by Jean Plaidy
She had been carried into the lying-in-state chamber by four noblemen. Her sister Katharine, the Earl of Surrey and the Lady Elizabeth Stafford led the procession which followed the coffin; and when mass had been said, the coffin remained in the lighted chamber while certain ladies and men-at-arms kept vigil over it.
All through the long night they waited. They thought of her life and her death. How could they help it if they remembered those little boys, her brothers, who had been held in captivity in this very Tower and had been seen no more?
Where did their bodies lie now? Could it be that near this very spot, where their sister lay in state, those two little boys were hidden under some stone, under some stair?
A WEEK AFTER the death of Queen Elizabeth, the little girl, whose existence had cost the Queen her life, also died.
Here was another blow for the King, but he was not a man to mourn for long. His thoughts were busy on that day when his wife was carried to her tomb.
It was the twelfth day after her death and, after mass had been said, the coffin was placed on a carriage which was covered with black velvet. On the coffin a chair had been set up containing an image of the Queen, exact in size and detail; this figure had been dressed in robes of state and there was a crown on its flowing hair. About the chair knelt her ladies, their heads bowed in grief. Here they remained while the carriage was drawn by six horses from the Tower to Westminster.
The people had lined the streets to see the cortège pass and there were many to speak of the good deeds and graciousness of the dead Queen.
The banners which were carried in the procession were of the Virgin Mary, of the Assumption, of the Salutation and the Nativity, to indicate that the Queen had died in childbirth. The Lord Mayor and the chief citizens, all wearing the deepest mourning, took their places in the procession; and in Fenchurch Street and Cheapside young girls waited to greet the funeral carriage. There were thirty-seven of them—one for each year of the Queen’s life; they were dressed in white to indicate their virginity and they all carried lighted tapers.
When the cortège reached Westminster the coffin was taken into the Abbey, ready for the burial which would take place the next morning.
The King asked to be left alone in his apartments. He was genuinely distressed, because he did not believe that he could ever find a consort to compare with the one he had lost. She had had everything to give him—royal lineage, a right to the crown of England, beauty, docility and to some extent fertility.
Yet, there was little time in the life of kings for mourning. He was no longer a young romantic. That was for youth, and should never be for men who were destined for kingship.
He could not prevent his thoughts from going back to the past. He remembered now how, when Edward IV’s troops had stormed Pembroke Castle, he had been discovered there, a little boy five years old, with no one to care for him but his old tutor, Philip ap Hoell. He could recall his fear at that moment when he heard the rough tread of soldiers mounting the stairs and knew that his uncle, Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, had already fled leaving him, his little nephew, to the mercy of his enemies.
Sir William Herbert had been in charge of those operations, and it was well that he had brought his lady with him; for when she saw the friendless little boy she had scolded the men for daring to treat him as a prisoner, and had taken him in her arms and purred over him as though he were a kitten. That had been the strangest experience he had ever known until that time. Philip ap Hoell would have died for him, but their relationship had never been a tender one.
He recalled his life in the Herbert household. Sir William had become the Earl of Pembroke, for the title was taken from Uncle Jasper Tudor and bestowed on Sir William for services rendered to his King.
It had been strange to live in a large family; there were three sons and six daughters in the Herbert home, and one of these was Maud. There had been fighting during his childhood—the continual strife between York and Lancaster; and, when Lancastrian victory brought back the earldom and castle of Pembroke to Jasper Tudor, Henry was taken from the Herberts to live with his uncle once more.
He remembered the day when he had heard that Maud had been married to the Earl of Northumberland. That was a sad day; yet he did not despair; he had never been one to despair; he considered his relationship with Maud, and he was able to tell himself that, although he had loved her dearly, he loved all the Herberts; and if marriage with Maud was denied him he could still be a member of that beloved family by marrying Maud’s sister, Katharine.
And then fortune had changed. A more glorious marriage had been hinted at. Why should not the Tudor (hope of the Lancastrian House) marry the daughter of the King, for thus the red and white roses could flower side by side in amity?
He had then begun to know himself. He was no romantic boy—had never been a romantic boy. Had he wished to marry Maud that he might become a member of a family which had always seemed to him the ideal one, because from loneliness he had been taken into it by Lady Herbert and found youthful happiness there? Perhaps, since it had seemed that Katharine would do instead of Maud.
But the match with Elizabeth of York had been too glorious to ignore and he was ready to give up all thoughts of becoming a member of his ideal family, for the sake of a crown.
Life had never been smooth. There had been so many alarms, so many moments when it had seemed that his goal would never be reached. And while he had waited for Elizabeth he had found Katherine Lee, the daughter of one of his attendants—sweet gentle Katherine, who had loved him so truly that she had been ready to give him up when, by doing so, he could be free to marry the daughter of a King.
He was a cold man. He had been faithful to Elizabeth even though Katherine Lee had been one of her maids of honor. He saw her often, yet he had never given a sign that she was any more to him than any other woman of the Palace.
Now Elizabeth was dead, and she left him three children. Only three! He must beget more children. It was imperative.
Forty-six! That is not old. A man can still beget children at forty-six.
But there was little time to lose. He must find a wife quickly. He thought of all the weary negotiations. Time…precious time would be lost.
Then an idea struck him. There was a Princess here in England—she was young, personable and healthy enough to bear children.
What time would be saved! Time often meant money, so it was almost as necessary to save the former as the latter.
Why not? She would be agreeable. So would her parents. This halfhearted betrothal to a Prince of eleven—what was that, compared with marriage with a crowned King?
His mind was made up; his next bride would be Katharine of Aragon. The marriage should be arranged as quickly as possible; and then—more sons for England.
The next day Queen Elizabeth was laid in her grave; but the King’s thoughts were not with the wife whom he had lost but with the Infanta in Durham House who should take the place of the dead woman.
Bad News from Spain
KATHARINE WAS HORRIFIED.
She sat with her maid of honor, staring at the embroidery in her hands, trying in vain to appear calm.
They tried to comfort her.
“He will not live very long,” said the incorrigible Francesca. “He is old.”
“He could live for twenty years more,” put in Maria de Rojas.
“Not he! Have you not noticed how pale he is…and has become more so? He is in pain when he walks.”
“That,” Maria de Salinas said, “is rheumatism, a disease which many suffer from in England.”
“He is such a cold man,” said Francesca.
“Hush,” Maria de Salinas reproved her, “do you not see that you distress the Infanta? Doubtless he would make a kind husband. At least he was a faithful one to the late Queen.”
Francesca shivered. “Ugh! I would rather such a man were unfaithful than show me too much attention.”
“I cannot believe that my mother will agree to this match,” Ka
tharine exclaimed anxiously, “and unless she does, it will never take place.”
Maria de Salinas looked sadly at her mistress. There was no doubt that Queen Isabella loved her daughter and would be happy if she returned to Spain, but she would certainly give her blessing to the marriage if she considered it advantageous to Spain. Poor Infanta! A virgin widow preserved for an ageing man, whose rheumatism often made him irritable; a cold, dour man, who wanted her only because he wanted to keep a firm hand on her dowry and believed that she could give him sons.
THERE WAS NO NEWS from Spain. Each day, tense and eager, Katharine waited.
She knew that the affairs of her parents must be in dire disorder for them so to neglect their daughter. If only they would send for her. If she could sail back to Spain the treacherous seas would have no menace for her. She would be completely happy.
Never, she believed, had anyone longed for home as she did now.
Maria de Rojas was restive. Why did she never hear from the Sovereigns about their consent to her marriage? Why was there no reply regarding her dowry? Katharine had written again because she feared her first letter might not have reached her mother; but still there was no reply to the questions.
Francesca gave loud voice to her grievances; Maria was filled with melancholy. Only Maria de Salinas and Inez de Veñegas alternately soothed and scolded them. They were unhappy, but what of the Infanta? How much harder was her lot. Imagine, it might well be that she would have to submit to the will of the old King of England.
AT LAST CAME the news from Spain. Katharine saw the messengers arrive with the dispatches and had them brought to her immediately.
Her mother wrote as affectionately as ever, and the very sight of that beloved handwriting made the longing for home more intense.
Isabella did not wish her daughter to marry the King of England. She was eager for a match between Katharine and the young Prince of Wales. She was writing to the King of England suggesting that he look elsewhere for a bride.
Katharine felt limp with relief, as though she had been reprieved from a terrible fate.
Unless some satisfactory arrangement could be made for Katharine’s future in England, Isabella wrote, she would demand that her daughter be returned to Spain.
This made Katharine almost dizzy with happiness and, when her maids of honor came to her, they found her sitting at her table smiling dazedly at the letter before her.
“I am not to marry him,” she announced.
Then they all forgot the dignity due to an Infanta and fell upon her, hugging and kissing her.
At last Maria de Rojas said: “Does she give her consent to my marriage?”
“Alas,” Katharine told her, “there is no mention of it.”
HENRY SAT for a long time listening to Puebla’s account of his instructions from Spain. So the Sovereigns did not want him for a son-in-law. He read between the lines. They would be delighted if their daughter became the Queen of England, but he was old and she was young; they believed that he could not live for a great number of years and, when he died, she would be merely the Dowager Queen, who would play no part in state affairs. Moreover even as Queen, she would have no power, for Henry was not the man to allow a young wife to share in his counsels.
Isabella was emphatic in her refusal of this match.
“Her Highness,” Puebla told the King, “suggests that it might be well if the Infanta returned to Spain.”
This was high-handed indeed. Henry had no wish to send the Infanta back to Spain. With their daughter living in semiretirement in England he had some hold over the Sovereigns. He wanted the rest of her dowry, and he was determined to get it.
“These are matters not to be resolved in an hour,” replied Henry evasively.
“Her Highness suggests that, since you are looking for a wife, the Queen of Naples, now widowed, might very well suit you.”
“The Queen of Naples!” Henry’s eyes were momentarily narrowed. It was not a suggestion to be ignored. Such a marriage should give him a stake in Europe; so if the widow were young and handsome and likely to bear children, she would be a good match; and Henry, ever conscious of his age, was eager to marry soon.
He therefore decided to send an embassy to Naples immediately.
It was rather soon after his wife’s death and he did not wish to appear overeager.
Puebla was whispering: “The Infanta might write a letter to the Queen of Naples, to be delivered into her hands and hers alone. This would give some messenger on whom you could rely the opportunity of looking closely at the Queen.”
Henry looked with friendship on the Spaniard who had ever seemed a good friend to him.
It was an excellent idea.
“Tell her to write this letter at once,” he said. “You will find me a messenger on whom I can rely. I wish to know whether she be plump or lean, whether her teeth be white or black and her breath sweet or sour.”
“If Your Grace will leave this matter with me I will see that you have a description of the lady which shall not prove false. And, Your Grace, you will remember that it is the hope of the Sovereigns that there should be a betrothal between their daughter and the Prince of Wales.”
“The Prince of Wales is one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.”
“And therefore, Your Grace, well matched to the Infanta of Spain.”
Henry looked grave. “The wars in Europe would seem to be going more favorably for the French than the Spaniards. It might be well if the Infanta did return to Spain.”
Puebla shook his head. “If she returned, the Sovereigns would expect you to return with her the hundred thousand crowns which constituted half of her dowry.”
“I see no reason why I should do that.”
“If you did not, Your Grace, you would have a very powerful enemy in the Sovereigns. Where are your friends in Europe? Do you trust the French? And who in Europe trusts Maximilian?”
Henry was silent for a few moments. But he saw the wisdom of Puebla’s advice.
He said: “I will consider this matter.”
Puebla was jubilant. He knew that he had won his point. He would soon be writing to the Sovereigns to tell them that he had arranged for the betrothal of their daughter with the Prince of Wales.
PRINCE HENRY CAME IN, hot from the tennis court. With him were his attendants, boys of his own age and older men, all admiring, all ready to tell him that they had never seen tennis played as he played it.
He could never have enough of their praises and, although he knew they were flattery, he did not care. Such flattery was sweet, for it meant they understood his power.
Each day when he awoke—and he awoke with the dawn—he would remember that he was now his father’s only son and that one day there would be a crown on his head.
It was right and fitting that he should wear that crown. Was he not a good head taller than most of his friends? It was his secret boast that, if anyone had not known that he was the King’s heir, they would have selected him from any group as a natural leader.
It could not be long before he was King. His father was not a young man. And how he had aged since the death of the Queen! He was in continual pain from his rheumatism and was sometimes bent double with it. He was growing more and more irritable and Henry knew that many were longing for the day when there would be a new King on the throne—young, merry, extravagant, all that the old King was not.
Henry had no sympathy for his father, because he who had never felt a pain in his life could not understand pain. The physical disabilities of others interested him only because they called attention to his own superb physique and health.
Life was good. It always had been. But during Arthur’s lifetime there had been that gnawing resentment because he was not the firstborn.
He made his way now from the tennis court to the apartments of his sister Margaret. He found her there and her eyes were red from weeping. Poor Margaret! She was not the domineering elder sister today. He did feel a little sorr
y. He would miss her sorely.
“So tomorrow you leave us,” he said. “It will be strange not to have you here.”
Margaret’s answer was to put her arms about him and hug him tightly.
“Scotland!” she whimpered. “It is so cold there, I hear. The castles are so drafty.”
“They are drafty here,” Henry reminded her.
“There they are doubly so. And how shall I like my husband, and how will he like me?”
“You will rule him, I doubt not.”
“I hear he leads a most irregular life and has many mistresses.”
Henry laughed. “He is a King, if it is only King of Scotland. He should have mistresses if he wishes.”
“He shall not have them when he has a wife,” cried Margaret fiercely.
“You will make sure of that, I’ll swear. So there will only be one sister left to me now. And Mary is little more than a baby.”
“Always look after her, Henry. She is wayward and will need your care.”
“She will be my subject and I shall look after all my subjects.”
“You are not yet King, Henry.”
“No,” he murmured reflectively, “not yet.”
“I wish that the Infanta might be with us. It is sad to think of her in Durham House, cut off from us all. I should have liked to have had a sister of my own age to talk to. There would have been so much for us to discuss together.”
“She could tell you little of the married state,” said Henry. “Unless rumor lies, our brother never knew his wife. What a strange marriage that was!”
“Poor Katharine! I suffer for her. She felt as I feel now. To leave one’s home…to go to a strange country…”
“I doubt your James will be as mild as our brother Arthur.”
“No, it may be that he will be more like my brother Henry.”
Henry looked at his sister through narrowed eyes.
“They say,” went on Margaret, “that Katharine is to be your bride.”
“I have heard it.”
He was smiling. Margaret thought: He must have everything. Others marry, so he must marry. Already he seems to be contemplating his enjoyment of his bride.