“His daughters, I have heard, are the best educated in England. He firmly believes that there should be no difference between the education of girls and boys.”
The King’s look of contentment faded; his lower lip protruded in an expression of discontent.
I should not have said that, thought Katharine. I have reminded him that while Thomas More has a son, he, the King, has none—at least not a legitimate son.
These pitfalls appeared on every occasion. Was there no escaping them?
The King was staring at Mary’s brown curls, and she knew that he was thinking to himself: Why was this girl not a boy?
The little girl was extremely sensitive and this was not the first time that she had been aware of the discontent she aroused in her father. She lowered her eyes and stared at the lute in his hands. He frightened her, this big and glittering father, who would sometimes pick her up in his arms and expect her to shout with glee because he noticed her. She did shout, because Mary always tried to do what was expected of her, but the glee was assumed, and in her father’s presence the child was never completely free from apprehension.
She longed to please him and applied an almost feverish concentration on her lessons, and in particular, her music; and because she knew that he liked to boast of her abilities, she was terrified that she would fall short of his expectation.
Those occasions when he smothered her with his exuberant affection were almost as alarming as when he showed his displeasure in her sex.
She had begun to ask herself: “Where did I fail? What could I have done to have made myself be born a boy?”
She took a swift glance at her mother. How glad she was that the Queen was present, for in the company of her mother she felt safer. If she could have had her wish they would have been together always; she would have liked to sleep in her mother’s chamber, and stay with her the whole day long. Whenever she was afraid, she thought of her mother; and when they were alone together she was completely happy.
Now she raised her eyes and found her mother’s gaze upon her. The Queen smiled reassuringly because she immediately sensed her little daughter’s disquiet.
We must never show our differences in the child’s presence, thought Katharine. But how long can I protect her from rumor? She already knows that her father constantly rages against the fate which made her a girl and not a boy.
The Queen said quickly: “Now that you have the lute in your hands, Henry, play us one of your songs, and sing to us.”
The frown lifted from the King’s brow. He was still boyish enough to be drawn from discontent by a treat. It was like offering a child a sweetmeat, and compliments were the sweetmeats Henry most desired.
“Since you ask me, Katharine, I will sing for you. And what of my daughter? Does she wish to hear her father sing?”
The little girl was alert. She said in a shy voice: “Yes, Your Grace.”
“You do not sound quite certain,” he growled.
The Queen put in hastily: “Mary is all eagerness, but a little shy of showing her pleasure.” She held out her hand to the Princess who immediately ran to her.
Oh the comfort of those velvet skirts, the joy of hiding her face momentarily in them, of feeling that gentle, protective hand on her head! The Princess Mary looked up at her mother with adoration shining in her eyes.
The Queen smiled and held that head against her skirts once more. It would not be wise for her father to see that the love she had for her mother was greater than that which she had for him. Mary did not understand that he demanded always to be the most admired, the best loved.
“I do not look for shyness in my daughter,” murmured the King. But his fingers were already plucking at the lute and he was singing his favorite song in a pleasant tenor voice.
The Queen settled herself in her chair and kept her arm about her daughter.
Snuggling up to her Mary prayed: “Please, Holy Mother of God, let me stay with my mother…always.”
The song came to an end and the King stared before him, his eyes glazed with the pleasure he found in his own creation, while the Queen clapped her hands and signed to her daughter to do the same. Thus the King was appeased.
When their daughter had been returned to her governess, Katharine said to the King: “Mary Boleyn has been to see me to plead for permission to marry.”
The King did not speak for a moment. Then he said: “Is that so?”
“Yes. It seems that she wishes to marry a certain William Carey, who is a younger son and I fancy not to her father’s liking.”
“Thomas Boleyn wants a better match for the girl, I’ll warrant.”
“Thomas Boleyn is an ambitious man. I have promised to help the girl.”
The King shrugged his shoulders. “The matter is in your hands.”
“I had thought in the circumstances…”
He swung round on her, his eyes narrowed. What was she hinting? Was she reproaching him because he had found the girl attractive?
“In what circumstances?” he demanded.
She saw that she had strayed into one of those pitfalls which it was always so necessary to avoid. She should have murmured that, as the girl was of the Court and her father stood high in the King’s favor, she had believed that she should first ask for the King’s approval before consenting to her marriage.
But her natural dignity revolted. Was she not, after all, a daughter of the House of Spain? Should she allow herself to be treated as a woman of no importance? The recent interview with her daughter had reminded her of her own mother, and she believed that little Mary felt for her the same devotion that she herself had felt for Isabella of Castile. Isabella would never have lost her dignity over one of her husband’s mistresses.
Katharine said coldly: “In view of the fact that the girl is—or was—your paramour…”
The King’s face darkened. In his eyes sins seemed blacker when they were openly referred to. He might placate his conscience to some extent (“I am but a man. The girl was more than willing. My wife is sickly and after each pregnancy she grows more so. Providence sends me these willing girls, who, by God, lose nothing through the affair, that I may save my wife discomfort”) but when his wife actually spoke of the matter with that smouldering resentment in her eyes she emphasized the unworthiness of his conduct. Therefore if he had been dissatisfied with her a moment before, as soon as she uttered those words he hated her.
“You forget to whom you speak, Madam,” he said.
“Why should you think that? Is the girl then the mistress of others? I must say it does not surprise me.”
“This girl’s marriage is of no interest to me,” cried Henry. “But your insolent accusations are, Madam, I would have you know. I have suffered much. I have been a loving husband. You forget how I brought you out of poverty…exile, one might say. You forget that against the advice of my ministers I married you. And how did you repay me? By denying me that which I longed for above all else. All these years of marriage…and no son…no son…”
“That is our mutual sorrow, Henry. Am I to blame?”
His eyes narrowed cruelly. “It is strange that you cannot bear a son.”
“When Elizabeth Blount has done so for you?” she demanded.
“I have a son.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and his attitude had become pious. “As King of the realm and one whose task it is to provide his country with heirs I thought it my duty to see wherein the fault lay.”
How could one reason with such a man? He was telling her now that when he had first seen that beautiful young girl and had seduced her, it was not because he had lusted after her, but only to prove to his people that, although his Queen could not give him a son, another could.
No, it was impossible to reason with him because when he made these preposterous statements he really believed them. He had to believe in the virtuous picture he envisaged. It was the only way in which he could appease his conscience.