Jean Plaidy - Katharine, the Virgin Widow

IT WAS THE month of April. The birch and willow were in flower; the stitchwort threw a silvery sheen on the green hedges; and the meadows were bright with deep yellow cowslips.

In the Palace of Richmond, Henry VII lay dying, and in the streets the people rejoiced furtively. The old reign was passing and the new one would soon begin. People forgot that their King had brought peace to England. To most he had seemed unkingly because he hated war—not because of the misery it brought, it was true, but because of the waste of good money and lives which could be used to make the country prosperous. He had never spent lavishly on pageants for the people’s pleasure, and there had only been rich ceremonies when there had been the need to impress other rulers with England’s powers.

To the people he was a miserly King, insignificant in appearance; he had imposed cruel taxes on his subjects; he had shown little affection even to his family. They forgot that from 1485, when he had come to the throne, to this year of 1509 the country had lived in peace, and in place of a bankrupt state he had built up a rich treasury. They did not tell themselves that this was the first King who had lived within his income, who had laid the foundations on which could be built a major Power. They said: “The old miser is dying. Old Henry is passing; this is the day of young Henry.” And when they thought of their laughing, golden Prince, they said: “Now England will be merry.”

The excitement throughout the Court was growing to a feverish pitch. Courtiers gathered in little groups waiting for the cry of “The King is dead.”

That young Henry should marry almost immediately was a matter on which all seemed to agree. Such a Prince needed a Queen. Who should it be?

There were many who favored alliance with France. Let it be Marguerite of Angoulême, they said. There were others who believed that alliance with the Hapsburgs would be more advantageous. Let it be Eleanor, the daughter of Juana and Philip. Was Eleanor too young for their golden Prince? Well then, Duke Albert of Bavaria had a daughter. Maximilian would be delighted to sponsor such a match.

There was no mention of Katharine of Aragon, who had gone through a betrothal ceremony with the Prince of Wales some years before.

When Fuensalida came to visit Katharine he was gloomy. He was shut out from the Palace; he was useless as an ally. He told her that he was making arrangements to have her plate and jewels secretly shipped back to Spain.

He could not have said more clearly: The game is over, and we have lost.

THE PRINCE OF WALES waited in his apartments. Soon he would hear the stampede. They would come to acclaim him as their King. They, no less than he, had been waiting for this day.

He would tower above them all; none could mistake him, with his great height and his crown of fiery hair; his big, beaming and benign countenance was known throughout the country.

His eyes narrowed as he thought of the years of restraint when he, the beloved of the people, had been forced to obey his father.

He was no longer a boy, being in his eighteenth year. Surely this was the threshold of glorious manhood. He could not be merely a man; he was a god. He had so much beauty, so much strength. There was none at Court who could compare with him; and now, as though not content with the gifts which had been showered on him, fate was putting the crown of yellow gold on that red-gold head.

From his window he could see the courtiers. They were whispering together…about him. Of course it was about him. The whole country was talking about him. They were saying he should marry soon, and marry soon he would, for he had a fancy for a wife.

Marguerite from France, who thought her brother the most wonderful man in the world? Little Eleanor who was but a child? They were daring to choose his bride for him!

He could scarcely wait for the moment when they would proclaim him King. One of his first acts would be to show them that he was their King in truth, and that, whether it was a bride or a matter of policy, it was the King who would decide.

They were coming now. So it was all over. The long-awaited moment was at hand.

He was ready for them as they came into the apartment. His eyes gleamed with appreciation, for he quickly sensed the new respect, the subtle difference in the way a King was greeted.

They were on their knees before him.

“Then it is so?” he said. “Alas, my father!”

But there was no time for sorrow. There was only triumph for the cry had gone up: “The King is dead. Long live the King! Long live King Henry VIII!”

KATHARINE HAD COME to pay homage with the rest, and kneeling before him, she looked appealing in her humility.

The young King turned to those who stood about him and said: “You may leave us. I have something to say to the Infanta which she must know before all others.”

When they were alone he said: “You may rise, Katharine.”

He was smiling at her with the expression of a boy who has prepared, for a friend, a wonderful surprise, in which he is going to find as much pleasure—or even more—than the one for whom it is intended.

“Doubtless,” he said, “you have heard of many plans afoot to marry me to Princesses of Europe.”

“I have, Your Grace.”

“And I venture to think they have caused you some disquiet.” Henry did not wait for confirmation of that which he considered to be obvious. “They need concern you no more. I have chosen my own bride. Do you think, Katharine, that I am the man to allow others to decide such a matter for me?”

“I did not think you would be, Your Grace.”

“Then you are right, Kate. I have chosen.” He took both her hands in his and kissed them. “You are to be my bride. You are to be Queen of England.”

“I…I…,” she stammered.

He beamed. No speech could have been more eloquent in his ears. She was overwhelmed by the honor; she was overcome with joy. He was delighted with her.

“I’ll brook no refusal!” This was a joke. How could any woman in her right senses refuse the most glorious offer that could possibly be made? “I have made up my mind. You shall be my bride!”

How handsome he was; his face creased in that happy, sunny smile. Yet behind it there remained the shadow of the sullen boy who had said: Nobody shall tell me what I must do. I make my own decisions.

For a brief moment Katharine asked herself what would have become of her if this boy had been told he must marry her instead of having been forbidden to.

Then she refused to consider such a thought.

Of what importance was what might have been, when she was being offered freedom from poverty and the humiliating position in which she had lived for so many years?

She knew the waiting was over. The neglected Infanta was about to become the most courted woman in England, the Queen, the bride of the most handsome, the most kingly ruler in Christendom.

KATHARINE RODE BESIDE THE KING THROUGH THE STREETS of London.

A few days earlier they had been married in the Palace of Greenwich, for Henry, once having made up his mind, was eager for the marriage to be celebrated.

He was attentive to his bride; he was affectionate; he, who had never made a secret of his feelings, announced to his councillors that he loved her beyond all women.

So they must proceed from Greenwich to the Tower, and with them rode the flower of the nobility; through the streets they went, past the rich tapestries which hung from the windows to welcome them; and Cornhill, proud that all should know it was the richest street in the city, hung cloth of gold from its windows. The route was lined with young girls in white to indicate their virginity; all sang praises of their King and Queen.