Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean (книга регистрации .txt) 📗
“I wish to please every member of my new family.”
“You please Arthur,” he said, “and you please Henry. It is of no importance that you please the girls.”
“Oh, but it is…it is of the greatest importance.”
“You will please Margaret if you embroider.” He snapped his fingers. “Your eyes are too beautiful to strain with needlework. As for Mary, she is pleased by everyone who makes much of her. But you please me because you are beautiful. Is that not a better reason?”
“To embroider means to have learned how to do so. There is great credit in that. But if I should be beautiful—which I do not think I am—that would be no credit to me.”
“You will find that people in England admire your beauty more than your embroidery,” he told her. He frowned. He wished that he could think of something clever to say, the sort of remark which his tutor, John Skelton, would have made had he been present. Henry admired Skelton as much as anyone he knew. Skelton had taught his pupil a great deal—and not only from lesson books. Henry liked Skelton’s bold, swaggering speech, his quick wit, and had absorbed all that he had taught him about the way a gentleman should live and a good deal else besides; Skelton was not averse to repeating Court gossip and tales of the scandalous habits of some of the courtiers. Often certain information passed between them which was to be secret; Skelton had said: “You have to be a man, my Prince, as well as an Archbishop, and if by ill fate you should be forced to enter the Church then you will do well to sow your wild oats early.” Henry knew a great deal about the kind of wild oats which could be sown and was longing to sow some. He pitied poor Arthur under the tutelage of Dr. Linacre, a solemn, wise old man who thought—and endeavored to make Arthur agree with him—that the main object in life should be the mastery of Greek and Latin.
He wanted to tell Katharine now that although he was young he would doubtless make a better husband for her even at this stage than Arthur. But the precocious child did not know how to express such thoughts.
So he took her by the hand, this wondrously apparelled bride of his brother’s, and led her from the Palace to the Cathedral; and the people cheered and said: “What a handsome bridegroom our Prince Henry will make when his time comes!”
Henry heard and was pleased; yet he was angry at the same time. Life had given him all but one important thing, he believed. Good health, handsome looks, vitality, the power to excel—and then had made him the second son.
In the Cathedral a stage had been erected; it was circular in shape and large enough to contain eight people, including Katharine in her voluminous wedding dress. It was covered with scarlet cloth and about it a rail had been set up.
To this dais Henry led Katharine; and there waiting for her was Arthur, dazzling in white satin adorned with jewels.
Henry VII and his Queen, Elizabeth of York, watched the ceremony from a box at the side of the dais.
The King thought how small Arthur looked beside his bride and wondered whether the unhealthy whiteness of his skin was made more obvious by the hectic flush on his cheeks. He was still undecided. To consummate or not consummate? To make an effort to get a grandson quickly and perhaps endanger his heir’s health, or to let the pair wait a year or so? He had half the bride’s dowry already; he could scarcely wait to get his hands on the other half. He would have to watch Ferdinand. Ferdinand was continually planning wars; he wanted to see the Italian states under Spanish control; he would make all sorts of excuses about that second half of the dowry.
But I’ll keep him to it, thought Henry. If there were a child, that would make him realize the need to pay the second half quickly. He would be doubly pleased with the marriage if his daughter conceived and bore quickly.
And yet…
Elizabeth was conscious of her husband’s thoughts. They are too young, she considered. Arthur at least is too young. Over-excitement weakens him. If only Henry would talk to me about this matter! But what is the use of wishing that, when he never consults anyone. There will be one person to decide whether the young Infanta is to lose her virginity this night—and that will be the King of England. And as yet he is undecided.
The Archbishop of Canterbury with nineteen bishops and abbots was preparing to take part in the ceremony. Now he was demanding of the young couple that they repeat their vows; their voices were only just audible in the hushed Cathedral. The Infanta’s was firm enough; Arthur’s sounded feeble.
I trust, his mother thought uneasily, that he is not going to faint. It would be construed as an evil omen.
Her eyes rested long on her white-clad firstborn and she remembered that September day in Winchester Castle when she had first heard the feeble cries of her son.
She had been brought to bed in her chamber which had been hung with a rich arras; but she had insisted that one window should not be covered because she could not endure the thought of having all light and air shut out. Her mother-in-law, Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, had been with her, and she had been grateful for her presence. Before this she had been considerably in awe of this formidable lady, for she knew that she was the only woman who had any real influence with the King.
The birth had been painful and she had been glad that she had only women to attend to her. Margaret had agreed with her that the delivery of babies was women’s work; so she had said farewell to all the gentlemen of the Court when her pains had begun and retired to her chamber, with her mother-in-law in charge of the female attendants.
How ill she had been! Arthur had arrived a month before he was expected, and afterwards she had suffered cruelly from the ague; but she had recovered and had tried not to dread the next confinement, which she knew was inevitable. A Queen must fight, even to the death, if necessary, to give her King and country heirs. It was her mission in life.
And there he was now—that fair, fragile baby, her firstborn—having lived precariously enough through a delicate childhood, preparing now to repeat the pattern with this young girl from Spain.
There was a tear in her eye and her lips were moving. She realized she was praying: “Preserve my son. Give him strength to serve his country. Give him happiness, long life and fruitful marriage.”
Elizabeth of York feared that she was praying for a miracle.
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AFTER MASS HAD BEEN celebrated, the young bride and groom stood at the door of the Cathedral, and there the crowds were able to see them kneel while Arthur declared that he endowed his bride with a third of his property.
The people cheered.
“Long live the Prince and Princess of Wales!”
The couple rose, and there beside the bride was young Prince Henry as though determined not to be shut out from the center of attraction. He took the bride’s hand and walked with her and his brother to the banqueting hall in the Bishop’s Palace where a feast of great magnificence had been set out for them.
There Katharine was served on gold plate which was studded with precious gems; but as she ate she was thinking with trepidation of the night which lay before her, and she knew that her bridegroom shared her fears. She felt that she wanted to hold back the night; she was so frightened that she longed for her mother, longed to hear that calm, serene voice telling her that there was nothing to fear.
The feasting went on for several hours. How the English enjoyed their food! How many dishes there were! What quantities of wine!
The King was watching them. Was he aware of their fear? Katharine was beginning to believe that there was little the King did not understand.
The Queen was smiling too. How kind she was—or would have been if she had been allowed to be. The Queen would always be what her husband wished, thought Katharine; and there might be times when he wished her to be cruel.
