by Jean Plaidy
His eyes glinted. Why should he not give his possessions to Ferdinand?
He laughed to picture the disapproving face of Ximenes who would remind him of his duty and that Charles was the heir, the elder of mad Juana’s sons. Ximenes would rigidly adhere to his duty. Or would he? He had a great affection for young Ferdinand also.
But I have many years left to me, he assured himself, refusing to think of death. It was true he was nearly sixty-four years old—a good age—but his father had been long-lived and, but for this dropsy and the accursed difficulty in breathing, he would not feel his age. He had a young wife, and he still endeavored to persuade her that he was young, yet he was beginning to wonder if the continual use of aphrodisiacs did not aggravate his condition.
As he sat brooding thus he was joined by the Duke of Alva who looked at him keenly and said: “Your Highness yearns for the fresh air of the country. Come to my place near Placencia. There are stags in plenty and good hunting.”
Ferdinand felt young at the thought of the hunt.
“Let us leave this very day,” he said.
When they came into the country he took deep breaths of the December air. Ah, he thought, this suits me well. I am a young man again in the country. He looked at Germaine who rode beside him. She was so fresh and youthful that it did him good to see her; yet his thoughts strayed momentarily to his wife Isabella who had been a year older than he was, and he felt a sudden desire to be back in those old days when he and Isabella had fought for a kingdom, and at times for supremacy over each other.
As usual the fresh air was beneficial and he found that if the day’s hunting was not too long, he could enjoy it. Alva, concerned for his health, made sure that the hunt finished when the King showed signs of fatigue, and Ferdinand began to feel better.
In January he decided that he should travel on to Andalusia, for he was never one to neglect state duties for pleasure.
Perhaps the hunt had been too strenuous, perhaps the journey was too arduous, but Ferdinand was finding it so difficult to breathe that by the time his party reached the little village of Madrigalejo not far from Truxillo, he could not go on.
There was great consternation among his followers as there was no place worthy to provide a lodging for the King. Yet stop they must, and certain friars in the village came forward and said they had a humble house which they would place at the King’s disposal.
The house was small indeed; rarely in his adventurous life had Ferdinand rested in such a place; but he knew that he could not go on, so he gasped out his gratitude to the friars, and allowed himself to be helped to a rough bed.
He looked round the small room and grimaced. Was this the place where the most ambitious man in Europe was to spend his last days on Earth?
Almost immediately he laughed at himself. His last days! He had never been easily defeated and he would not be now. After a little rest he would be ready to go on with his journey; he had learned one lesson; he would take more rest; he would give up his rejuvenating potions and live more as a man of his years must expect to live. If he curtailed his physical exercise he could direct state affairs from a couch. He thanked God that he was in possession of his mental powers.
But as he lay in that humble dwelling news was brought from the village of Velilla in Aragon. In this village was a bell which was said to be miraculous; when any major disaster was about to befall Aragon the bell tolled. Certain bold men had sought to stop the bell’s tolling only to be dashed to death. The bell, it was said, rang and stopped of its own volition, when the warning had been given.
Now, said rumor, the bell of Velilla was tolling for the imminent death of great Ferdinand of Aragon.
So stunned by this were those about him that Ferdinand asked what ailed them; and one, unable to withstand the insistent interrogation, told Ferdinand that the bell of Velilla had given a warning of imminent disaster.
Ferdinand was horrified because until this moment he had not believed death could possibly come to him. To other men, yes; but in his youth he had seen himself as an immortal; such self-made legends died slowly.
But the bell was tolling…tolling him out of life.
He said: “I must make my will.”
He thanked God…and Isabella…in that moment for Ximenes, because thinking of the tolling of the Velilla bell, his great anxiety was not for himself but for the good of his country. Ximenes he could trust. There was a man who was above reproach, above ambition, who would never give honors to his friends and family unless he honestly believed they deserved them. He remembered even now all he owed to Isabella, and he would serve Isabella’s family with all his powerful ability.
Then Cardinal Ximenes, Archbishop of Toledo, should be the Regent of Spain, until such time as his grandson was ready to rule it.
Ximenes would support Charles, he knew. Ferdinand grimaced. Oh, that I were not on my death-bed! Oh, that I might fight for a kingdom and bestow it on my grandson Ferdinand!
But this was a matter outside the control of a dying man. There was no question of the succession of Castile; as for the succession of Aragon and Naples they must fall to Juana—mad Juana, a prisoner in Tordesillas—and to her heirs. The Regency of Castile should go to Ximenes and that of Aragon to his dear son the Archbishop of Saragossa.
Ferdinand could smile wryly, and it seemed to him then that his first wife Isabella was at his bedside and that he snapped his fingers at her. “Yes, Isabella, my bastard son, my dear one on whom I bestowed the Archbishopric of Saragossa when he was six years old. How shocked you were, my prim Isabella, when you discovered his existence! But see, he is a good and noble boy, of sound good sense and beloved by the people. The Aragonese love my illegitimate son more than you did, Isabella.”
He would not forget his grandson Ferdinand. He should have an annual income of fifty thousand ducats and a share in Naples. As for Germaine, she must be provided for. She should have thirty thousand gold florins, and five thousand should be added to that while she remained a widow. Would that be long? He pictured her—gay Germaine—with a husband who did not have to resort to potions. Jealous anger almost choked him and he had to restrain himself in order to get back his breath.
He saw a man standing at his bedside and demanded: “Who is there?” Some of his servants came forward and said: “Highness, it is Adrian of Utrecht who has arrived here, having heard of the indisposition of Your Highness.”
Ferdinand turned his face to the wall to hide his anger. Adrian of Utrecht, the chief adviser of his grandson Charles.
So, he thought, the carrion crows have arrived already. They sit and wait for the last flicker of life to subside. They are mistaken. I’m not going to die.
He turned and gasped: “Tell…that man to go. He has come too soon. Send him away.”
So Adrian of Utrecht was forced to leave the house. But Ferdinand was wrong.
A few days later when his gentlemen came to his bed to wish him good morning, they found that he was dead.
The Princess Mary
THE CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES WERE OVER AND KATHARINE was glad. She was expecting the child in February and was determined not to exhaust herself by overexertion.
Henry continued tender. He was quite happy for her to be a mere spectator at those entertainments in which he played the central part. He could tell her solicitously that she was to retire to bed and rest; then he would be off to Elizabeth Blount or perhaps to some other young woman who had caught his passing fancy.
Katharine did not mind. She was patiently waiting.
That winter was a hard one—the coldest in living memory—and it was while the frost was at its worst, and the ice on the Thames so thick that carts could pass over it, that news was brought to Henry of the death of Ferdinand.
He received it with elation. Ferdinand, that old trickster, was dead. Henry would never have completely forgiven him for duping him as he had. It was the passing of an era; he knew that well. There would be a new ruler in Spain. Henry wanted to laugh alou
d. It would be that boy whom he had met in Flanders—that slow-speaking young oaf, with the prominent eyes and the pasty skin. There would be one who was a complete contrast to Ferdinand.
He was far from displeased. Now he would turn his hatred and envy of the Spanish ruler to the King of France, that sly-eyed, fascinating creature who was bold and had begun his reign—as Henry had longed to do—by offering his people conquest.
But for the time being, Ferdinand was dead.
“This will be a shock to the Queen,” he said to Wolsey when they discussed the news. “It would be better to keep it from her until after the child is born.”
“Your Grace’s thoughtfulness is equalled only by your wisdom.”
“You agree, eh, she should not be told?”
“It would be unwise to tell her in her present state. There might be another disaster.”
The King nodded. His eyes had become cunning. Wolsey followed his thoughts. Katharine had lost a powerful ally in her father. If the King should decide to repudiate her now, there would be no great power in Europe to be incensed by this treatment of her, for in place of a warlike and cunning father-protector she had only a young and inexperienced nephew.
Wolsey thought: Bear a healthy son, Katharine, or you will be in acute danger.
“I will let it be known,” said Wolsey, “that on pain of Your Grace’s displeasure, none is to tell the Queen of her father’s death.”
IT WAS ON the 18th day of February of the year 1516, in the Palace of Greenwich, when Katharine’s child was born.
Katharine came out of her agony to hear the cry of a child.
Her first thought was: “Then the child is alive.”
She saw faces about her bed, among them Henry’s. She heard a voice say: “The child is healthy, Your Grace. The child lives.”
She was aware of a great contentment. How she loved that child! All my life I shall love it, she thought, if only for the joy it has brought me in this moment.
But why did they say “the child?”
“A…boy?” she asked.
The brief silence told her the answer before it came: “A bonny girl, Your Grace.”
There was a faint intake of breath. But it was too much to hope for a boy and a child that lived.
Henry was beside her bed.
“We have a healthy child, Kate,” he said. “And the next…why, that will be a boy.”
Days of acute anxiety followed; she was terrified that events would take the same tragic course as on so many other occasions. But this little girl was different from the beginning; she lived and flourished.
When it was time for her christening it was decided that she should be called Mary after Henry’s sister who, having returned to England and been publicly married to the Duke of Suffolk at Greenwich, was now installed high in the King’s favor.
It was the Queen’s great delight to watch over the Princess Mary. She loved her with deep devotion which could scarcely have been so intense but for all the disappointments which had preceded the birth.
Even the grief she suffered when she heard of her father’s death, and the faint fear which, knowing something of the exigencies of state, this event must arouse in her, was softened, because at last she had her child, her healthy little Mary, the delight of her life.
KATHARINE, playing with her daughter, knew that this was the happiest period of her life. The child was charming; she rarely cried but would lie solemnly in her cradle or in Katharine’s arms.
Katharine would stand with the wet-nurse, Katharine Pole, and the governess, Margaret Bryan, wife of Sir Thomas Bryan, about the little Princess’s cradle; and they made an admiring circle, while they watched the child playing with the gold pomander which had been a present from her Aunt Mary, now Duchess of Suffolk. The child seemed to love that ornament which later she might stuff with perfumes and wear about her waist, but which at the moment she liked to suck.
Henry would come in and join the circle. Then Katharine Pole and Margaret Bryan would draw back and leave the parents together.
Henry’s eyes would be glazed with tenderness. This was his child and he told himself that more than anything on Earth he wanted children. He marvelled at those plump wrists, at the fingers, at the eyes which looked solemnly into his. He was delighted with the down of reddish hair on that little head, because it was his own color.
Katharine watching him loved him afresh; they had something they could share now: this adorable little daughter.
“By God, Kate,” murmured Henry, “we’ve produced a little beauty.”
He wanted to hold her; and he was delighted when she did not cry as he picked her up. He would sit, looking a little incongruous, that big figure, glittering with jewels, holding the baby somewhat awkwardly yet so tenderly in his arms.
He insisted on having her brought to the banqueting hall or his presence chamber when his courtiers were present or when he was receiving foreign ambassadors.
“My daughter,” he would say proudly, and take her in his arms, rocking her to and fro.
She never cried as most children would, but her large solemn eyes would stare at that big face at this time all suffused with tenderness and love.
The ambassadors would look on, admiring the baby, and the courtiers were continually discovering new likenesses to the King.
“She has the temper of an angel,” said the Venetian ambassador.
“You are right there,” cried Henry. “By God, Mr. Ambassador, this baby never cries.”
Mary was almost perfect in the eyes of the King. If she had but been a boy she would have been quite so.
BEFORE FERDINAND’S DEATH he had recalled Caroz and sent in his place Bernardino de Mesa, a very different type from Caroz. De Mesa was a Dominican friar, quiet, seemingly humble but in truth one of the shrewdest of Spaniards. It was a master stroke for Ferdinand to have sent him because his outward meekness was just what was needed to offset Wolsey’s arrogance and ostentation.
Ferdinand had realized too late that the Cardinal was the real ruler of England. However, de Mesa immediately began an attempt to repair the damage Caroz had done; and it was on de Mesa’s suggestion that Ferdinand had sent Henry the handsome present.
But Ferdinand was dead; de Mesa would have a new master; Katharine was no longer interested in politics as her attention was focused on her daughter; but Wolsey favored the Spanish ambassador because he was knowledgeable in that field which was one of the utmost interest to the Cardinal—the Papal Court.
De Mesa waited apprehensively for new policies. While Ximenes was Regent he imagined that there would be little change; but what would happen when young Charles took the reins of government, guided no doubt by his Flemish favorites?
De Mesa sought to speak to the Queen of these matters but Katharine had become half-hearted, since her father’s perfidy and death had shocked her deeply.
She no longer wanted to feel herself a Spaniard; she had her daughter to absorb her; and all the time de Mesa was seeking to draw her attention to European politics she was thinking: How she grows! To think that we can dispense with Katharine Pole’s services now! She will be easily weaned. Was there ever such a good tempered child? They say sweet temper means good health. Soon she will have her own household, but not yet. For a while her place will be in her mother’s apartments.
She smiled absently at the Spanish ambassador, but she did not see him; she saw only the bright eyes of her daughter, the round, chubby cheeks and that adorable fluff of reddish hair on the top of the exquisite little head which so delighted the child’s father.
And when Henry’s sister, Margaret, Queen of Scotland, came to London to seek her brother’s help against her enemies, Katharine’s great interest was in discussing Margaret’s children with her and trying to win her sister-in-law’s admiration for the beloved little Princess.
“’Prentices and Clubs”
THE FOLLOWING SPRING THERE WAS DISQUIET IN THE streets of London.
During recent years
many foreigners had settled there, and these people, being mostly exiles from their native lands—serious people who had fled perhaps for religious reasons—were by nature industrious. Day in, day out, they would be at their work, and so they prospered. There were Flemings who were expert weavers; Italians who were not only bankers but could make the finest armor and swords. The Hanseatic traders brought over leather, rope, wax, timber, nails and tar; and of course since the coming of Katharine to London to marry Prince Arthur there had always been Spaniards in London.
Life was hard for the citizens of London. During the cruel winter many had died of starvation in the streets and there had been rumblings of dissatisfaction all through the year.
With the coming of spring the young apprentices gathered in the streets and talked of the injustice of foreigners coming to their city and making a good living, while they and their kind lived in such poor conditions.
They themselves could not understand the joy some of these cordwainers and weavers, these glaziers and lacemakers found in the work alone. They did not seem to ask for pleasure as the apprentices did. They cared for their work with the passion of craftsmen, and those who lacked this skill were angry with those who possessed it.
They met in Ficquets Fields and near the Fleet Bridge, and talked of these matters.
There was one among them, a youth named Lincoln, who demanded: “Why should we stand by and see foreigners take away our livings? Why should we allow the foreigners to live in our city at all?”
The ignorant apprentices shook their fists. They had a leader; they craved excitement in their dull lives. They were ready.
So on a May morning of the year 1517, instead of rising early to go and gather May flowers in the nearby countryside, the apprentices gathered together and, instead of the cry “Let’s a-maying,” there were shouts of “’Prentices and Clubs!”