Виктория Холт - The Shadow of the Pomegranate

Brandon shook his head with feigned sorrow. “Your Grace is…unrivalled.”

The King waved a hand. “I would talk of other matters. I wish to plan a masque for the Queen as soon as she is able to rise from her bed, and to show in this my pleasure in her.”

“Oh fortunate Katharine to be Queen to such a King!”

Henry smiled. Flattery delighted him and the more blatant it was the better he liked it.

“I fancy the Queen is not displeased with her state. Now, Charles, devise some pageant which will please me. Let us have a tournament in which we shall appear disguised so that the Queen will have no notion who we are. We will surprise the company with our daring and then, when we are acknowledged the champions, let us throw off our disguise.”

“That would give Her Grace much pleasure, I am sure.”

“You remember how I surprised her at the Christmas festivities in the guise of a strange knight, and how I astonished all with my skill. And how surprised she was when I unmasked and she found in the strange knight her own husband?”

“Her Grace was delighted. She had been wondering how it was possible for any to rival her husband and when she had seen one who showed the same skill it was only to discover that it was the King in disguise!”

Henry burst into loud laughter at the memory. “I remember a time when I, with my cousin Essex, forced my way into her apartments dressed as Robin Hood and his men,” he mused. “And there was that occasion when, with Essex and Edward Howard and Thomas Parr…there were others also…we appeared dressed as Turks and we blacked the faces of our attendants so that they looked like blackamoors.”

“I remember the occasion well. Your Grace’s sister, the Princess Mary, danced disguised as an Ethiopian Queen.”

“She did well,” said the King fondly.

“It was a goodly sight though her pretty face was veiled.”

“’Twas well that it should be.” Henry’s mouth was a little prim. “My sister grows too fond of her pretty face.”

“Is that so?” murmured Brandon.

“She is a witch who can twist me about her finger,” murmured the King fondly. “But what would you? She is my only sister now that Margaret is away. It may be that I am overindulgent.”

“It is difficult not to indulge one so charming,” agreed Brandon.

Henry was faintly impatient. “But the masque, man. I would have you devise some pageant which will amuse the Queen.”

“I will give the matter my earnest attention.”

“And remember that there must be little delay. The Queen cannot lie abed much longer.”

It was on the tip of Brandon’s tongue to remind the King that the Queen had, in less than two years of marriage, twice been brought to bed for the purpose of bearing a child. But one only reminded the King of that which he wished to remember. He himself enjoyed perfect health; those who did not he considered to be rather tiresome.

“I’ll swear Her Grace is all impatience to join the revels,” said Brandon.

“It is so. So let us give her a worthy spectacle, Charles.”

“Your Grace commands, and it is my pleasure to obey. There shall be a spectacle such as none of your courtiers have ever seen before.”

“Then I shall go to the Queen and bid her hasten her convalescence.”

As they approached the Palace they were joined by many of the courtiers who hastened to pay compliments to the King.

“Listen,” commanded Henry, “I would have the Queen know our pleasure. There is to be a pageant.…”

They listened, all eager to join in the fun. The new King was a complete contrast to his father, and in this new reign to be young, gay, witty, to excel at the jousts, could lead the way to fortune. There was not a courtier, as there was not a man or woman in the street, who did not rejoice in the accession of Henry VIII.

They were joined by the King’s sister, the young Princess Mary, said by many to be the loveliest girl at Court. Henry’s eyes glistened with affection as they rested on her. She was now fifteen, full of life as became a Tudor, inclined to take liberties with her brother which no one else would dare; and he seemed to like it.

“Well, sister,” he said, “are you ready to join in our fun?”

Mary swept a deep curtsey and smiled at her brother. “Always ready to be at Your Grace’s side.”

“Come here to me,” said Henry.

She came and he slipped his arm through hers. She was a beauty, this little sister. Tudor, all Tudor. By God what a handsome race we are! thought Henry; then he remembered his father’s somewhat sere, sour face, and laughed.

“It will be necessary for you to show a little decorum, my child,” said Henry.

“Yes, Your Grace. I live but to please Your Grace.”

She was laughing at him, imitating his sycophantish courtiers, but he did not object. He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched it.

Mary cried out. “Too much pressure of the royal fingers,” she explained, taking those fingers and kissing them.

“I shall miss you, sister, when you leave us.”

Mary frowned. “It will be years yet.”

Henry looked at her; he could see the shape of her breasts beneath her bodice. Fifteen! She was a woman. It could not be long before she left England for Flanders to marry Charles, grandson of Maximilian and Ferdinand of Aragon, and heir to great dominions. He did not want to lose Mary, but, as he told himself sadly, a King must not think of his own feelings.

She guessed his thoughts and pouted. She was going to raise difficulties when the time came for her to go.

“It may be,” she said suddenly, and her lovely face was radiant, “that Your Grace will discover he cannot bear to part with his little sister—and Charles will then not get his bride.”

There was an appeal in the lovely eyes; they had strayed to Brandon’s face and rested there. Fifteen! thought Henry. She has the provocation of a girl some years older. He must warn her not to look at men like Brandon in that way. Charles Brandon had not lived the life of a monk. That was something Mary was as yet too young to understand; he should warn her, for he was not only her King but, since she had neither father nor mother, he must be her guardian too.

“Enough, enough,” he said. “Come turn your wits to the pageants. I expect you to give the Queen a goodly spectacle.”

The King’s thoughts had gone to the Queen and his son and purposefully he made his way through the Palace to her apartments.

In her bedchamber the Queen was awakened by the fanfares which announced the King’s coming. Her doctors had said that she must rest, but the King did not know this, or had forgotten.

She spread her hair about her pillows, for he liked it in that way and her hair was her one real beauty.

He burst into the apartment, and she saw him standing on the threshold with Mary on one side of him and Brandon on the other. Behind him were other friends and courtiers.

“Why, Kate,” he cried advancing, “we come to see how you are. Are you not weary of bed? We plan a great entertainment for you. So get well quickly.”

“Your Grace is kind to me,” answered the Queen.

“Your King takes pleasure in pleasing you,” replied Henry.

The courtiers were surrounding her bed, and she felt very tired but she smiled, because one must always smile for the King, that golden boy whose strict upbringing under his father’s rule had been perhaps a little too severe for his exuberant nature.

He was a little irritated by the sight of her. She must lie a-bed, and he was impatient with all inactivity. He was urging her to shorten the period of rest, but she dared not. She had to preserve her strength; she had to remember that this was one of many births which must follow over the coming years.