Jean Plaidy: Katharine, the Virgin Widow

There was Henry, and even he had never looked quite so magnificent as he did on that day; his enormous figure ablaze with jewels, his open countenance shining with good intentions and pleasure in his people and himself. The handsomest King ever to ride through the city of London, not excepting his maternal grandfather, Edward IV.

And there was the Queen looking radiant, with her beautiful hair streaming over her shoulders, on her head a coronal set with jewels of many colors. She was dressed as a bride in white satin exquisitely embroidered, and she rode in a litter of cloth of gold drawn by two white horses.

It was not easy to recognize in this dazzling bride the neglected Infanta of Durham House.

Happiness had brought beauty to her face.

She could only say to herself: It is over…all the humiliation, all the misery. Who would have believed it possible that it could have happened so quickly?

And there was another matter for rejoicing. She was in love. What woman could help but fall in love with the gay and handsome King who had rescued her from all her misery? He was the Prince of legend, and no such Prince had ever been so handsome as this young Henry VIII of England.

The people cheered her. They were ready to cheer anyone whom their King honored, for they told themselves, the old days of parsimony and taxation were over; a gay young King was on the throne.

There were some in the crowd who remembered the day the Queen had married Arthur. Was a brother’s widow the happiest choice? Was there not some allusion to this in the Bible which stated that such marriage was illegal?

But the sun was shining. The dour reign of Henry VII was over, and England was about to grow merry.

Away with such thoughts! This was the occasion of their King’s wedding. He had married the woman of his choice. He was a radiantly happy bridegroom and a dazzling King.

“Long live King Henry VIII and his bride!” shouted the people of London.

And so from the pleasant Palace of Greenwich came the dazzling cavalcade, through the gaily decked streets into the precincts of the Tower of London.

The gray fortress looked grim, the stone towers menacing; but Katharine only saw the golden beauty of her bridegroom, only heard the shouts of the people: “Long live the King’s bride! Long live our Queen, Katharine of Aragon.”