But into the Queen’s eyes there had come a glazed look, and at that moment she did not see the room in Greenwich Palace and her little daughter, but another room in the Alcazar in Madrid in which children played: herself the youngest and the gravest and Juana, in a tantrum, kicking their governess because she had attempted to curb her. In those days Juana had been the wild one; her sister had not known then that later she would be Juana the Mad. Only their mother, watching and brooding, had suffered cruel doubts because she remembered the madness of her own mother and feared that the taint had been passed on to Juana.
But what thoughts were these? Juana was safe in her asylum at Tordesillas, living like an animal, some said, in tattered rags, eating her food from the floor, refusing to have women round her because she was still jealous of them although her husband, on whose account she had been so jealous, was long since dead. And because Juana was mad, her eldest son Charles was the Emperor of Austria and King of Spain and, since the discoveries of Columbus, ruler of new rich lands across the ocean. He was the most powerful monarch in the world—and to this young man Mary was to be affianced.
“I wasn’t here when Charles’s mother came.”
“Oh no, my darling, that was long, long ago, before you were born, before I was married to your father.”
“Yet you had left your mother.”
Katharine took the little face in her hands and kissed it. She hesitated, wondering whether to put aside the question; but, she reasoned, she has to know my history some day, and it is better that she should learn it from me than any other.
“I left my mother to come here and marry your uncle Arthur. He was the King’s elder brother and, had he lived, he would have been the King, and your father the Archbishop of Canterbury. So I married Arthur, and when Arthur died I married your father.”
“What was my uncle Arthur like, Mother?”
“He was kind and gentle and rather delicate.”
“Not like my father,” said the girl. “Did he want sons?”
Those words made the Queen feel that she could have wept. She took her daughter in her arms, not only because she was overcome by tenderness for her, but because she did not want her to see the tears in her eyes.
“He was too young,” she said in a muffled voice. “He was but a boy and he died before he grew to manhood.”
“How old is Charles, Mother?”
“He is twenty-two years old.”
“So old?”
“It is not really very old, Mary.”
“How many years older than I?”
“Now you should be able to tell me that.”
Mary was thoughtful for a few moments; then she said: “Is it sixteen?”
“That is so.”
“Oh Mother, it seems so many.”
“Nonsense, darling; I am more than ten years older than Charles, yet you can be happy with me, can you not?”
“I can be so happy with you, Mother, that I believe I am never really happy when I am away from you.”
The Queen laid her cheek against her daughter’s. “Oh my darling,” she said, “do not love me too much.”
“How can I love you too much?”
“You are right, Mary. It can never be too much. I loved my mother so much that when I left her and when she left this Earth it seemed to me that she was still with me. I loved her so much that I was never alone.”
The child looked bewildered and the Queen reproached herself for this outburst of emotion. She, who to everyone else was so calm and restrained, was on occasions forced to let her emotions flow over this beloved daughter who meant more to her than any other living person.
I frighten the child with my confidences, she thought, and stood up, taking Mary’s hands in hers and smiling down at her.
“There, my love, are you ready?”
“Will you stand beside me all the time?”
“Perhaps not all the time, but I shall be there watching. And when you greet him I shall be beside you. Listen. I can hear the trumpets. That means they are close. We should be waiting to greet them. Come. Give me your hand. Now, darling, smile. You are very happy.”
“Are you happy too, Mother?”
“Indeed, yes. One of the dearest wishes of my heart is about to be fulfilled. Now we are ready to greet my nephew, who will be my son when he is the husband of my beloved daughter.”
She held the little hand firmly in hers; and together they descended to the hall for the ceremonial greeting.
AS THE ROYAL CAVALCADE came from Windsor to Greenwich the people massed in their thousands to watch their King pass by. Loudly they cheered him, for he was a magnificent sight on horseback, and beside him the Emperor appeared a somewhat poor figure. The King of England was over six feet tall, his skin was pink and smooth as a boy’s, his blue eyes were bright and clear, and he glowed with good health, so that in comparison the Emperor looked pallid and unhealthy. His teeth were prominent and none too white, and he breathed through his mouth which was perpetually ajar; his aquiline nose had a pinched look and the only color in his face was the blue of his eyes. He was serious, whereas the King of England was gay; he smiled faintly while Henry roared forth his good humor.
But he seemed happy to be in England, and Henry was clearly pleased with him because of the contrast they made and the attention which was therefore called to his own many physical perfections.
As they rode along Henry was thinking of the masques and pageants with which he would impress this young man; but Charles was thinking of the loan he must try to wring from the English. As his father had been, he was perpetually in need of funds to maintain his vast Empire, and in his struggle with the King of France he needed money to pay his mercenaries.
He knew that he would have to pay a price for English gold and English support, and had at last decided that he would accept betrothal to the Princess Mary. He had come to this decision with some reluctance—not because he was against an English match, not that he did not believe the child to be unusually accomplished; but it was distressing to contemplate her age and that he could not hope for an heir until at least eight years had passed. However, there was nothing to be done but accept the inevitable as graciously as he could, for he was fully aware that alliance with England was not only desirable but a necessity.
So as they rode along he listened to the King’s conversation, laughed at his jokes and gave an impression to all who saw them that they were the best of friends.
In the cavalcade rode the Cardinal and, as always, his retinue was as magnificent as that of the King. He was wearing his red robes of taffety this day—the finest obtainable—and about his neck hung a tippet of sables; borne before him was the great seal, and one of the noblemen, whom he had deigned to take into his household, carried his Cardinal’s hat on a cushion and was bareheaded to indicate the respect he had for it; behind him rode other gentlemen of his household and his higher servants in their red and gold livery.
Wolsey was uneasy during that ride. He felt that since the death of Buckingham the King had taken too great an interest in state affairs. He was inclined to meddle and he did not always want to follow in that direction in which Wolsey would have led him.
The Cardinal was no more sure of this quiet young man than he was of the flamboyant François. In fact he felt that it would be necessary to be even more wary of the Emperor. François was dashing, bold, reckless and lecherous; and a shrewd statesman could often guess which turning he would take. But this pale, serious young man, who was somewhat hesitant in speech and had an air of humility—which Wolsey knew to be entirely false—might be unpredictable and by far the shrewdest ruler of the three who were now so important in Europe.