Katharine, The Virgin Widow - Plaidy Jean - Страница 31
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“Indeed that is so, Highness. She wished to marry an Englishman. There are many matters which are hidden from Your Highness. It is only seemly that it should be so. Your mother instructed me that I must be careful of those who would spy against you. I must not too readily trust the English. What an excellent opportunity for spying an Englishman would have if he were married to one of your own maids of honor!”
“But this was not a case of spying. They loved…”
“So dearly did he love her that he married someone else…not so long after plighting his troth to her.”
“They were kept apart.”
“And this great love could not endure against a little absence? Nay, Highness, trust your duenna, as your mother did. Always remember that it was our dearest Queen who put me in this position of trust. She will be looking down from her place in Heaven now—for who can doubt that such a saint is now in Heaven?—and she is imploring me—can you not sense her? I can—she is imploring me to stand firm, and you to understand that all I do is for your good.”
Any mention of her mother unnerved Katharine. Merely to say or hear her name brought back so clearly an image of that dear presence that she could feel nothing but her bitter loss.
Dona Elvira saw the tears in Katharine’s eyes; she seized her opportunity: “Come, Highness, let me take you back to your apartments. You should lie down. You have not recovered from the terrible shock of her death. Who of us have? Do not distress yourself about the love affairs of a lighthearted maid of honor. Trust me…as she always wished you to.”
Katharine allowed herself to be led to her apartments, and there she lay on her bed continuing to think of her mother.
But when her grief abated a little she thought with increasing distrust of Dona Elvira, and although there was nothing she could do now to bring Maria’s love back to her she determined from that moment that in future she was going to take a firmer hand in the management of her own household.
* * *
INIGO SCRATCHED at the door. Maria heard him but she took no notice.
“Maria,” he whispered.
“Go away,” she answered.
“I will when I have spoken to you.”
“I do not wish to see you.”
“But you can hear me as I speak to you through the keyhole.”
She did not answer.
“I know you can,” he went on.
“I have come to say that I am sorry.”
Still she was silent.
“My mother is determined that we shall marry. She always has been. It is no use fighting against my mother, Maria. Maria, do you hate me so much?”
“Go away,” she repeated.
“I shall always be kind to you. I will make you love me. Then you will forget what my mother has done.”
“I shall never forget what she has done.”
“Do you wish to remain locked up here?”
“I do not care what becomes of me.”
“You do, Maria. When you marry me I will take you back to Spain. Just answer one question: Do you want to go back to Spain, Maria?”
“To Spain!” the words escaped her. She thought of her home, of being young again. If she were ever going to forget her faithless lover she might do so at home.
“Ah,” he said, “you cannot deceive me. It is what you long for. If you marry me, Maria, I will take you home as soon as it can be arranged.”
She was silent.
“Can you hear me, Maria? I want to please you. I will do anything you ask.”
“Go away. That is what I ask. That is the way to please me.”
He went away, but he returned a little later. He came again and again; and after a few days she began to look for his coming.
He was always gentle, always eager to please her.
She found that she was able to laugh as she said: “You are not overmuch like your mother, Don Inigo Manrique.”
He laughed with her; and from that moment their relationship changed.
It was a few days later when she rejoined the maids of honor.
She was subdued and sullen.
“I have agreed to become betrothed to Don Inigo Manrique,” she told them.
The Protest of the Prince of Wales
THE PRINCE OF WALES WAS APPROACHING HIS FOURTEENTH birthday, and he was determined that it should be celebrated with all the pomp due to his rank.
He would have masques and pageants such as had never been seen during his father’s reign. Fourteen was an age when one left childhood behind and became a man.
He was already taller than most men and had the strength of two. People often said that he was going to be a golden giant. He liked to hear that.
He refused to do lessons and commanded John Skelton to plan a masque.
“The kind I like best,” declared the Prince, “are those in which masked men appear at the joust and beg leave to be able to take part. One of them, taller than the rest and clearly noble, in spite of his disguise, challenges the champion.”
“And beats him,” whispered Skelton.
“Yes, and beats him; and then there is a cry of ‘This is a god, for no man on Earth could beat the champion.’ Then the ladies come forward and there is a dance.…”
“And the masked hero will allow only the most beautiful lady to remove his mask,” added Skelton.
“That is so, and when the mask is removed…”
“The god is revealed to be His Grace the Prince of Wales!” cried Skelton. “Fanfares.”
“Why, but that is exactly what I had planned,” cried Henry in surprise.
“Does it not show that our minds are in unison, Your Grace?”
“It would seem so.”
“But then we have had these pageants before, and methinks the unmasked hero has already made his debut. But, there is no reason I can see why he should not appear again…and again and again.”
Henry was never quite sure whether or not Skelton was laughing at him, but because he admired the man and believed he had much to learn from him, he preferred to think he was not, and invariably laughed with him.
“Fourteen,” he mused. “In another year I shall be betrothed.”
“A year will pass like a day, in the full life of Your Royal Highness.”
“It is indeed so, my good John. And have you heard that I am now to marry Marguerite d’Angouleme? They say she is very beautiful.”
“All high-born ladies are said to be beautiful,” answered John.
“It is not true, though their jewels and clothes often make them seem so.”
“I did not speak of what they are but what they are said to be.”
The Prince was thoughtful. Then he said: “They say that Marguerite adores her brother Francis. They say he is handsome and excels at all sports; that there is none like him in the whole of France and, if ever he comes to the throne, he will make a great King.”
“So there are two such paragons—one in England, one in France.”
The Prince drew himself up to his full height. “I believe him not to be as tall as I, and he is dark.”
“A minor paragon,” murmured Skelton.
“And,” went on the Prince, “there is no doubt that I shall one day be King. But Francis will only ascend the throne if old Louis dies childless. He must be beside himself with terror.”
“Why, my Prince, it is not easy for old men to beget children.”
“But for his future to hang on such a thread! His mother and sister call him Caesar. I hope Marguerite is soon brought to England.”
“Your Grace will have much to teach her, and not least of the lessons she will learn will be that there is a Prince more handsome, more excellent, more godlike than her brother.”
The Prince did not answer. His eyes were narrowed in the characteristic way; his small mouth was set. What a King he will make! thought Skelton. His ministers will have to learn to pander to his wishes, or it will go hard with them. Our golden god will be a despot, and heads will doubtless fly like tennis balls.
Henry was thinking of Marguerite. Surely she must come soon. He was going to insist on marrying this girl. Many had been offered to him, and then the offers had been withdrawn. He wanted Marguerite. She was beautiful, he had heard, and it was all very well for Skelton to say that all high-born ladies were beautiful; he did not believe it. Look at Katharine of Aragon in her faded gown, and her face pale and stricken with mourning. He rejoiced that it was Marguerite who had been chosen for him and not Katharine.
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