The Shadow of the Pomegranate

Bessie Blount

AS HENRY RODE WITH MAXIMILIAN TO THE COURT OF THE Duchess of Savoy in the town of Lille he felt completely happy.

The townsfolk had come out to see him and, as he rode among them, they shouted greetings; and when he asked Maximilian what they said, the Emperor answered him: “But this is not a King, this is a God.”

His own subjects could not have been more appreciative and, when some of the beautiful women placed garlands about his neck, he took their hands and kissed them and even went so far, when the girls were pretty, to kiss their lips.

He came as a conqueror and he could never resist such homage.

Margaret of Savoy greeted him with pleasure. He thought her fair enough but she seemed old to him, twice widowed, or one might say three times if her first betrothal to the Dauphin of France were counted. Henry found some of the pretty girls of Lille more to his taste.

As for Margaret herself, she seemed mightily taken with that seasoned charmer, Brandon, and Henry, amused, made a point of bringing them together on all occasions.

So this was Charles, he mused, studying the fourteen-year-old boy, who was to be his brother-in-law. He could not help feeling complacent at the sight of him for, when Ferdinand and Maximilian died, this boy could be heir to their dominions which constituted a great part of Europe not to mention those lands overseas which their explorers had discovered and brought under their sway.

This boy would therefore be one of the rivals with whom Henry would juggle for power in Europe. It was an amusing thought. The boy’s somewhat bulging eyes suggested that he needed great concentration to understand what was being said; he seemed to find difficulty in closing his mouth; his hair was yellow and lustreless; his skin so pale that he looked unhealthy.

His mother’s mad, thought Henry. And, by God, it seems that the boy too could be an idiot.

Charles, however, greeted his grandfather and the King of England in the manner demanded by etiquette and he appeared to be endeavoring to take in everything that was being said.

He’s far too serious for a boy of that age, Henry decided. Why, when I was fourteen, I looked eighteen. I was already a champion at the jousts and I could tire out a horse without a hint of fatigue to myself.

So it was comforting to discover that this future ruler was such a puny, slow-witted young fellow.

“My grandson,” said Maximilian, “may well inherit the dominions on which the sun never sets. ’Tis so, is it not, Charles?”

Charles was slow in replying; then he said: “’Tis so, Imperial Highness, but I trust it will be long ere I do so.”

“And what’s your motto, Grandson? Tell the King of England that.”

Again that faint hesitation as though he were trying very hard to repeat a lesson. “‘More Beyond,’ Grandfather.”

“That’s right,” said Maximilian.

Then he put an arm about the boy and held him against him, laughing.

“He’s a good fellow, my grandson. He’s a Fleming all through. None of your mincing Spaniards about Charles. And he works hard at his lessons. His tutors are pleased with him.”

“We’re all pleased with him,” said Henry, laughing at his own subtlety.

THOSE WEEKS SPENT at Lille were delightful ones for Henry. He had changed since coming to France. Previously he had been more or less a faithful husband. Often he wished to stray, and in the case of Buckingham’s sister had been prepared to do so; but he had always had to fight battles with his conscience. He was possessed of deep sensual appetites and at the same time wished to see himself as a religious and virtuous man. He wanted to be a faithful husband; but he desperately wanted to make love to women other than his wife. The two desires pulled him first in one direction, then in another; and always it seemed that he must come to terms with his conscience before indulging in his pleasures.

He had persuaded himself that when he was at war and far from home, he could not be expected to eschew all sexual relationships. The same fidelity must not be expected of a soldier as of a man who was constantly beside his wife. He reckoned that all monarchs of Europe would have laughed at what they would call his prudery.

He is young yet, they would say. He believes it is possible to remain faithful to one woman all his life. What a lot he has to learn!

His conscience now told him that it was no great sin, while he was abroad, to make a little light love here and there.

The women expected it.

“By God,” he told himself on the first lapse. “I could not so have disappointed her by refusing to grant that which she so clearly desired.”

And once the first step was taken, others followed and thus the King of England was finding the life of a soldier a highly interesting and exhilarating one.

With each new love affair he thought less kindly of Katharine. She was his wife; she was the daughter of a King; but, by God, he thought, she knows less of the arts of loving than the veriest tavern wench.

Brandon was his closest companion, and Brandon’s reputation, he had always known, was a none too savory one.

He watched Brandon with the women and followed his example even while he shook his head over the man and was shocked by his conduct.

I am King, he excused himself. The woman will remember all her life, what she and I have shared. It was but a kindness on my part. But Brandon!

Always Henry saw his own acts shrouded in mystic glory. What he did was right because he was the King; it was entirely different if another did the same thing.

He was a little worried about Brandon because his sister Mary was so fond of the fellow, and he was afraid that one day she would be so foolish as to ask to be allowed to marry him. What would she say if she could see that bloodless boy to whom she was betrothed—and side by side with handsome, wicked Brandon!

Brandon was now even daring to carry on a flirtation with the Duchess Margaret; and such was the fascination of the man that Margaret seemed nothing loath.

He had watched the exchange of glances, the hands that touched and lingered.

By God, he thought, that fellow Brandon now has his eyes on the Emperor’s daughter.

He thought about the matter until some hot-eyed wench sought him out in the dance and, when they had danced awhile, found a quiet room in which to explore other pleasures.

Each new experience was a revelation.

What did we know—Katharine and I—of making love? he asked himself. Was our ignorance the reason for our lack of children?

It behooved him to learn all he could.

There must be children, so what he did was really for England.

CHARLES BRANDON was hopeful. Was it possible that he could marry Margaret of Savoy? The prospects were glittering. He could look into a future which might even lead to the Imperial crown, for this crown was never passed to a hereditary heir. The Empire was composed of vassal states and Emperors were elected from a few chosen candidates.

The Emperor’s grandson was a feeble boy who, Brandon was sure, would never win the approval of the electors. But Margaret was powerful and rich. Votes were won through bribery and the husband of Margaret would stand a very fair chance.

It was a dizzy prospect, and he brought out all his charm to dazzle the woman. He did not even have to make a great effort for she was attractive and he could feel real affection for her. Poor woman, she had been unfortunate first to have her betrothal to the Dauphin ruthlessly terminated by an ambitious King of France; then her marriage to the heir of Spain was short-lived, her child, which came after her husband’s death, still-born; then had followed the marriage with the Duke of Savoy who had soon left her a widow.

Surely she was in need of such solace as one of the most glittering personalities of the English Court—or any Court for that matter—could give her.

Brandon had for some time been thinking a great deal of another Princess who he was sure would be delighted to be his wife. This was none other than the King’s own sister, young Mary. Mary was a girl of great determination and too young to hide her feelings; Brandon had been drawn to her, not only because of her youthful charms and the great glory which would surely come to the King’s brother-in-law, but because there was an element of danger in the relationship, and he was always attracted by danger.

But Mary was betrothed to the pale-eyed anemic Charles, and she would never be allowed to choose her husband; but Margaret of Savoy was a widow, and a woman who would make her own decisions.

That was why he was growing more and more excited and blessing the fate which had brought him to Lille at this time.

He was elated because he believed that the King was not ill-disposed to a marriage between himself and Margaret. Henry knew how his sister felt towards him, and Henry was fond of young Mary. He would hate to deny her what she asked, so it would be helpful to have Brandon out of her path, to let Mary see she had better be contented with her fate, because Brandon, married to the Duchess Margaret, could certainly not be the husband of the Princess of England.

So Brandon made up his mind that he would take an opportunity of asking Margaret to be his wife.

When they walked in the gardens, Margaret allowed herself to be led aside by Brandon, and, as soon as they were out of earshot of their companions, Brandon said to her familiarly: “You spoil that nephew of yours.”

Margaret’s eyes dwelt fondly on young Charles who was standing awkwardly with his grandfather and Henry, listening earnestly to the conversation.

“He is very dear to me,” she answered. “I had no children of my own so it is natural that I should care for my brother’s son.”

“It is sad that you never had children of your own. But you are young yet. Might that not be remedied?”

Margaret saw where the conversation was leading and caught her breath in amazement. Would this arrogant man really ask the daughter of Maximilian to marry him as unceremoniously as he might—and she was sure did—invite some peasant or serving woman to become his mistress?

She was amazed and fascinated at the project; but she sought to ward it off.

“You have not a high opinion of my young nephew,” she said. “I see that your King has not either. You do not know my Charles; he is no fool.”

“I am sure that any child who had the good fortune to be under your care would learn something to his advantage.”

“Do not be deceived by his quiet manners. There is little he misses. He may seem slow of speech, but that is because he never makes an utterance unless he has clearly worked out what he is going to say. Perhaps it would be well if others followed his example.”

“Then there would never be time to say all that has to be said in the world.”

“Perhaps it would not be such a tragedy if much of it was left unsaid. Charles’ family has been very tragic. As you know his father died when he was so young, and his mother…”

Charles Brandon nodded. Who had not heard of the mad Queen of Spain who had so mourned her unfaithful husband that she had taken his corpse with her wherever she went until she had been made more or less a prisoner in the castle of Tordesillas where she still remained.

But Brandon did not wish to talk of dull Charles, his philandering father or his mad mother.

He took Margaret’s hand in his. Reckless in love had always been his motto, and he was considered a connoisseur.

“Margaret,” he began, “you are too fair to remain unmarried.”

“Ah, but I have been so unfortunate in that state.”

“It does not mean you always will be.”

“I have had such experiences that I prefer not to risk more.”

“Then someone must try to make you change your mind.”

“Who should that be?”

“Who but myself?” he whispered.

She withdrew her hand. She was too strongly aware of the potent masculinity of the man for comfort.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Why not? You are a widow who can choose your husband.”

She looked at him. He was indeed a handsome man; he had the experience of life which was so missing in his young King.

Margaret asked herself: Could I be happy again with him?

He saw her hesitation and, taking a ring from his finger, slipped it on hers.

She stared at it with astonishment.

They were then joined by Henry, Maximilian and young Charles, and as the young boy stared at the ring on his aunt’s hand there was no expression in his pallid eyes, but Margaret, who knew him so much better than everyone else, was aware that he understood the meaning of that little scene which he had witnessed from afar—understood and disapproved.

BY THE BEGINNING of October Henry, tired of play, now hoped to win fresh laurels; but the rainy season had started and when he sought out Maximilian and demanded to know when they would be ready to start on the march to Paris, the Emperor shook his head sagely.

“Your Grace does not know our Flanders mud. It would be impossible to plan an offensive when we have that to contend with.”

“When then?” Henry wanted to know.

“Next spring…next summer.”

“And what of all the troops and equipment I have here?”

“That good fellow Wolsey will take charge of all that. You can rely on him to get them safely back to England for you.”

Henry hesitated. He remembered the disaster which Dorset had suffered when he had stayed a winter in Spain.

He saw now that this was the only course for him to take. He was disappointed, for he had hoped to return to England, conqueror of France. All he had to show was the capture of two French towns and certain prisoners, whom he had sent home to Katharine, and who were causing her some anxiety because she had to feed them and treat them as the noblemen they were, because as the war with Scotland had proved costly and the war with France even more so, there was little to spare for the needs of noble prisoners.

Katharine had the victory of Flodden Field to set side by side with the conquest of Thérouanne and Tournai, and Henry felt piqued because he had to admit that she had scored the greater victory.

He felt angry towards her, particularly as he had now heard of the loss of the child. “Lost, that your kingdom might be held, Henry.” Grudgingly he agreed that all she had done had been necessary. But, he had said to himself, it seemed that God’s hand was against them; and since he had known many other women in France his satisfaction with Katharine had diminished.

Oh, it was time he went home; and he could go as a conqueror. The people of England would be eager to welcome him back.

He sent for Brandon.

“How goes the courtship?” he asked slyly.

Brandon shook his head. “I need time.”

“And that is something you cannot have. We are returning to England.”

Brandon was downcast. “Have no fear,” said Henry, “we shall return and then ere long I doubt not you’ll have swept the Duchess Margaret into marriage.”

“She has returned my ring and asked for the one I took from her,” said Brandon.

“Is that so? The lady is coy.”

“One day she seems willing enough, and the next she holds back. She talks of previous marriages and says that she is afraid she is doomed to be unfortunate in that state. Then she talks of her duty to her nephew. ’Tis true that young fellow looks as though he needs a keeper.”

Henry laughed. “I rejoice every time I look at him,” he said. “Max can’t last forever. Nor can Ferdinand…and then…it will not be difficult to dupe that little fellow, what think you? And who will take over from old Louis…for he too must be near his death-bed? Francis of Angoulême.” Henry’s eyes narrowed. “I hear he is a young braggart…but that he excels in pastimes.”

“A pale shadow of Your Grace.”

Henry’s mouth was prim suddenly. “That fellow is a lecher. His affairs with women are already talked of…and he little more than a boy! Brandon, have you thought that one day, and that day not far distant, there will be three men standing astride Europe…three great rivals…the heads of the three great powers? There will be Francis, myself and that young idiot Charles.” Henry laughed. “Why, when I think of those two…and myself…I have great reason for rejoicing. God will not favor a lecher, will He, against a virtuous man? And what hope has young Charles, whose mother is mad and who seems to have been born with half his wits? Oh, Brandon, I see glorious days ahead of me and I thank God for this sojourn in Europe where my eyes have been opened to all that, with His help, may come to me.”

“Your Grace stands on the threshold of a brilliant future.”

Henry put his arm about Brandon’s shoulder. “In which my friends shall join,” he said. “Why, Charles, I might even win for you the hand of Margaret, eh, in spite of the fact that she returns your ring and demands hers back; in spite of the snivelling little nephew who doubtless cries to his aunt that her duty lies with him.”

The two men smiled, drawn together by a joint ambition.

Henry was placated. He sent for Wolsey and told him to make arrangements to return to England.

KATHARINE WAS deep in preparations for the return of the King.

Surely, she thought, he cannot but be pleased with me. It is true I have lost the child but, much as he longs for an heir, he must be satisfied with what I have done.

She had Margaret, widow of dead James IV, remain Regent of Scotland; after all, was she not the King’s sister? It would have been too costly to have taken possession of the Scottish crown. She trusted Henry would approve of what she had done.

She had recovered from the last miscarriage, and felt well in body if a little uneasy in mind.

Maria de Salinas, now married to Lord Willoughby, was not at this time separated from her, and she talked to her about the masque she was planning to celebrate the King’s return.

“It must be colorful,” said Katharine. “You know how the King loves color. Let there be dancing, and we will have the King’s own music played. That will delight him.”

While they sat thus Maria ventured: “Your Grace, Francesca de Carceres, realizing that there is no hope of regaining her place in your household, now has hopes of joining that of the Duchess of Savoy. She believes that if Your Grace would speak a word of recommendation to the Duchess on her behalf she would have her place.”

Katharine was thoughtful. It would be pleasant to be rid of Francesca’s disturbing proximity. While she was in England she would continue to haunt the antechambers, hoping for an interview with the Queen. Any mention of the woman brought back unpleasant memories…either of the old days when she had suffered such humiliation, or of that other unfortunate affair of Buckingham’s sister.

Francesca was an intriguer. Was it fair to send her to the Court of the Duchess with a recommendation?

It was not just, she was sure of it.

No, much as she longed to be rid of Francesca she was not going to send her with a recommendation to someone else.

“No,” said Katharine, “she is too perilous a woman. I shall not give her the recommendation she requires. There is only one thing to be done for Francesca; that is that she should be sent back to her own country. When Thomas Wolsey returns I will put this matter before him, and I doubt not he will find some means of having her sent back to Spain.”

“It is where she longed to go in the past,” said Maria. “Poor Francesca! I remember how she used to sigh for Spain! And now…when she does not want to return, she will go back.”

“My dear Maria, she is an adventuress. She wanted to go to Spain because she thought it had more to offer her than England. Remember how she wanted to come to England, when I left Spain, because she thought England would have greater opportunities for her. Such as Francesca deserve their fate. Waste no sorrow on her. You have achieved happiness, my dear Maria, with your Willoughby, because you did not seek to ride over others to reach it. So be happy.”

“I shall be so,” said Maria, “as long as I know that Your Grace is too.”

The two women smiled at each other then. Their gaiety was a little forced. Each was thinking of the King—on whom Katharine’s happiness depended. What would happen on his return?

HENRY CAME riding to Richmond.

As soon as he had disembarked, he had called for a horse, declaring that he was not going to wait for a ceremonial cavalcade.

“This is a happy moment,” he cried. “Once more I set foot on English soil. But I cannot be completely happy until I am with my wife. So a horse…and to Richmond where I know she eagerly awaits me.”

He had been unfaithful a score of times in Flanders but that made him feel more kindly towards Katharine. Those affairs had meant nothing to him, he assured himself. They were not to be given a moment’s thought. It was Katharine, his Queen, whom he loved. There was no other woman who was of any importance to him.

Such peccadilloes were to be set at naught, merely to be mentioned at confession and dismissed with a Hail Mary and a Paternoster.

Katharine heard the commotion below.

“The King is here.”

“But so soon!” Her hands were trembling, as she put them to her headdress. Her knees felt as though they were giving way beneath her.

“Oh, Maria, how do I look?”

“Beautiful, Your Grace.”

“Ah…you say that!”

“In my eyes Your Grace is beautiful.”

“That is because you love me, Maria.”

And how shall I look to him? she wondered. Will he, like Maria, look at me with the eyes of love?

She went down to greet him. He had leaped from his steaming horse. How dramatic he was in all he did.

His face was as smooth as a boy’s, flushed with exercise, his blue eyes beaming with good will. Thank God for that.

“Kate! Why Kate, have you forgotten who I am?”

She heard his laughter at the incongruity of such a suggestion, saw the glittering arms held out. No ceremonial occasion this. Now he was the good husband, returning home, longing for a sight of his wife.

He had swung her up in his arms before those who had come riding ahead of the cavalcade, before those who had hastened from the Palace to greet him.

Two audible kisses. “By God, it does my heart good to see you!”

“Henry…oh my Henry…but you look so wonderful!”

“A successful campaign, Kate. I do not return with my tail between my legs like some licked cur, eh! I come as conqueror. By my faith, Kate, this time next year you’ll be with me in Paris.”

“The news was so good.”

“Ay, the best.”

He had his arm round her. “Come,” he said, “let’s get within walls. Let’s drink to conquest, Kate. And later you and I will talk together…alone, eh…of all that has been happening there and here.”

His arm about her they went into the great hall where the feast was waiting.

He ate while he talked—mainly of those great victories, Thérouanne and Tournai—and from his talk it would appear that he and he alone had captured them. Maximilian had been there, yes…but in a minor role. Had he not placed himself under Henry’s banner; had he not received pay for his services?

“And you looked after our kingdom well in our absence, Kate. You and Surrey together with the help of all those good men and true I left behind me. So Jemmy the Scot is no more. I wonder how Margaret likes being without a husband. ’Tis a sad thing, Kate, to be without a husband. You missed me?”

“Very much, Henry.”

“And we lost the child. A boy too. Alas, my Kate. But you lost him in a good cause. I have heard how you worked for England…when you should have been resting….” His eyes were slightly glazed; he was remembering past experiences in Flanders. That sly court Madam, lady to the Duchess; that kitchen girl. By God, he thought, I have profited more than my Kate realizes by my Flanders campaign.

“Well, Kate, it grieves me. But we are young yet.…”

She thought: He has learned soldiers’ ways in Flanders.

His eyes were warm, his hands straying to her thigh. But she was not unhappy. She had been afraid that he would blame her for the loss of the child as he had on other occasions.

He was drinking freely; he had eaten well.

“Come,” he said, “’twas a long ride to Richmond. ’Tis bed for us, Kate.”

His eyes were warm; so that all knew that it was not to rest he was taking her.

She did not object; she was filled with optimism.

There would be another time, and then it should not fail.

THE COURT was gay that Christmas. There was so much to celebrate. Henry was looking forward to the next year’s campaign. His sister Margaret was looking after his interests in Scotland; and at the Palace of Richmond masques, balls and banquets were arranged for Henry’s delight.

One day Lord Mountjoy, when talking to the Queen, mentioned a relative of his whose family were eager that she should have a place at Court.

William Blount, Lord Mountjoy, was one of Katharine’s greatest friends. He was her chamberlain and one of the few seriously inclined men of the Court; Katharine had a great regard for him and had tried to influence the King in favor of this man. Mountjoy’s friends were the learned men on the fringe of the Court—men such as Colet, Linacre, Thomas More.

So far the King had shown little interest in the more serious-minded of his subjects. His greatest friends were those men who danced well or excelled at the joust, men such as William Compton, Francis Bryan, Nicholas Carew, Charles Brandon.

But it sometimes seemed to Katharine that Henry grew up under her eyes. He had remained a boy rather long, but she was convinced that eventually the man would emerge and then he would take an interest in the scholars of his Court.

“I’m thinking of this relative of mine,” Mountjoy was saying. “She is fifteen or sixteen…a comely child, and her parents would like to see her enjoy a place in Your Grace’s household.”

“You must bring her to me,” said Katharine. “I doubt not we shall find room for her here.”

So the next day Mountjoy brought little Bessie Blount with him to the Queen’s presence.

The girl curtseyed, and blushed at Katharine’s scrutiny, keeping her eyes modestly downcast. A pretty creature, thought Katharine, and one who, if she could dance, would fit well into the Christmas masque.

“Have you learned the Court dances?” asked Katharine.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And you wish to serve in my household. Well, I think that can be managed.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Can you play a musical instrument or sing?”

“I play the lute, Your Grace, and sing a little.”

“Then pray let me hear you.”

Bessie Blount took the instrument which one of Katharine’s women offered her and, seating herself on a stool, began to pick out notes on the lute and sing as she did so.

The song she sang was the King’s own song:

“Pastance with good company

I love, and shall until I die.

Grudge who will, but none deny;

So God be pleased, this life will I

For my pastance

Hunt, sing and dance.”

And as she sat there singing, her reddish gold hair falling childishly about her shoulders, the door was burst open and the King came in.

He heard the words of the song and the music; he saw the child who sang them; and the words he was about to utter died on his lips. He stood very still, and those who were with him, realizing the command for silence in his attitude, stood very still behind him.

When the song came to an end, the King strode forward.

“Bravo!” he shouted. “’Twas well done. And who is our performer?”

Bessie had risen to her feet and the flush in her cheeks matched her hair.

She sank to her knees, her eyes downcast, her long golden lashes, a shade or two darker than her hair, shielding her large violet-colored eyes.

“Ha!” cried Henry. “You should not feel shame, my child. ’Twas worthy of praise.” He turned to the company. “Was it not?”

There was a chorus of assent from those who stood with the King, and Katharine said: “This is little Bessie Blount, Your Grace, Mountjoy’s relation. She is to have a place in my household.”

“I am right glad to hear it,” said Henry. “As she sings like that she will be an asset to your court, Kate.”

“I thought so.”

Henry went to the girl and took her chin in his hands. She lifted her awestruck eyes to his face.

“There is one thing we must ask of you, Mistress Bessie, if you belong to our Court. Do you know what it is?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Then we’ll tell you, Bessie. ’Tis not to be afraid of us. We like our subjects who play our music and sing it well, as you do. You’ve nothing to fear from us, Bessie. Remember it.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He gave her a little push and turned to the Queen.

Mountjoy signed to the trembling girl that she should disappear. She went out quickly and with relief, while Henry began to talk to the Queen about some item of the pageantry. But he was not really thinking of that; he could not dismiss the picture of that pretty child sitting on the stool, so sweetly singing his own music.

NEVER HAD THE KING seemed so full of vigor as he did that Christmas. That year the pageants were of the gayest, the banquets more lavish than ever before. Katharine hid her weariness of the continual round of pleasure which lasted far into the night, for it seemed that the King never tired. He would hunt through the day, or perhaps joust in the tiltyard, a splendid figure in his glittering armor inlaid with gold which seemed not to hamper him at all. His laughter would ring out at the splintering of lances as one by one his opponents fell before him.

Often he tilted in what was meant to be a disguise. He would be a strange knight from Germany, from Flanders, from Savoy; even from Turkey. The massive form would enter the tiltyard in a hushed silence, would challenge the champion, and, when he had beaten him would lift his visor; then the people would go wild with joy to recognize the well-known features, the crown of golden hair.

Katharine never failed to display a surprise which she was far from feeling. He would come to her, kiss her hand and tell her that his exploits were all in her honor. At which she would kiss him in return, thank him for the pastance, and then chide him a little for risking his life and causing her anxiety.

Henry enjoyed every moment. There was nothing he desired more than to be the popular, dazzling, godlike King of England.

It seemed, thought Katharine, that he had become a boy again. But there was a difference.

On occasions he would sit pensively staring before him; the music he played on his lute was plaintive. He was kinder, more gentle than he had ever been to Katharine and seemed to take great pains to please her.

Henry was changing subtly because he was falling in love.

She was a slip of a girl of sixteen with hair of that red gold color not unlike his own; but shy and innocent as she was, she could not remain long in ignorance of his interest and its significance. In the dances which were arranged for the Queen’s pleasure she would often find herself as his partner; their hands would touch and a slow smile would illumine the royal features. Bessie smiled shyly, blushing; and the sight of her, so young, so different from the brazen members of his Court, increased the King’s ardor.

He watched her at the banqueting table, at the masques, in the Queen’s apartments, but he rarely spoke to her.

He was surprised at his feelings. Previously he had believed that, if he desired, it was for him to beckon and the girl to come willingly. It was different with Bessie. She was so young, so innocent; and she aroused such tender feeling within him.

He even began to question himself. Should I? It would be so easy…like plucking a tender blossom. Yet she was ready for the plucking. But she was fragile and strangely enough he would not be happy if he hurt her.

Perhaps he should make a good match for her and send her away from Court. It was astonishing that he, who desired her so ardently, should think of such a thing; but it was his conscience which suggested this to him, and it was significant that it should never have worried him so insistently as it did over this matter of Elizabeth Blount.

During the masque they danced together.

He was dressed in white brocade of the Turkish fashion and he wore a mask over his face, but his stature always betrayed him, and everyone in the ballroom paid great deference to the unknown Turkish nobleman.

The Queen was seated on a dais with some of her women about her, splendidly clad in cloth of silver with many colored jewels glittering about her person. She was easily tired, although she did not admit this: so many miscarriages were beginning to take their toll of her health. Often after supper she would make an excuse to retire and in her apartments her women would undress her quickly so that she might sink into an exhausted sleep. She was aware that meanwhile Henry capered and danced in the ballroom. It was different for him. He had not suffered as she had from their attempts to get children; she was nearly thirty; he was in his early twenties, and she was beginning to be uncomfortably aware of the difference in their ages.

Now she watched him leaping, cavorting among the dancers. Did he never tire? He must always remind them of his superiority. She imagined the scene at the unmasking; the cries of surprise when it was seen who the Turkish nobleman really was—as if everyone in the ballroom was not aware of this. She herself would have to feign the greatest surprise of all, for he would surely come to her and tell her that it was all in her honor.

How much more acceptable would a little peace be to me, she thought.

Henry wound his way among the dancers because he knew that she was there and he must find her. No mask could hide her from him. She was as delicate as a flower and his heart beat fast to think of her.

He found and drew her towards an embrasure. Here they could feel themselves cut off from the dancers; here Katharine could not see them from her dais.

“Mistress Bessie,” he began.

She started to tremble.

His big hand rested on her shoulder then strayed down her back.

“Your Grace…” she murmured.

“So you have seen through the mask, Bessie.”

“Anyone must know Your Grace.”

“You have penetrating eyes. Can it be because you have such regard for your King that you know him, however he tries to hide himself?”

“All must know Your Grace. There is none like you.”

“Ah…Bessie.”

He seized her hungrily and held her against him for a few seconds.

He put his face close to her ear and she felt his hot breath on her neck. “You know of my feelings for you, Bessie. Tell me, what are yours for me?”

“Oh…Sire!” There was no need for more; that was enough.

His pulse was racing; his desire shone in the intense blue visible through the slits of the mask. He had abandoned all thought of restraint. Only this evening he had been thinking of a good match for her. A good match there should be, but this was for afterwards.

“I have sought to restrain my ardor,” he said, “but it is too strong for me, Bessie.”

She waited for him to go on, her lips slightly parted so that she appeared breathless; and watching her, his desire was an agony which demanded immediate satisfaction.

But they were here in the ballroom, barely hidden from the rest of the company.

Tonight? he thought. But how could he leave the ball? Oh, the restraint set upon a King! All his actions watched and commented upon; too many people were too interested in what he did.

There must be no scandal, for Bessie’s sake as well as his own.

He made a quick decision. For the sake of propriety his desire must wait…for tonight.

“Listen, Bessie,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall hunt, and you must join the hunt. You will stay close beside me and we will give them the slip. You understand?”

“Yes, Sire.”

He let his hand caress her body for a few seconds, but the emotions this aroused startled him, so he gave her a little push and murmured: “Back to the dance, girl.” And she left him to stand there in the embrasure, trying to quell the rising excitement, trying to steel himself to patience.

HE RODE WITH COMPTON and Francis Bryan beside him, the rest falling in behind. He had caught a glimpse of her among the party. She rode well, which was pleasing.

He said to Compton: “We must not forget this day that we have ladies with us. The hunt must not be too fierce.”

“Nay,” answered Compton, “since Your Grace is so considerate of the ladies, so must we all be.”

It was impossible to keep secrets from Compton. He was one of those wise men who seemed to read the King’s secrets before Henry had fully made up his mind to share them. Bryan was such another. His friends had often hinted that the King should live less virtuously. “For,” Compton had said, “if Your Grace sinned a little the rest of us would feel happier about our own sins.”

He could rely on their help and, as they already guessed his feelings towards Bessie and were waiting for the culmination of that little affair, Henry decided that he would use their help.

“When I give the sign,” he said, “I wish you to turn aside from the rest of the party with me…keep about me to cover my retreat.”

Compton nodded.

“And see that Mistress Blount is of our party.”

Compton winked at Bryan knowing Henry could not see the signal. There was scarcely a man in the party who would not understand. But Henry always believed that those about him only saw that which he wished them to see.

“Your Grace,” said Compton, “I know of an arbor in the woods which makes an excellent shelter.”

“He has dallied there himself,” put in Bryan.

“Well, Sire, it is an inviting arbor. It calls out to be of use.”

“I would like to see this arbor and perhaps show it to Mistress Blount.”

“Your humble servants will stand guard at a goodly distance,” said Compton. “Near enough though to prevent any from disturbing Your Grace and the lady.”

Henry nodded. Alas, he thought, that love must be indulged in thus shamefully. If I were but a shepherd, he thought, and she a village maid!

The thought was entrancing. To be a shepherd for an hour’s dalliance one afternoon! And such was his nature—he who was more jealous of his rank and dignity than any man—that when he sighed to be a shepherd he really believed that it was his desire.

He saw her—his village maiden—among the women. Gracefully she sat her horse; and her eyes were expectant. It is a great honor I do her, Henry assured himself. And I’ll make a goodly match for her. It shall be a complaisant husband who will be happy to do this service for his King.

It was easily arranged under the skilful guidance of Compton and Bryan; and even the sun shone its wintry light on the arbor; and the lovers did not feel the chill in the air. They were warmed by the hunt—not only of the deer but for the quenching of their desire.

Henry took her roughly into his arms; kissed her fiercely; then expertly—for he had learned of these matters in Flanders—he took her virginity. She wept a little, in fear and joy. She was overcome with the wonder that this great King should look her way. Her modesty enchanted him; he knew too that he would teach her passion and was amazed by the new tenderness she discovered in his nature.

He wanted to dally in the arbor; but, he said, even a King cannot always do as he wishes.

He kissed his Bessie. He would find means of coming to her apartments that night, he promised. It would not be easy, but it must be done. He would love her forever; he would cherish her. She had nothing to fear, for her destiny was the King’s concern and she would find him her great provider.

“Nothing to fear, my Bessie,” he said running his lips along the lobe of her ear. “I am here…I your King…to love you forevermore.”

DURING THE WEEKS that followed Henry was a blissful boy. There were many meetings in the arbor; and scarcely anyone at Court did not know of the King’s love affair with Elizabeth Blount, except Katharine. Everyone contrived to keep the matter from her, for as Maria de Salinas, now Lady Willoughby, said on her visits to Court, it would only distress the Queen, and what could she do about it?

So Katharine enjoyed the company of a gentler Henry during those weeks; and she told herself that his thoughtfulness towards her meant that he was growing up; he had come back from Flanders no longer the careless boy; he had learned consideration.

He was a gentler lover; and he frequently said: “Why, Kate, you’re looking tired. Rest well tonight. I shall not disturb you.”

He even seemed to have forgotten that desperate need to get a child. She was glad of the rest. The last miscarriage together with all the efforts she had put into the Scottish conflict had exhausted her more than anything that had gone before.

One day the King seemed in a rare quiet mood, and she noticed that his eyes were overbright and his cheeks more flushed than usual.

She was sewing with her ladies when he came to her and sat down heavily beside her. The ladies rose, and curtseyed, but he waved his hand at them, and they stood where they were by their chairs. He did not give them another glance, which was strange because there were some very pretty girls among them, and Katharine remembered how in the past he had been unable to prevent his gaze straying towards some particular specimen of beauty.

“This is a charming picture you’re working,” he said, indicating the tapestry, but Katharine did not believe he saw it.

He said after a slight pause: “Sir Gilbert Taillebois is asking for the hand of one of your girls, Kate. He seems a good fellow, and the Mountjoys, I believe, are eager enough for the match.”

“You must mean Elizabeth Blount,” said Katharine.

“Ah yes…” Henry shifted in his seat. “That’s the girl’s name.”

“Your Grace does not remember her?” said Katharine innocently. “I recall the occasion when Mountjoy brought her to me and you came upon us. She was singing one of your songs.”

“Yes, yes; a pretty voice.”

“She is a charming, modest girl,” said Katharine, “and if it is your will that she should make the match with Taillebois, I am sure we shall all be delighted. She is after all approaching a marriageable age, and I think it pleasant when girls marry young.”

“Then so be it,” said Henry.

Katharine looked at him anxiously. “Your Grace feels well?”

Henry put his hand to his brow. “A strange thing…Kate, when I rose this morning I was a little dizzy. A feeling I never remember before.”

Katharine rose quickly and laid a hand on his forehead. “Henry,” she cried shrilly, “you have a fever.”

He did not protest but continued to sit slumped heavily on his chair.

“Go to the King’s apartments at once,” Katharine commanded the women who were still standing by their chairs. “Tell any of the gentlemen of the King’s bedchamber…any servant you can find, to come here at once. The King must go to his bed and the physicians be called.”

THE NEWS SPREAD through the Palace. “The King is sick of a fever.”

The physicians were about his bedside, and they were grave. It seemed incredible that this healthy, vital young King of theirs could be so sick. None knew the cause of his illness, except that he was undoubtedly suffering from high fever. Some said it was smallpox; others that it was another kind of pox which was prevalent in Europe.

Katharine remained in his bedchamber and was at his side through the day and night; she refused to leave it even when her women told her that she would be ill if she did not do so.

But she would not listen. It must be she who changed the cold compresses which she placed at regular intervals on his burning forehead; it was she who must be there to answer his rambling questions.

It was clear that his mind wandered. He did not seem to be sure whether he was at the court of Lille or in some arbor in a forest—presumably, thought Katharine, some place he had seen when he was on the Continent. Patiently she sat beside his bed and soothed him, superintending his food, making special healthgiving potions, conferring with his physicians and keeping everyone else from the sick room; and in less than a week his magnificent health triumphed over the sickness and Henry was able to sit up and take note of what was going on.

“Why, Kate,” he said, “you’re a good wife to me. It was not such an unhappy day, was it, when I said I’d marry the King of Spain’s daughter, in spite of the fact that they were all urging me not to.”

That was her reward. But as she sat beside his bed smiling she did not know that he was thinking how old and pale she looked, how wan, how plain. That was because he was comparing her with one other, whom he dared not ask to be brought to his sick room, but who was nevertheless continually in his thoughts.

He had come near death, he believed, and he was a little alarmed to contemplate that he might have died at a time when he was actually in the midst of an illicit love affair, committing what the priests would tell him was a cardinal sin.

But was it so? He began to wrestle with his conscience, a pastime which, since the affair with Bessie, he had indulged in with greater frequency.

But, he mused, she was so enamored of me, that little Bessie. She would have broken her little heart if I had not loved her. It was for Bessie’s sake, he assured himself. And I found her a husband.

Taillebois would be a good match for her, and she would have reason to be grateful to her King. As for himself, how far had he wronged his wife? She was ageing fast. There were dark shadows under her eyes; her once firm cheeks and neck were sagging; all the red seemed to have gone out of her hair and it was growing lustreless and mouse-colored. She needed rest; and while he had Bessie abed Katharine could rest, could she not? She was grateful for the respite. Let her recover her health before they tried for more children.

So he had done no harm. How could he when he had made Bessie happy and Katharine happy? It was only himself who must fight this persistent conscience of his. He was the one who suffered.

He said: “My good Kate, you have nursed me well. ’Tis something I shall not forget. Now tell me. Before I went to bed with this sickness I had given my consent to Taillebois’ marriage with that girl of yours. What’s done about it?”

Katharine looked shocked. “There could be no marriage while Your Grace lay so ill.”

“But I’m well again. I’ll not have my subjects speaking of me as though I’m about to be laid in my coffin. Tell them to go on with that marriage. Tell them it is their sovereign’s wish.”

“You must not bother about weddings, Henry. You have to think about yourself.”

He took her hand and fondled it. “I am a King, Kate, and a King’s first thoughts must be for his subjects.”

She kissed him tenderly, and in that moment of happiness she seemed to regain much of her lost youth.

He could not ask for Bessie to he brought to him, so he determined to be out of his sickroom within a day or so. He could, however, receive his old friends; and Bryan, Compton, Brandon and Carew all visited the sickroom and there were soon sounds of laughter coming from it.

Henry had become interested in illness for the first time in his life, and wanted to try his hand at making potions. During his sickness he had been tormented by certain ulcers which appeared on various parts of his body and that one which was on his leg had not healed like the others. This was treated with liniments and pastes, and he took a great interest in the preparation of these; something which, Katharine knew, he would have laughed to scorn a few months previously.

Compton disclosed a similar ulcer of his own and this made an even greater bond between those two. One day Katharine came into the sickroom to find Compton with his bare leg stretched out on the King’s bed while Henry compared his friend’s affliction with his own.

Under the treatment Henry’s ulcer began to heal and he, full of enthusiasm, determined to heal Compton’s. To take his mind from Bessie, he made ointments with Compton, into which he believed that if he added ground pearls he could construct a cure. He was determined to wait until he was strong before he returned to public life, because at the balls, and the masque, and banquets he must be as he had ever been; the King must leap higher in the dance; he must never tire.

So passed those days of recuperation, and during them Henry continued to think longingly of his Bessie who had become Lady Taillebois.

SPRING HAD COME AND, now that the King was well again, he had two great desires: to be with Bessie and to prepare for the war against France.

He had sent Charles Brandon over to Flanders—after bestowing upon him the title of Duke of Suffolk—for two purposes: to continue with his wooing of Margaret of Savoy and to make plans for the arrival of the army in spring or early summer.

Henry was relieved to see Charles out of the way, for the infatuation of young Mary for that man was beginning to alarm him. Mary must be prepared to accept that other Charles, Maximilian’s and Ferdinand’s grandson, and when Henry thought of that pale-faced youth with the prominent eyes and the seemingly sluggish brain, he shuddered for his bright and beautiful sister. But he would have to remind her that royal marriages were a matter of policy. I married my wife because she was the daughter of Spain, he often reminded himself, and he relished the thought because it was another excuse for infidelity. How could Kings be expected to be faithful when they married, not for love, but for state policy? He had already forgotten that it was he himself who had determined to marry Katharine, and that he had done so in spite of opposition.

It was a sad augury—but as yet Katharine continued in ignorance.

The days were full of pleasure and Henry’s kindness and gentleness towards his Queen continued.

Often he and Bessie met, and their favorite meeting place was a hunting lodge which Henry called Jericho. This was in Essex near New Hall Manor which belonged to the Ormonde family. Henry stayed occasionally at New Hall, which pleased him because of its proximity to Jericho. Thomas Boleyn, who was eager for the King’s favor, was the son of one of the Earl of Ormonde’s daughters, and the ambitious Boleyn was always ready to make arrangements for the royal visit and to ensure secrecy for the King’s visits to Jericho with Lady Taillebois.

So the days passed pleasantly and, when Katharine was able to tell Henry that she was once more pregnant, he declared that he was full of joy and there must be a masque to celebrate this happy news.