister – and Charles will then not get his bride.’

  There was an appeal in the lovely eyes; they had strayed to Brandon’s face and rested there. Fifteen! thought Henry. She has the provocation of a girl some years older. He must warn her not to look at men like Brandon in that way. Charles Brandon had not lived the life of a monk. That was something Mary was as yet too young to understand; he should warn her, for he was not only her King but, since she had neither father nor mother, he must be her guardian too.

  ‘Enough, enough,’ he said. ‘Come turn your wits to the pageants. I expect you to give the Queen a goodly spectacle.’

  The King’s thoughts had gone to the Queen and his son and purposefully he made his way through the Palace to her apartments.

  In her bedchamber the Queen was awakened by the fanfares which announced the King’s coming. Her doctors had said that she must rest, but the King did not know this, or had forgotten.

  She spread her hair about her pillows, for he liked it in that way and her hair was her one real beauty.

  He burst into the apartment, and she saw him standing on the threshold with Mary on one side of him and Brandon on the other. Behind him were other friends and courtiers.

  ‘Why, Kate,’ he cried, advancing, ‘we come to see how you are. Are you not weary of bed? We plan a great entertainment for you. So get well quickly.’

  ‘Your Grace is kind to me,’ answered the Queen.

  ‘Your King takes pleasure in pleasing you,’ replied Henry.

  The courtiers were surrounding her bed, and she felt very tired but she smiled, because one must always smile for the King, that golden boy whose strict upbringing under his father’s rule had been perhaps a little too severe for his exuberant nature.

  He was a little irritated by the sight of her. She must lie abed, and he was impatient with all inactivity. He was urging her to shorten the period of rest, but she dared not. She had to preserve her strength; she had to remember that this was one of many births which must follow over the coming years.

  The baby in his cradle cried suddenly as though he came to his mother’s aid.

  The King immediately swung round and the procession, with him at its head, went towards the cradle.

  Henry took the child in his arms, and he looked at it with wonder.

  ‘Do you realise,’ he said, to those who crowded about him, ‘that this infant could one day be your King?’

  ‘We trust not until he is an old greybeard, Your Grace.’

  It was the right answer. The King laughed. Then he began to walk up and down the Queen’s bedchamber, the child in his arms.

  The Queen watched smiling.

  He is a boy himself, she thought.

  As soon as Katharine left her bed she prepared to leave Richmond for Westminster. The King had gone on before her; impatient and restless he had already journeyed to Walsingham, there to give thanks for his son at the Shrine of the Virgin.

  But he had now returned to Westminster and was there waiting to receive the Queen.

  Katharine who still felt weak would have enjoyed some respite, perhaps a few weeks of quiet at Richmond; but she knew that was too much to hope for because Henry begrudged every day he spent hidden from the public gaze. So did the people. Wherever he went they crowded about him to bless his lovely face and express their pleasure in him.

  The people would not be excluded from the festivities at Westminster. One of the reasons why they loved their new King was because he showed them with every action, every gesture, that he was determined to be a very different King from his father. One of his first acts had been the public beheading of his father’s ministers, Dudley and Empson, those men whom the people had regarded as the great extortioners of the previous reign. Nothing could have been more significant. ‘These men imposed great taxes on my beloved people; they have brought poverty and misery to thousands. Therefore they shall die.’ That was what the young King was telling his people. ‘England shall now be merry as she was intended to be.’ So they cheered themselves hoarse whenever they saw him.

  It seemed fitting to them that their handsome young King should be covered in glittering jewels, that his satin and velvet garments should be more magnificent than anyone had ever worn before. And because he was always conscious of the presence of the people, always determined to extract every ounce of their affection, he constantly won their approval.

  They were now looking forward to the festivities at Westminster almost as eagerly as Henry was himself. Therefore there could be no delay merely because the Queen would have liked a little longer to recover from giving the King and country an heir.

  All along the route the people cheered her. She was Spanish and alien to their English ways, but their beloved King had chosen her for his wife and she had produced a son; that was enough to make the people shout: ‘Long live the Queen!’

  Beside Katharine rode her beautiful and favourite lady in waiting, Maria de Salinas, who had been with her ever since she had left Spain. It was significant that even when they were alone together she and Maria spoke English nowadays.

  ‘Your Grace is a little weary?’ asked Maria, anxiously.

  ‘Weary!’ cried Katharine faintly alarmed. Did she look weary? The King would be hurt if she did. She must never show him that she preferred to rest rather than to frolic. ‘Oh no . . . no, Maria. I was a little thoughtful, that was all. I was thinking how my life has changed in the last few years. Do you remember how we suffered, how we patched our gowns and often had to eat fish which smelt none too good because it was the cheapest that could be bought in the market, how we wondered whether my father would send for us to return ignobly to Spain, or whether the King of England wou
ld ever pay me an allowance?’

  ‘After such humiliation Your Grace can now enjoy all the fine gowns that you wish for, all the good food that you care to order for your table.’

  ‘I should be ungrateful indeed, Maria, if I allowed myself to be tired when so much is being arranged for my pleasure.’

  ‘Yet weariness is something over which we have no control,’ began Maria.

  But Katharine laughed: ‘We must always have control over our feelings, Maria. My mother taught me that, and I shall never forget it.’

  She smiled, inclining her head as the people called her name. Maria had guessed that she was weary; no one else must.

  The Queen was seated in the tiltyard for the tournament would soon begin. All about her were signs of the King’s devotion. His enthusiasm was such that when he was gratified the whole world must know it. This woman whom his father had tried to withhold from him, but whom he had insisted on marrying, had proved his wisdom in marrying her, for she had quickly given him a son. He wanted everyone to know in what esteem he held her, and everywhere Katharine looked she could see those entwined initials H and K. They were on the very seat on which she sat – gold letters on purple velvet.

  If my mother could see me now, she would be happy, thought Katharine. It was nearly seven years since her mother had died and ten since she had seen her, yet she still thought of her often and when something happened which was particularly pleasing, it was almost as though she shared her pleasure with her mother. Isabella of Castile had been the greatest force in her daughter’s life and when she had died it seemed to Katharine that something very beautiful and vital had gone from her life. She believed that perhaps in the love she would bear towards her own children she would find some consolation for this aching loss; but that was in the future.

  The ordinary people were crowding into the arena. They seemed always to be present. Henry would be pleased; he would triumph of course at the tournament and he liked his people to see him victorious. He would seem like a god to them in his glittering armour, with his looks which were indeed unrivalled, and his great height – no one at Court was taller than Henry. Katharine wondered what chance of favour a man would have who happened to be an inch taller than the King.

  She suppressed such thoughts. They came to her now and then but she constantly refused to entertain them. Her Henry was a boy and he had the faults of a boy. He was young for his years, but she must always remember that he had been repressed during his boyhood by a father who had always feared he might be spoiled by others, and who was eager that the eighth Henry should rule in a manner similar to that of the seventh.

  All about her was the glittering Court. Henry was not present so she knew that he would appear later in the guise of some wandering king, perhaps a beggar, or a robber, some role which would make the people gasp with surprise. He would either tilt in his new role and as the conqueror disclose who he really was, or show himself before the joust and then proceed to conquer. It was the old familiar pattern, and every time Katharine must behave as though this were the first time it had happened. Always her surprise that the champion was in truth the King must appear to be spontaneous and natural.

  What is happening to me? she asked herself. There had been a time when she was happy enough to enter into his frolics. Was that because in the first year of their marriage she had felt as though she were living in a dream? The period of humiliation had been so close in those days; now that it was receding, was she less grateful?

  A hermit was riding into the arena and there was a hush in the crowd. He wore a grey gown and tattered weeds.

  No, thought Katharine, he is not quite tall enough. This is not the great masquerade.

  The hermit was approaching her throne and, when he was before her, he bowed low and cried aloud: ‘I crave the Queen’s Grace to permit me to tilt before her.’

  Katharine said as was expected: ‘But you are no knight.’

  ‘Yet would I ask your royal permission to test my skill, and it shall all be for Your Grace’s honour.’

  ‘A hermit . . . to tilt in my honour!’

  The crowd began to jeer, but Katharine held up her hand.

  ‘It is strange indeed to find a hermit in the tiltyard, and that he should wish to tilt stranger still. But our great King has such love for all his subjects that he would please them each and every one. The lowliest hermit shall tilt before us if it is his wish. But I warn you, hermit, it may cost you your life.’

  ‘That I would willing give for my Queen and my King.’

  ‘Then let it be,’ cried Katharine.

  The hermit stepped back, drew himself to his full height, threw off his grey tattered robe, and there was a knight in shining armour – none other than Charles Brandon himself.

  The Princess Mary, who was seated near the Queen, began to clap her hands, and all cheered.

  Brandon now asked the Queen’s permission to present to her a knight of great valour who was desirous, like himself, of tilting in her honour.

  ‘I pray you tell me the name of this knight,’ said Katharine.

  ‘Your Grace, his name is Sir Loyal Heart.’

  ‘I like well his name,’ said Katharine. ‘I pray you bring him to me.’

  Brandon bowed and there was a fanfare of trumpets as Sir Loyal Heart rode into the arena.

  There was no mistaking that tall figure, that gold hair, that fresh fair skin which glowed with health and youth.

  ‘Sir Loyal Heart!’ shouted the ushers. ‘Who comes to tilt in honour of the Queen’s Grace.’

  Before the Queen’s throne Henry drew up, while the people roared their approval.

  Katharine felt that her emotions might prevent her in that important moment making the right gesture. Sir Loyal Heart! How like him to choose such a name. So naïve, so boyish, so endearing.

  Surely I am the most fortunate of women, she thought; Mother, if you could but see me now, it would make up for all you have suffered, for my brother Juan’s death, for my sister Isabella’s death in childbirth, for Juana’s madness. At least two of your daughters inherited what you desired for them. Maria is the happy Queen of Portugal, and I am happier still, as Queen of England, wife of this exuberant boy, who shows his devotion to me by entwining my initials with his, by riding into the arena as Sir Loyal Heart.

  ‘How happy I am,’ she said in a voice which was not without a tremor of emotion, ‘that Sir Loyal Heart comes hither to tilt in my honour.’

  There was nothing she could have said which would have pleased Henry more.

  ‘The happiness of Sir Loyal Heart equals that of Your Grace,’ cried Henry.

  He had turned – ready for the joust. The tournament was opened.

  Darkness came early in February, and the Court had left the tiltyard for the Whitehall of Westminster. This did not mean that the festivities were over. They would go on far into the night, for the King never tired and, until he declared the ball closed, it must go on.

  He had scored great success in the tiltyard to the delight of the people. But none was more delighted than Henry. Yet now that the party had entered the Palace he had disappeared from Katharine’s side.

  This could only mean one thing. Some pageant or masque was being planned in which he would play a major part. Several of his friends had crept away with him, and Katharine, talking to those who remained about her, tried to compose her features, tried to display great expectation while she hoped that she would be able to register that blank surprise when she was confronted with some denouement which she had guessed even before the play had begun.

  One must remember, she reminded herself, that he has been brought up in a most parsimonious fashion. She knew that his father had ordered that his doublets must be worn as long as they held together and then turned if possible; he and the members of his household had been fed on the simplest foods and had even had to save candle ends. All this had been intended to teach him the ways of thrift. The result? He had rebelled against thrift. He was ready to di
p into his father’s coffers to escape from the parsimony, which had been anathema to him, in order to satisfy his extravagance. His nature was such that he must passionately long for all that was denied him – so for him the scarlet and gold, the velvet and brocade; for him the rich banquets, the pomp and the glory. It was fortunate that the thrift of Henry VII had made it possible for Henry VIII to indulge his pleasure without resorting to the unpopular methods which his father had used to amass his wealth.

  Katharine looked about the hall, which had been so lavishly decorated, and tried to calculate the cost to the exchequer. The English love of pageantry was unquestionable. What great pains had been taken to turn this hall into a forest. There were artificial hawthorns, maples and hazels, all so finely wrought that they looked real enough. There were the animals, a lion, an antelope, and an elephant all cleverly made. She did not know the price of the commodities necessary to make these things but she guessed it was high, for clearly no expense had been spared. There were beautiful ladies to roam the mock forest and they, with the wood-woos, who were wild men of the forest, had to be specially apparelled. The maids of the forest wore yellow damask, and the wood-woos russet sarcenet; she knew the high cost of these materials.

  Should she remonstrate with the King? Should she point out that such pageants were well enough when there was some great event to celebrate – as there was at this time the birth of their son – but this was one among many. Since Henry had come to the throne feasting had followed feasting, and pageant, pageant.

  She imagined herself saying: ‘Henry, I am older than you . . . and I had the advantage of spending my early years with my mother who was one of the wisest women in the world. Should you not curb these extravagances?’

  What would be his response? She pictured the brows being drawn together over those brilliant blue eyes, the pout of a spoiled boy.

  Yet was it not her duty?

  One of the courtiers was at her elbow. ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘You would speak with me?’

  ‘Your Grace, I know of an arbour of gold, and in this arbour are ladies who would show you their pastime in the hope that they might please Your Grace. Would you wish to see this arbour?’