Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean (книга регистрации .txt) 📗
The people had lined the streets to see the cortege pass and there were many to speak of the good deeds and graciousness of the dead Queen.
The banners which were carried in the procession were of the Virgin Mary, of the Assumption, of the Salutation and the Nativity, to indicate that the Queen had died in childbirth. The Lord Mayor and the chief citizens, all wearing the deepest mourning, took their places in the procession; and in Fenchurch Street and Cheapside young girls waited to greet the funeral carriage. There were thirty-seven of them—one for each year of the Queen’s life; they were dressed in white to indicate their virginity and they all carried lighted tapers.
When the cortege reached Westminster the coffin was taken into the Abbey, ready for the burial which would take place the next morning.
The King asked to be left alone in his apartments. He was genuinely distressed, because he did not believe that he could ever find a consort to compare with the one he had lost. She had had everything to give him—royal lineage, a right to the crown of England, beauty, docility and to some extent fertility.
Yet, there was little time in the life of kings for mourning. He was no longer a young romantic. That was for youth, and should never be for men who were destined for kingship.
He could not prevent his thoughts from going back to the past. He remembered now how, when Edward IV’s troops had stormed Pembroke Castle, he had been discovered there, a little boy five years old, with no one to care for him but his old tutor, Philip ap Hoell. He could recall his fear at that moment when he heard the rough tread of soldiers mounting the stairs and knew that his uncle, Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, had already fled leaving him, his little nephew, to the mercy of his enemies.
Sir William Herbert had been in charge of those operations, and it was well that he had brought his lady with him; for when she saw the friendless little boy she had scolded the men for daring to treat him as a prisoner, and had taken him in her arms and purred over him as though he were a kitten. That had been the strangest experience he had ever known until that time. Philip ap Hoell would have died for him, but their relationship had never been a tender one.
He recalled his life in the Herbert household. Sir William had become the Earl of Pembroke, for the title was taken from Uncle Jasper Tudor and bestowed on Sir William for services rendered to his King.
It had been strange to live in a large family; there were three sons and six daughters in the Herbert home, and one of these was Maud. There had been fighting during his childhood—the continual strife between York and Lancaster; and, when Lancastrian victory brought back the earldom and castle of Pembroke to Jasper Tudor, Henry was taken from the Herberts to live with his uncle once more.
He remembered the day when he had heard that Maud had been married to the Earl of Northumberland. That was a sad day; yet he did not despair; he had never been one to despair; he considered his relationship with Maud, and he was able to tell himself that, although he had loved her dearly, he loved all the Herberts; and if marriage with Maud was denied him he could still be a member of that beloved family by marrying Maud’s sister, Katharine.
And then fortune had changed. A more glorious marriage had been hinted at. Why should not the Tudor (hope of the Lancastrian House) marry the daughter of the King, for thus the red and white roses could flower side by side in amity?
He had then begun to know himself. He was no romantic boy—had never been a romantic boy. Had he wished to marry Maud that he might become a member of a family which had always seemed to him the ideal one, because from loneliness he had been taken into it by Lady Herbert and found youthful happiness there? Perhaps, since it had seemed that Katharine would do instead of Maud.
But the match with Elizabeth of York had been too glorious to ignore and he was ready to give up all thoughts of becoming a member of his ideal family, for the sake of a crown.
Life had never been smooth. There had been so many alarms, so many moments when it had seemed that his goal would never be reached. And while he had waited for Elizabeth he had found Katherine Lee, the daughter of one of his attendants—sweet gentle Katherine, who had loved him so truly that she had been ready to give him up when, by doing so, he could be free to marry the daughter of a King.
He was a cold man. He had been faithful to Elizabeth even though Katherine Lee had been one of her maids of honor. He saw her often, yet he had never given a sign that she was any more to him than any other woman of the Palace.
Now Elizabeth was dead, and she left him three children. Only three! He must beget more children. It was imperative.
Forty-six! That is not old. A man can still beget children at forty-six.
But there was little time to lose. He must find a wife quickly. He thought of all the weary negotiations. Time…precious time would be lost.
Then an idea struck him. There was a Princess here in England—she was young, personable and healthy enough to bear children.
What time would be saved! Time often meant money, so it was almost as necessary to save the former as the latter.
Why not? She would be agreeable. So would her parents. This halfhearted betrothal to a Prince of eleven—what was that, compared with marriage with a crowned King?
His mind was made up; his next bride would be Katharine of Aragon. The marriage should be arranged as quickly as possible; and then—more sons for England.
The next day Queen Elizabeth was laid in her grave; but the King’s thoughts were not with the wife whom he had lost but with the Infanta in Durham House who should take the place of the dead woman.
Bad News from Spain
KATHARINE WAS HORRIFIED.
She sat with her maid of honor, staring at the embroidery in her hands, trying in vain to appear calm.
They tried to comfort her.
“He will not live very long,” said the incorrigible Francesca. “He is old.”
“He could live for twenty years more,” put in Maria de Rojas.
“Not he! Have you not noticed how pale he is…and has become more so? He is in pain when he walks.”
“That,” Maria de Salinas said, “is rheumatism, a disease which many suffer from in England.”
“He is such a cold man,” said Francesca.
“Hush,” Maria de Salinas reproved her, “do you not see that you distress the Infanta? Doubtless he would make a kind husband. At least he was a faithful one to the late Queen.”
Francesca shivered. “Ugh! I would rather such a man were unfaithful than show me too much attention.”
“I cannot believe that my mother will agree to this match,” Katharine exclaimed anxiously, “and unless she does, it will never take place.”
Maria de Salinas looked sadly at her mistress. There was no doubt that Queen Isabella loved her daughter and would be happy if she returned to Spain, but she would certainly give her blessing to the marriage if she considered it advantageous to Spain. Poor Infanta! A virgin widow preserved for an ageing man, whose rheumatism often made him irritable; a cold, dour man, who wanted her only because he wanted to keep a firm hand on her dowry and believed that she could give him sons.
* * *
THERE WAS NO NEWS from Spain. Each day, tense and eager, Katharine waited.
She knew that the affairs of her parents must be in dire disorder for them so to neglect their daughter. If only they would send for her. If she could sail back to Spain the treacherous seas would have no menace for her. She would be completely happy.
Never, she believed, had anyone longed for home as she did now.
Maria de Rojas was restive. Why did she never hear from the Sovereigns about their consent to her marriage? Why was there no reply regarding her dowry? Katharine had written again because she feared her first letter might not have reached her mother; but still there was no reply to the questions.
