And laughing he tackled the good red meat which he loved.
THE COUNTESS OF DEVONSHIRE came unceremoniously to the Queen’s apartment. Katharine received her husband’s favorite aunt graciously but she was quick to see that the Countess was alarmed.
“It is the Prince, Your Grace,” she burst out. “He has had an uneasy night and seems to find breathing difficult.”
Katharine was filled with apprehension.
“I must go to him at once,” she said.
The Countess looked relieved. “I have called the physicians to look at him. They think his Royal Highness has caught a chill, and may be better in a few days.”
“Then I will not tell the King…as yet.”
The Countess hesitated; then she said: “It might be well that the King is told, Your Grace. He will wish to see his son.”
Katharine felt sick with fear. So the child was worse than they pretended. They were trying to spare her, to break bad news gently.
“I will tell the King,” she said quietly, “and I am sure he will wish to make all speed with me to Richmond.”
IT COULD NOT BE TRUE, Henry would not believe it. This could not happen to him. The son, of whom he had been so proud, little Henry his namesake, his heir—dead! The child had lived exactly fifty-two days.
He stood, his face puckered, his legs apart, looking at the Queen. The courtiers had left them together, believing that one could comfort the other and thus make their grief more bearable.
Katharine said nothing; she sat in the window seat looking out over the river, her body drooping, her face drawn. She looked like an old woman. Her eyes were red, her face blotched, for she had shed many bitter tears.
“We should have taken greater care of him,” she whispered.
“He had every care,” growled Henry.
“He caught a chill at the christening. He was robust until then.”
Henry did not answer. It had been a splendid christening, with the Archbishop of Canterbury officiating and the Earl of Surrey and the Countess of Devonshire standing as sponsors; he had enjoyed every minute of it. He remembered thinking, as he watched the baby being carried to the font, that this was one of the happiest moments of his life. He had thanked God for His grace.
And now…the baby was dead.
He felt the anger bubbling within him. That this should happen to him! What he wanted more than anything in the world, he told himself, was a son—strong and healthy like himself—a boy whom he could watch grow up and teach to be a King.
He felt bewildered because Fate had dared take from him his greatest prize.
“It was well that he was christened, since he is now dead,” he said sullenly.
She could not be comforted. She longed for children; she needed them even as he did.
He thought how old she looked, and he felt angry with her because he wanted to feel angry with someone. He had been so grateful to her because she had given him a son; and now he was no longer grateful.
Katharine glancing up suddenly saw his eyes upon her—small, narrowed, cruel.
She thought: Dear God. Holy Mother, does he then blame me?
And her sorrow was tinged with an apprehension so faint that it was gone before she realized fully what it meant.
Even as he gazed at her his expression softened. He said: “This is a bitter blow, Kate. But I am no graybeard and you are young yet. We’ll have more children, you see. We’ll have a son this time next year. That’s the way to chase away our sorrow, eh?”
“Oh Henry,” she cried and held out her hand.
He took it.
“You are so good to me,” she told him. “I only live to please you.”
He kissed her hand. He was too young, too sure of himself, to believe that ill luck awaited him. This was an unfortunate accident. They would have more sons; so many that the loss of this one would cease to matter.
The King’s Indiscretion
THE KING SAT IN THE WINDOW SEAT STRUMMING HIS LUTE and trying out a song of his own composition; there was a dreamy expression in his eyes and he did not see the courtyard below; he was picturing himself in the great hall, calling for his lute and surprising all present with the excellence of his song.
They would say: “But who is the composer? We must bring him to Court. There are few who can give us such music.”
He would put his head on one side. “I do not think it would be an impossible task to bring this fellow to Court. In fact I have a certain suspicion that he is with us now.”
They would look at each other in surprise. “But, Sire, if such genius were among us surely we could not be so blind as to be unaware of it. We pray Your Grace, summon him to your presence and command him to continue to delight us.”
“I doubt he would obey my command. He is a rash fellow.”
“Not obey the command of the King!”
Then he would laugh and say: “Now I will play you one of my own songs….” And he would play and sing the very same song.
They would look at each other in amazement—but not too much surprise. They must not run the risk of implying that they did not believe him capable of writing such music. They would quickly allow their bewilderment to fade and then it would be: “But how foolish of us. We should have known that none but Your Grace could give us such a song.”
In a little while the song would be sung throughout the Court. The women would sing it, wistfully, and with yearning in their eyes and voices. There were many women who looked at him with longing now. He knew he had but to beckon and they would be ready for anything he should suggest whether it was a quick tumble in a secluded garden or the honor of being the recognized mistress of a King.
His mouth was prim. He intended to be virtuous.
He sang quietly under his breath:
“The best I sue,
The worst eschew:
My mind shall be
Virtue to use;
Vice to refuse
I shall use me.”
He would sing that song, and as he did so he would look at those wantons who tried to lure him into sin.
Of course, he told himself often, I am a King, and the rules which are made for other men are not for Kings. But I love my wife and she is devoted to me. She will bear me children in time, and to them and to my people will I set an example. None shall say of me: There was a lecher. It shall be said: There goes the King who is strong, not only in battle, not only in state councils, but in virtue.
So his little mouth was prim as he sat playing his lute and practicing the song with which, later that day, he would surprise the Court.
And watching at the window he saw her. She was neither tall nor short, and she was very beautiful. She looked up and saw him, and she dropped a curtsey. There was invitation in the way she lifted her skirts and lowered her eyes. He knew her. Her name was Anne and she was Buckingham’s younger sister who had recently married her second husband. Images of Anne Stafford with her two husbands came into his mind. The primness left his mouth which had slackened a little.
He bowed his head in acknowledgment of her curtsey and his fingers idly strummed the lute, for he had momentarily forgotten the song.
Anne Stafford went on her way, but before she had taken more than a few steps she turned to look again at the window.
This time she smiled. Henry’s lips seemed to be frozen; he did not acknowledge the smile but after she had disappeared he went on thinking of her.
He found that one of the grooms of the bedchamber was standing beside him. He started and wondered how long the man had been there.