Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean (книга регистрации .txt) 📗
Then briefly she wondered how many Queens had lain in these royal apartments and prayed: Let this be a son.
It must be a son, she told herself, for this will be the last.
She was trying to shake off this premonition which had been with her since she knew she was to have another child. If her confinement could have taken place anywhere but in this Tower of London she would have felt happier. She hated the place. Sometimes when she was alone at night she fancied she could hear the voices of her brothers calling her. She wondered then if they called her from some nearby grave.
This was a sign of her weakness. Edward and Richard were dead. Of that she was certain. The manner of their dying could be of little importance to them now. Would they come back to this troublous Earth even if they could? For what purpose? To denounce their uncle as a murderer? To engage in battle against their sister’s husband for the crown?
“Edward! Richard!” she whispered. “Is it true that somewhere within the gray walls of these towers your little bodies lie buried?”
A child was coming into the world. Its mother should not think of the other children—even though they were her own brothers—who had been driven out of it before their time.
Think of pleasant things, she commanded herself: Of rowing down the river with her ladies, with good Lewis Walter, her bargeman, and his merry watermen; think of the Christmas festivities at Richmond. The minstrels and the reciters had been more engaging than usual. She smiled, thinking of her chief minstrel who was always called Marquis Lorydon. What genius! What power to please! And the others—Janyn Marcourse and Richard Denouse—had almost as much talent as Lorydon. Her fool, Patch, had been in great form last Christmas; she had laughed lightheartedly at his antics with Goose, young Henry’s fool.
How pleased Henry had been because Goose had shone so brilliantly. It had pleased the boy because his fool was as amusing as those of the King and Queen.
Henry must always be to the fore, she mused. “Ah well, it is a quality one looks for in a King.”
There had been a pleasant dance too by a Spanish girl from Durham House. Elizabeth had rewarded her with four shillings and fourpence for her performance. The girl had been indeed grateful. Poor child, there were few luxuries at Durham House.
The Queen’s face creased into anxiety. Where will it all end? she asked herself. She thought of her son Henry, his eyes glistening with pride because his fool, Goose, could rival the fools of his parents. She thought of the lonely Infanta at Durham House.
The fate of Princes is often a sad one, she was thinking; and then there was no time for further reflection.
The child was about to be born, and there was nothing left for the Queen but her immediate agony.
* * *
THE ORDEAL WAS OVER, and the child lay in the cradle—a sickly child, but still a child that lived.
The King came to his wife’s bedside, and tried not to show his disappointment that she had borne a girl.
“Now we have one son and three bonny girls,” he said. “And we are young yet.”
The Queen caught her breath in fear. Not again, she thought. I could not endure all that again.
“Yes, we are young,” went on the King. “You are but thirty-seven, and I am not yet forty-six. We still have time left to us.”
The Queen did not answer that. She merely said: “Henry, let us call her Katharine.”
The King frowned, and she added: “After my sister.”
“So shall it be,” answered the King. It was well enough to name the child after Elizabeth’s sister Katharine, Lady Courtenay, who was after all the daughter of a King. He would not have wished the child to be named Katharine after the Infanta. Ferdinand and Isabella would have thought he was showing more favor to their daughter, and that would not have been advisable.
The bargaining had to go on with regard to their daughter; and he wanted them to know that it was they who must sue for favors now. He was still mourning for that half of the dowry which had not been paid.
He noticed that the Queen looked exhausted and, taking her hand, he kissed it. “Rest now,” he commanded. “You must take great care of yourself, you know.”
Indeed I must, she thought meekly. I have suffered months of discomfort and I have produced but a girl. I have to give him sons…or die in the attempt.
* * *
IT WAS A WEEK after the birth of the child when the Queen became very ill. When her women went into her chamber and found her in a fever they sent a messenger at once to the King’s apartments.
Henry in shocked surprise came hurrying to his wife’s bedside, for she had seemed to recover from the birth and he had already begun to assure himself that by this time next year she might be brought to bed of a fine boy.
When he looked at her he was horrified, and he sent at once for Dr. Hallyswurth, his best physician, who most unfortunately was at this time absent from the Court in his residence beyond Gravesend.
All through the day the King waited for the arrival of Dr. Hallyswurth, believing that, although other physicians might tell him that the Queen was suffering from a fever highly dangerous after childbirth, Dr. Hallyswurth would have the remedy which would save her life.
As soon as the doctor was found and the King’s message delivered he set out for the Court, but dusk had fallen when he came, lighted by torches into the precincts of the Tower.
He was taken at once to the Queen’s bedchamber, but, even as he took her hand and looked into her face, Elizabeth had begun to fight for her breath and the doctor could only sadly shake his head. A few minutes later Elizabeth sank back on her pillows. The daughter of Edward IV was dead.
Henry stared at her in sorrow. She had been a good wife to him. Where could he have found a better? She was but thirty-seven years of age. This dolorous day, February 11th of the year 1503, was the anniversary of her birth.
“Your Grace,” murmured Dr. Hallyswurth, “there was nothing that could have been done to save her. Her death is due to the virulent fever which often follows childbirth. She was not strong enough to fight it.”
The King nodded. Then he said: “Leave me now. I would be alone with my grief.”
* * *
THE BELLS OF ST. PAUL’S began to toll; and soon others joined in the dismal honor to the dead, so that all over London the bells proclaimed the death of the Queen.
In the Tower chapel she lay in state. Her body had been wrapped in sixty ells of holland cloth and treated with gums, balms, spices, wax and sweet wine. She had been enclosed by lead and put into a wooden coffin over which had been laid a black velvet pall with a white damask cross on it.
She had been carried into the lying-in-state chamber by four noblemen. Her sister Katharine, the Earl of Surrey and the Lady Elizabeth Stafford led the procession which followed the coffin; and when mass had been said, the coffin remained in the lighted chamber while certain ladies and men-at-arms kept vigil over it.
All through the long night they waited. They thought of her life and her death. How could they help it if they remembered those little boys, her brothers, who had been held in captivity in this very Tower and had been seen no more?
Where did their bodies lie now? Could it be that near this very spot, where their sister lay in state, those two little boys were hidden under some stone, under some stair?
* * *
A WEEK AFTER the death of Queen Elizabeth, the little girl, whose existence had cost the Queen her life, also died.
Here was another blow for the King, but he was not a man to mourn for long. His thoughts were busy on that day when his wife was carried to her tomb.
It was the twelfth day after her death and, after mass had been said, the coffin was placed on a carriage which was covered with black velvet. On the coffin a chair had been set up containing an image of the Queen, exact in size and detail; this figure had been dressed in robes of state and there was a crown on its flowing hair. About the chair knelt her ladies, their heads bowed in grief. Here they remained while the carriage was drawn by six horses from the Tower to Westminster.
