“Do you realize,” 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 graybeard, 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 but 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 favorite 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 would 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 armor, with his looks which were indeed unrivalled, and his great height—no one at Court was taller than Henry. Katharine wondered what chance of favor 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 gray 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 honor.”
“A hermit…to tilt in my honor!”
The crowd began to jeer, but Katharine held up her hand.