Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean - Страница 3
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Her handsome father had doted on her; he had planned a grand marriage for her, and when she was nine years old she had been affianced to Charles, who was the eldest son of Louis XI, and she remembered how at that time everyone had called her Madame la Dauphine. She remembered the French lessons she had taken at that time. It was imperative, her father had said, that she speak fluently the language of the country which would one day be her home. She had also learned to write and speak Spanish.
Thinking of those early days, she said to herself: “The latter will be useful when the Infanta arrives…if the Infanta ever does arrive.”
Royal marriages! How could one be sure they would ever take place until one witnessed the actual ceremony itself! Her marriage to the Dauphin had certainly not; she remembered the occasion when the news had arrived at the Palace of Westminster that Louis was seeking the hand of Margaret of Austria for his son.
Elizabeth could recall her father’s rage; the hot red blood rushing to his face and the whites of his eyes. He had died soon after—some said of the rage this news had aroused in him.
She had been afraid of such emotion ever since. For that was the beginning of trouble. Her father dead, her uncle taking the crown, herself with her mother and some other members of the family taking refuge in sanctuary, where her little brothers were taken from them to be lodged in the Tower—this Tower in which she now sat. Somewhere in this place were buried the bodies of those two young princes who had disappeared mysteriously from their lodgings. She could remember them so well, her little brothers whom she had loved so dearly. What had happened to them? They had stood in the way to the throne. In the way of her uncle Richard? In the way of her husband, Henry?
She dared not think of their fate.
It had all happened so long ago. Her uncle Richard, who had once thought of marrying her, had met his death at Bosworth Field; the Tudor dynasty had begun.
It was this matter of hanging the mastiffs which had made her brood on the past. It was this betrayal of her husband’s fear, of his determination to show all those who might rise against him what they could expect at his hands.
It was thus that Henry found her. He had come to her, she knew, to discover her feelings regarding the affair in the arena, though he would not ask. He never asked her advice or opinion. He was determined that she should remain his consort only. This desire to preserve his own supremacy was always present. Elizabeth knew it for a weakness which he attempted to hide by a show of arrogance.
“You are resting?” he asked.
He had come to her unheralded. She, who remembered the pageantry of royalty with which her father had surrounded himself, even now was a little surprised by this.
She gave him her hand which he kissed without much grace.
“The heat in the arena was overpowering,” she said. “At one time I was afraid Arthur would be overcome by it.”
The King frowned. “The boy’s health leaves much to be desired,” he said.
The Queen agreed. She murmured: “But young Henry grows more and more like my father every day.”
The King was not displeased; he liked to be reminded that his son’s maternal grandfather was Edward IV. But he did not wish Elizabeth to realize the extent of his pride, so he said: “Let us hope he does not inherit your father’s vices.”
“He had many virtues,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“His virtues gave him the strength to fight for the throne; they brought men rallying to his side; but it was his vices which killed him. Let us hope young Henry will not be so fond of good food and wine, and most of all, women.”
“Henry will take care of himself. It is Arthur on whose account I am so concerned.”
“Soon the Infanta will be here, the marriage celebrated.” Henry rubbed his hands together and his grave face was illumined suddenly by a smile.
Elizabeth knew that he was contemplating the Infanta’s dowry and congratulating himself that there could not have been a more advantageous match than this one with Spain.
Henry turned to his Queen. “I must be watchful of Ferdinand. I am not sure that he is to be trusted. He will try to arrange that all the advantages are on his side.”
“You too are shrewd,” his wife reminded him.
Henry nodded. “It has been very necessary for me to foster shrewdness. I shall be very pleased when the dowry is in my possession and the marriage ceremony has been performed.”
“It would seem that what is delaying our Infanta is not her father’s diplomacy but the weather.”
“Ah, the weather. The winds of the Bay of Biscay are unaccountable, even in summer.”
“What is the latest news of her journey?”
The King hesitated. He did not share such information with any, even his ministers. But there could be no harm in telling her of the Infanta’s progress.
“I have heard that her squadron is still at Laredo to which port she was forced to return on account of the storms. It seems to me that Ferdinand and Isabella are deliberately keeping her there to delay her arrival in England.”
“No doubt the Queen finds it hard for a mother to part with her daughter.” The King grunted impatiently. “This is a girl who is to become Princess of Wales. I should have thought they would have been as distressed by the delay as we are.”
There was a great deal he did not understand, thought Elizabeth; and never would. This husband of hers was without emotions except those of ambition.
“Yet,” murmured the Queen, “I have heard that Queen Isabella is loath to lose her daughter.”
“And she is said to be a great Queen!”
Henry was thoughtful; he was recalling the rumors he had heard concerning the relationship of the Spanish King and Queen with whom his own family would soon be linked in marriage. It was said that Isabella never forgot that she was the Queen of Castile and the senior in the royal partnership. Henry, glancing swiftly at his Queen, was once more grateful to the fate which had given him such a woman.
In an unguarded moment he said: “I think some of our subjects were a little shocked by the hanging of the traitors.”
“The four dogs? I think many were.”
“And you?”
He so rarely allowed a personal note to creep into their relationship that she was momentarily startled.
“I…I was surprised.”
“It is not a pleasant death,” said the King. “It is well to remind ambitious men of this now and then.”
He was smiling but his smile was cold. He had been on the verge of telling her that he intended to send an English sailor to Laredo—a Devon pilot who could lead the fleet of the Spanish Infanta to England without delay; but he changed his mind.
Elizabeth was critical of his conduct and he would endure no criticisms from any man or woman living.
He said: “Matters of state demand my attention. Tonight I shall visit you.”
She bowed her head in acquiescence, but she was afraid. Must there be another pregnancy, another child who, it was more than likely, would never grow to maturity?
It seemed such a short time ago that little Edmund had died. It was heartbreaking when they lived a little while and one grew to love them. A pretty child, Edmund, but to suffer such discomfort, such pain, and then to give birth to a sickly child over whom one watched with anxiety until one suffered yet another loss!
I am too old, too weak for more childbearing, she thought. But she said nothing. What use would it have been to complain to him—to say: I have given you six children, four of whom are living. Do they not suffice?
His answer would be cool and to the point. A Queen must go on bearing children as long as possible. It is her duty.
Did he, she wondered, ever give a thought to Katherine Lee, her own maid of honor? If he did, not even Katherine would know it. She doubted whether Henry was ever unfaithful to herself even in thought.
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