Виктория Холт - The Shadow of the Pomegranate

Katharine walked from the apartment, while Maria looked after her sadly; and Elizabeth, sighing, went to make ready to leave.

IT SEEMED TO HENRY that he saw his wife clearly for the first time.

How sallow her skin is! he thought comparing her with Anne Stafford. How serious she was! And she looked old. She was old of course, compared with him, for five years was no small matter.

She seemed distasteful to him in that moment, because he felt guilty, and he hated to feel so.

“Henry,” she said, “I have heard some disturbing news. Elizabeth Fitzwalter comes to me in great distress and says that you have commanded her to leave Court.”

“It is true,” he said. “She should be gone within an hour of our giving her the order to leave.”

“But she is one of my women, and I do not wish her to go. She is a good woman and has given me no offence.”

The color flamed into his face. “We will not have her at Court,” he shouted. “Mayhap it escapes your notice, but our wishes here are of some account.”

Katharine was afraid, yet she remembered that she was the daughter of Isabella of Castile, and it ill became any—even the King of England—to speak to her in such a manner.

“I should have thought I might have been consulted in this matter.”

“No, Madam,” retorted Henry. “We saw no reason to consult you.”

Katharine said impetuously: “So you had the grace to try to keep it from my notice.”

“We understand you not.”

She realized then that he was using the formal “we,” and she guessed he was attempting to remind her that he was the King and master of all in his dominions, even his Queen. She saw the danger signals in his eyes, for his face always betrayed his feelings, but she was too hurt and unhappy to heed the warning.

“It is true then,” she burst out, “that the woman was your mistress.…”

“It is not true.”

“Then she was not, because Buckingham intervened in time.”

“Madam, if the King wishes to add to his friends it is no concern of any but himself.”

“If he has sworn to love and cherish a wife, is it not his wife’s concern if he takes a mistress?”

“If she is wise and her husband is a King, she is grateful that he is ready to give her children…if she is able to bear them!”

Katharine caught her breath in horror. It is true then, she thought. He blames me for the loss of our two children.

She tried to speak but the words would not pass the lump of misery in her throat.

“We see no reason to prolong this interview,” said Henry.

Her anger blazed suddenly. “Do you not? Then I do! I am your wife, Henry. You have told me that you believe that husband and wives should be faithful to each other; and as soon as a wanton woman gives you a glance of promise you forget your vows, you forget your ideals. The people look upon you as a god—so young, so handsome, so model a king and a husband. I see now that your vows mean nothing to you. You think of little but seeking pleasure. First it is your pageants, your masques…now it is your mistresses!”

He was scarcely handsome in that moment. His eyes seemed to sink into his plump red face. He hated criticism and, because he was so deeply conscious of his guilt, he hated her.

“Madam,” he said, “you should do your duty. It is what is expected of you.”

“My duty?” she asked.

“Which is to give me sons. You have made two attempts and have not been successful. Is it for you to criticize me when you have failed…so lamentably?”

“I…failed? You would blame me , then. Do you not know that I long for sons as much as you do? Where have I failed? How could I have saved the lives of our children? If there is a way, in the name of the saints tell it to me.”

Henry would not look at her. “We lost them both,” he mumbled.

She turned to him. She was about to tell him that she had hopes of bearing another child; but he looked so cruel that she said nothing. She was bewildered, wondering if this man who was her husband was, after all, a stranger to her.

Henry felt uneasy. He hated to know that Katharine had become aware of his flirtation with Anne Stafford. Looking back it was such a mean little affair—it had not even approached its climax. He felt small, having sent Compton to do his wooing for him, and taking such a long time to make up his mind whether he should or shouldn’t, and so giving Buckingham time to whisk his sister away.

He was angry with everyone concerned in the affair and, as Katharine was the only one present, he gave vent to his venom and let it fall upon her.

“It may be,” he said coldly, “that the difference in our ages is the cause. You are five years older than I. I had not realized until today how old you are!”

“But,” she stammered, “you always knew. I am twenty-five, Henry. That is not too old to bear healthy children.”

Henry looked past her, and when he spoke—although he did so more to himself than to her—she felt a cold terror strike at her.

“And you were my brother’s wife,” was what he said.

She could bear no more. She turned and hurried from his presence.

Before Lady Fitzwalter had left Court the news was circulating. “The King and Queen have quarrelled bitterly. This is the first quarrel. Perhaps there will be fewer of those entwined initials. Perhaps this is the end of the honeymoon.”

MARIA DE SALINAS helped the Queen to her bed. Never had Maria seen Katharine so distraught; for even in the days of humiliating poverty she had never given way to her grief but had stoically borne all her trials.

“You see, Maria,” said Katharine, “I feel I did not know him. He is not the same. I have glimpsed the man behind my smiling happy boy.”

“He was angry,” said Maria. “Perhaps Your Grace should not have spoken to him on the matter yet.”

“Perhaps I should never have spoken to him on the matter. Perhaps the love affairs of Kings are to be ignored by all, including their wives. My father was not entirely faithful to my mother. I wonder if she ever complained. No, she would be too wise.”

“You are wise too. Perhaps your mother had to learn also to curb her jealousy.”

Katharine shivered. “You speak as though this is but a beginning, the first of many infidelities.”

“But he was not unfaithful, Your Grace.”

“No, the lady’s brother and husband intervened in time. It is naught to do with the King’s virtue. I think that is why he is so angry with me, Maria…because he failed.”

“He is young, Your Grace.”

“Five years younger than I. He reminded me of it.”

“It will pass, dearest lady.”

“Oh, Maria, I am so tired. I feel bruised and wounded. I have not felt so sad…so lost…since the old days in Durham House when I thought everyone had deserted me.”

Maria took the Queen’s hand and kissed it. “All did not desert Your Grace.”

“No. You were always there, Maria. Oh, it is good to have staunch friends.”

“Let me cover you. Then you should try to sleep. When you are rested you will feel stronger.”

Katharine smiled and closed her eyes.

IT WAS LATER that night when she was awakened by pains which gripped her body and brought a sweat upon her skin.

She stumbled from her bed, calling to her ladies as she did so; but before they could reach her she fell groaning to the floor.

They put her to bed; they called her physicians; but there was nothing they could do.

On that September night Katharine’s third pregnancy ended. It had been brief, but the result was no less distressing.

Once more she had failed to give the King the son for which he longed.