Виктория Холт - The King's Secret Matter

Katharine was thinking: Yet at heart he is only a boy. He plays at kingship. It is those about him who hold the power; men such as Thomas Wolsey on whom he depends more and more. An able man, this Thomas Wolsey, but an ambitious one, and the daughter of Ferdinand must know that ambition could warp a man’s nature. But so far Wolsey’s ambition was—like the King’s strength—in check, and it seemed that Wolsey acted for the good of the state. Katharine had thought him her friend until recent months, when there were signs of a French alliance. Then she had not been so sure.

But it was not such as Thomas Wolsey whose company she most enjoyed. There were even now occasions when she could be at peace in the King’s company; this was when he invited men such as Dr. Linacre or Thomas More to his private apartments for an intimate supper. In particular was Katharine drawn to Thomas More; there was a man whose gentle charm and astringent wit had made an instant appeal to her, but perhaps what she had admired most of all was that integrity which she sensed in the man. It was so rare a quality that all seemed to change when they came into contact with it; even Henry ceased to be the licentious young man and was a serious monarch, determined to increase his intellectual stature and work for the good of his people. It was small wonder that she looked forward with pleasure to those days when the King said: “Come, Master More, you shall sup with us tonight, and you may talk to us of astronomy, geometry or divinity; but willy-nilly we shall be merry with you.”

And strangely enough they would be for, with Thomas More leading the conversation, however serious its nature, it must be merry.

But on this day such as Thomas More and Dr. Linacre would not be the King’s companions.

She glanced out of the window. The King was leading his courtiers towards the Palace, and with him were his brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk, William Compton and Thomas Boleyn.

Katharine’s mouth tightened at the sight of the last.

Thomas Boleyn was the kind of man who would be delighted to offer his daughter to the King in exchange for honors. The honors were evidently being granted, and the man had been at the King’s side during his meeting with the King of France—that ostentatious and vulgar display of the “Field of the Cloth of Gold”—and he remained there.

But not for long, vowed Katharine—unless he can hold his place by his own qualities and not through the lewdness of his daughter.

Wherever the King went there was ceremony. Now the heralds stationed at the doors were playing a fanfare—a warning to all those who had been within the Palace while the King was at sport to leap to attention. He would stroll through the Palace smiling graciously, if his mood was a good one; and it would seem that it was so now from the sound of his voice, and the laughter which followed his remarks.

She wondered whether he would go to his own apartments or come to hers. What did he wish now? Sweet music? Would he call for his lute and entertain the company with one of his own musical compositions? Would he perhaps summon Mary Boleyn and dismiss his courtiers? He was a young healthy animal and his whims and moods could change in a moment.

“He is coming here,” she said, and she saw the faint flush begin in Maria’s cheeks as the door was flung open.

The King stood on the threshold looking at his Queen and her attendant bent over their tapestry.

Maria rose immediately, as did Katharine, and they both made a deep curtsey as Henry came into the room chuckling, his fair face flushed, his blue eyes as bright as chips of glazed china with the sun on them; his golden beard jutting out inviting admiration; he had recently grown it because King François had one, and he believed that a golden beard was more becoming than a black one.

Beside him most other men looked meager, and it was not merely the aura of kingship which made them so. It was true they fell away from him, giving him always the center of the stage, for every word, every gesture which was made in his presence must remind him that he was the King whom they all idolized.

He was glittering with jewels. How he loved color and display! And since he had returned from France he had worn brighter colors, more dazzling jewels. It was true that he did so with a hint of defiance; and Katharine knew that it would be a long time before he forgot the sly looks of the King of France, the caustic wit which, it had to be confessed, had set the King of England at a loss; that long nose, those brilliant dark eyes, had frequently seemed to hold a touch of mockery. The King of France was the only man who in recent years had dared snap his fingers at Henry and make sly jokes at his expense. Oh, the extravagant folly of that Field of the Cloth of Gold! All sham, thought Katharine, with two monarchs swearing friendship while hatred filled their hearts.

But Henry was not thinking of François now as he stood at the threshold of his wife’s apartment. He was in a favorite position, legs apart—perhaps to display that fine plump calf; his jerkin was of purple velvet, the sleeves slashed and puffed; his doublet of cloth of gold decorated with pearls; on his head was a blue velvet cap in which a white feather curled and diamonds scintillated; about his neck was a gold chain on which hung a large pearl and ruby; the plump white fingers were heavily loaded with rings, mostly of rubies and diamonds.

It was small wonder that wherever he went the people shouted for him; unlike his father he was a King who looked like a King.

“How now, Kate?” he said; and she straightened herself to look into his face, to read the expression there—his was the most expressive face at Court—and Katharine saw that for this moment his mood was a benign one. “You’ve missed a goodly sight.” He slapped his thigh, which set the jewels flashing in the sunlight.

“Then ’twas good sport, Your Grace?” answered Katharine, smiling.

“’Twas so indeed. Was it not?” He turned his head slightly and there was an immediate chorus of assent. “The dogs were game,” he went on, “and the bear was determined to stay alive. They won in the end, but I’ve lost two of my dogs.”

“Your Grace will replace them.”

“Doubt it not,” he said. “We missed you. You should have been at our side.” His expression had changed and was faintly peevish. She understood. He had been with Mary Boleyn last night and was making excuses to himself for conduct which shocked him a little, even though it was his own. She knew that he was tormented periodically by his conscience; a strange burden for such a man to carry. Yet she rejoiced in the King’s conscience; she believed that if he ever contemplated some dastardly act, it would be there to deter him.

“It was my regret that I was not,” answered Katharine.

He growled and his eyes narrowed so that the bright blue was scarcely visible. He seemed to make a sudden decision, for he snapped his fingers and said: “Leave us with the Queen.”

There was immediate obedience from those who had accompanied him into the apartment; and Maria de Salinas hurried to where the King stood, dropped a curtsey, and followed the others out. Henry did not glance at her; his lower lip was protruding slightly as the plump fingers of his right hand played with the great ruby on his left.

Katharine experienced a twinge of that apprehension which was troubling her more and more frequently nowadays. He had felt contented when he was watching his animals; when he had crossed the gardens and come into the Palace he had been happy. It was the sight of her sitting at her tapestry which had aroused his anger.

When they were alone he grumbled: “Here is a pleasant state of affairs. The King must sit alone and watch good sport because his Queen prefers not to sit beside him that people may see their King and Queen together.”