Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean (книга регистрации .txt) 📗
Marguerite from France, who thought her brother the most wonderful man in the world? Little Eleanor who was but a child? They were daring to choose his bride for him!
He could scarcely wait for the moment when they would proclaim him King. One of his first acts would be to show them that he was their King in truth, and that, whether it was a bride or a matter of policy, it was the King who would decide.
They were coming now. So it was all over. The long-awaited moment was at hand.
He was ready for them as they came into the apartment. His eyes gleamed with appreciation, for he quickly sensed the new respect, the subtle difference in the way a King was greeted.
They were on their knees before him.
“Then it is so?” he said. “Alas, my father!”
But there was no time for sorrow. There was only triumph for the cry had gone up: “The King is dead. Long live the King! Long live King Henry VIII!”
* * *
KATHARINE HAD COME to pay homage with the rest, and kneeling before him, she looked appealing in her humility.
The young King turned to those who stood about him and said: “You may leave us. I have something to say to the Infanta which she must know before all others.”
When they were alone he said: “You may rise, Katharine.”
He was smiling at her with the expression of a boy who has prepared, for a friend, a wonderful surprise, in which he is going to find as much pleasure—or even more—than the one for whom it is intended.
“Doubtless,” he said, “you have heard of many plans afoot to marry me to Princesses of Europe.”
“I have, Your Grace.”
“And I venture to think they have caused you some disquiet.” Henry did not wait for confirmation of that which he considered to be obvious. “They need concern you no more. I have chosen my own bride. Do you think, Katharine, that I am the man to allow others to decide such a matter for me?”
“I did not think you would be, Your Grace.”
“Then you are right, Kate. I have chosen.” He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “You are to be my bride. You are to be Queen of England.”
“I…I…,” she stammered.
He beamed. No speech could have been more eloquent in his ears. She was overwhelmed by the honor; she was overcome with joy. He was delighted with her.
“I’ll brook no refusal!” This was a joke. How could any woman in her right senses refuse the most glorious offer that could possibly be made? “I have made up my mind. You shall be my bride!”
How handsome he was; his face creased in that happy, sunny smile. Yet behind it there remained the shadow of the sullen boy who had said: Nobody shall tell me what I must do. I make my own decisions.
For a brief moment Katharine asked herself what would have become of her if this boy had been told he must marry her instead of having been forbidden to.
Then she refused to consider such a thought.
Of what importance was what might have been, when she was being offered freedom from poverty and the humiliating position in which she had lived for so many years?
She knew the waiting was over. The neglected Infanta was about to become the most courted woman in England, the Queen, the bride of the most handsome, the most kingly ruler in Christendom.
Queen Katharine
KATHARINE RODE BESIDE THE KING THROUGH THE STREETS of London.
A few days earlier they had been married in the Palace of Greenwich, for Henry, once having made up his mind, was eager for the marriage to be celebrated.
He was attentive to his bride; he was affectionate; he, who had never made a secret of his feelings, announced to his councillors that he loved her beyond all women.
So they must proceed from Greenwich to the Tower, and with them rode the flower of the nobility; through the streets they went, past the rich tapestries which hung from the windows to welcome them; and Cornhill, proud that all should know it was the richest street in the city, hung cloth of gold from its windows. The route was lined with young girls in white to indicate their virginity; all sang praises of their King and Queen.
There was Henry, and even he had never looked quite so magnificent as he did on that day; his enormous figure ablaze with jewels, his open countenance shining with good intentions and pleasure in his people and himself. The handsomest King ever to ride through the city of London, not excepting his maternal grandfather, Edward IV.
And there was the Queen looking radiant, with her beautiful hair streaming over her shoulders, on her head a coronal set with jewels of many colors. She was dressed as a bride in white satin exquisitely embroidered, and she rode in a litter of cloth of gold drawn by two white horses.
It was not easy to recognize in this dazzling bride the neglected Infanta of Durham House.
Happiness had brought beauty to her face.
She could only say to herself: It is over…all the humiliation, all the misery. Who would have believed it possible that it could have happened so quickly?
And there was another matter for rejoicing. She was in love. What woman could help but fall in love with the gay and handsome King who had rescued her from all her misery? He was the Prince of legend, and no such Prince had ever been so handsome as this young Henry VIII of England.
The people cheered her. They were ready to cheer anyone whom their King honored, for they told themselves, the old days of parsimony and taxation were over; a gay young King was on the throne.
There were some in the crowd who remembered the day the Queen had married Arthur. Was a brother’s widow the happiest choice? Was there not some allusion to this in the Bible which stated that such marriage was illegal?
But the sun was shining. The dour reign of Henry VII was over, and England was about to grow merry.
Away with such thoughts! This was the occasion of their King’s wedding. He had married the woman of his choice. He was a radiantly happy bridegroom and a dazzling King.
“Long live King Henry VIII and his bride!” shouted the people of London.
And so from the pleasant Palace of Greenwich came the dazzling cavalcade, through the gaily decked streets into the precincts of the Tower of London.
The gray fortress looked grim, the stone towers menacing; but Katharine only saw the golden beauty of her bridegroom, only heard the shouts of the people: “Long live the King’s bride! Long live our Queen, Katharine of Aragon.”
