To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York

The Prince Discovers His Conscience

few days later another important event occurred. This was the departure of the Princess Margaret—now known as the Queen of Scotland. On that lovely June day the calvacade set out from Richmond Palace and beside Margaret rode the King. The people flocked into the streets to cheer the pretty Princess as she took her farewell of her country.

She was indeed charming, dressed in green velvet and seated on a white palfrey, and her entourage was magnificent. It was one of those occasions when Dudley and Empson had persuaded the King that to be parsimonious about the Princess’s equipage would be a false economy. They must remember that it was a political occasion and the Scots must realize that the King of England—miser though he might be called—was very rich indeed.

Margaret reveled in the splendor. If she were a little apprehensive about meeting her future husband she forgot that in the pleasure of the moment. She had a litter covered with gold, trimmed with silk and gold fringe, and embroidered with the arms of England; and the men who carried the litter had been provided with new special livery in green and black. She had a chariot lined with bear skins and the trappings of the horses and the hammer cloths were made of black and crimson velvet. Lords, knights and ladies accompanied her, all splendidly attired.

Prince Henry was accompanying the party as far as Colley Weston where he and his father would say good-bye to Margaret after they had stayed a few days at the home of Margaret, Countess of Richmond, who had left the Court a little beforehand so that she might be in her home to greet them when they arrived.

The Princess Margaret was glad that her brother was present so that he could see all the splendor of her equipment and realize that he was not the only important member of the household.

She was amused, contemplating his envy. But then of course he would remember that there would be far more splendid occasions in store for him; and once he was king—and that would mean that he had escaped from his father’s restraining hands—the money so carefully preserved by their father would doubtless be recklessly spent.

But she found there was little time to gloat over Henry’s envy; at the moment she was at the center of events and she must enjoy every minute.

At Colley Weston in Northamptonshire her grandmother was waiting to receive the party. She embraced her son with that emotion neither of them showed for anyone else. And the Countess then turned to her granddaughter and there was a look of pride in her eyes as they rested on the beautiful girl.

She was congratulating herself that the Tudors were strong now. She wished that the King could cast aside his uncertainty. Nothing could come against them. They had a fine Prince of Wales. It was a pity that they had not another boy just in case, but it seemed ridicculous to imagine that anything could happen to Henry. Well, the King must remarry soon and if he had another son . . .

But this was Margaret’s matter; and very satisfactory it was that she should go into Scotland for the union should assure peace at the Borders.

In due course Margaret said good-bye to her family. The King gave her his blessing and warned her to take every care in the manner in which she conducted herself at her husband’s Court. She must remember always that she was her father’s daughter and that it was her duty to prevent trouble arising to his detriment.

Margaret, a little tearful now at the parting, was longing nevertheless to be free from restraint; she promised that she would remember what her father had said and that he could rely on her to do all that she could for his good.

The journey through England was exhilarating. Everywhere she was greeted with affection and admiration. She smiled and waved and when she could, talked to the people; she reveled in the fine garments which had been provided for her, she lingered as long as possible for she was in no hurry to end this triumphant journey. The people loved her and she loved the people; their admiration made her eyes sparkle and brought bright color to her cheeks making her more beautiful than ever. If her father could have seen her he would have agreed that Dudley and Empson were right. It was money well spent.

So she traveled northward. In the city of York there were special celebrations, which started from the moment when the gates were flung open to welcome her. She began her stay by attending Mass and then receiving the nobility who had gathered there to await her arrival.

There were banquets and as she was noted for her skill in dancing many balls were held in her honor. Life was wonderful and she was able to push aside that faint apprehension, which attacked her from time to time when she thought of crossing the Border into that land which she had heard—and which her brother Henry had said—was dour and populated by barbarians.

And in due course she came to that wild border country and she was told: “My lady, you have now left England. This is the country of which you are Queen.”

She looked around her. She would not have known that she had crossed a border if she had not been told it was so, for the grass and trees and lanes were similar to those of England. But when they arrived at Lammermuir and the local nobility came to greet her, she noticed a difference. They stared more openly; they did not bow with the same grace; their clothes were not quite so fine and though made of good materials they lacked a certain elegance.

It was sad to say good-bye to the English noblemen who had accompanied her and her exuberance began to fade a little, but she was glad to move on from Lammermuir and when she reached Fastcastle and was warmly welcomed by Lord and Lady Home she felt her spirits lift a little. The stay was brief, however, and after one night they were on their way to Haddington.

The King, impatient to see his bride, was traveling to Dalkeith, and Margaret, having heard that she would no doubt meet her husband there, was determined to be prepared. She had changed into her most becoming dress and had asked her attendant Lady Guildford twenty times how she looked. Her heart was beating wildly; the next hour could be the most important of the whole journey. This would decide her future.

She stood in her apartment waiting. From the bustle below she knew that he had arrived. She knew that he was coming nearer. At any moment now.

The door was opened and a man stood on the threshold.

There was color in his cheeks and his eyes shone with excitement. They surveyed each other quickly . . . and then they were smiling.

She saw a handsome man, with dark auburn hair and hazel eyes, well-shaped features, handsome bearing and above all an indefinable charm.

He saw a beautiful young girl and he was very susceptible to female beauty. She was enchanting—pretty, young, fresh and eager to please—all this and the daughter of Henry Tudor.

This was a happy moment for Scotland and its King.

He took her hand and kissed it; while he held it to his lips their eyes met and it was almost a look of understanding which passed between them.

Then he bowed and turned to her attendants, kissing the ladies and speaking to the men.

Conveying a certain relief as though to say: now I have done my duty and I can return to pleasure, he came back to Margaret.

“At last,” he said, “you have come to me. I began to fear that you never would.”

“But we have been betrothed for a long time.”

“It seems an age . . . but now you are here. Do you think that you can love me?”

“Oh yes. I wondered whether you were the handsomest king in the world.”

“Is that what you heard of me?”

“It was.”

He grimaced. “I am glad I did not know it. I should have been most fearful of disappointing you.”

“Oh you do not. They spoke truth.”

“And they told me you were the most beautiful of princesses and they spoke truth also.”

“Oh it has all ended so happily.”

“By sweet St. Ninian, my Queen, it is only beginning.”

He was thinking: she is charming. It will not be difficult. I should count myself lucky.

But he laughed ironically at the thought. For he could not rid himself of memories of that other Margaret. Of all his mistresses Margaret Drummond had been his favorite. But she was dead . . . foully murdered by some person or persons unknown. He would never forget Margaret. He had had countless other mistresses but Margaret had been all that he could have wished in a woman. Had she been his wife he would have been faithful to her . . . he was sure of that though no one else would believe it.

It had been said of him that he would never marry while Margaret Drummond was with him. And one morning she with her two sisters was found dead. They had been poisoned. By whom? No one had ever discovered of if they had discovered had not disclosed.

It might have been some of his ministers who had thought her influence on him was too strong; it might have been some jealous woman. . . .

Who could say? But the fact remained that Margaret was dead and here was another in her place.

He was smiling at her, pressing her hand. She was ready to be loved, he could see that. Very young but ready, very ready.

He was fortunate. He must remember that. For all that latent passion, which he as a connoisseur of women could detect, there was an innocence about her, a romanticism, which perhaps most girls of her age would have before they came into contact with the world.

In time she would discover. Janet Kennedy would see to that and he doubted he would be ready to give up Janet for a pretty young girl, delightful though she might be.

But that was for the future. Perhaps the new Queen of Scotland could be made to accept the inevitable.

All James must concern himself with now was to conduct his bride to Holyrood where in the church of that palace the ceremony of their marriage would take place.

Katharine’s position had changed. As the future Queen of England she could no longer live in obscurity. She would come to Court and as it was no exaggeration to say that the clothes she had brought with her from Spain were decidedly shabby, the King was obliged, though reluctantly, to make her an allowance.

Katharine’s first need was to pay her servants and when that was done—for their wages were very much in arrears—there was not a great deal left for clothes. But still it was an improvement and the fcuture seemed a little more secure. In two or three years she should be truly married to the Prince of Wales and then the King must give her an adequate allowance.

She had written to her mother and what joy it had been to receive a reply in that dear and familiar handwriting. The words were warm and loving. Katharine must never doubt that her mother watched over her and was determined to do everything in her power to promote her well-being. She would see that the best thing that could happen to her since Prince Arthur was dead, was marriage with the new Prince of Wales. And Katharine being her own good and docile daughter would realize that such a marriage would be to Spain’s advantage. Isabella was sorry that Katharine had such difficulty in meeting the needs of her household. “We cannot send you money, dear daughter. We need all we have for the war. It is swallowing up far more than we anticipated. Moreover it is the duty of your future father-in-law to make you an adequate allowance. He is reputed to be extremely rich. He doubtless would like us to support you, but this is a matter of state, dear daughter, and I am sure your father would agree with me that it would be foolish of us—even if we had the means—to take over the commitments of the King of England. Be patient, dear daughter, and know that your mother loves you and will always watch over you.”

Katharine wept when she read that letter. She must not complain. She was the most fortunate of daughters to possess such a mother.

The idea came to her that if she pawned her jewelery it should fetch a great deal. It was part of her dowry and the King had said that she should wear her jewelery and de Puebla had hinted that the King was in due course going to reject it as part of the dowry.

Doña Elvira was horrified at the idea of pawning the jewelery.

“I must pay my servants,” cried Katharine. “And I cannot appear at Court in threadbare gowns.”

“But this is the dowry you will bring to your husband.”

“My late husband’s revenues have not come to me. The King has taken them. I have nothing but the King’s small allowance. I must do something. When I am married to the Prince I shall be able to redeem the jewels.”

Doña Elvira shrugged her shoulders.

It was all very bewildering and it was true that Katharine must find money somewhere.

It will pass, thought Katharine. In two . . . perhaps three years I shall be married. Then all will be well. As my mother says I must be patient.

I will, she thought. I can be because I know that she is there . . . always loving and kind and watching over me.

De Puebla called at Durham House. Looking very somber he asked for an immediate audience with the Princess.

As soon as he came into her presence Katharine was filled with a terrible fear.

“What is wrong?” she cried.

“News from Spain,” he said.

“My mother . . .”

He nodded and was silent.

“News? What news? Tell me quickly.”

“My dear lady, you must prepare yourself for a great shock.”

“Is it my mother . . . my father . . . ?”

Again that nod and silence. It was more than Katharine could endure.

“It is my mother,” she said blankly. “She is ill. . . .”

He looked at her beseechingly. It was odd to see the sly de Puebla so moved.

Then he said clearly and with the greatest compassion in his voice: “Queen Isabella is dead, my lady.”

“Dead!”

She was trying to grasp what this meant and at the same time trying not to, for she could not bear to contemplate a world without her mother.

De Puebla was saying: “She had been ill for some time. The tertian fever it was said . . . and dropsy. Her last thoughts were for you . . . and your sisters.”

“Dear mother,” murmured Katharine. “It cannot be . . . it must not be. . . .”

“One of the last things she did was to have the Bull of Dispensation brought to her. She wanted to see it for herself. She wanted to assure herself that your betrothal to the Prince of Wales would go forward and none could dispute it.”

Katharine covered her face with her hands.

“I will send for your ladies,” said de Puebla. “My lady, it grieves me to have to bring you such news.”

“I know,” said Katharine. “Leave me . . . please. I would be alone.”

Alone! she thought. That is what I am now. She is gone. Alone . . . yes, alone in a hostile world.

Katharine was not the only one to be deeply affected by the death of Isabella. The King immediately realized what a difference this could make to his own position.

Without delay he sent for Empson and Dudley, those two who because of their wizardry with figures were more in his confidence than any others.

“I had thought, naturally,” he said to them when the three of them were alone, “that Ferdinand’s power would have been increased by the death of his wife.”

“Isabella was a shrewd woman. She loved Ferdinand as a husband—strange that such a woman could have such a feeling for her family—but as a ruler she was fully aware of his deficiencies.”

Henry nodded. “And now Ferdinand has lost a great deal of that power, which was his when his wife was alive.”

“For all her devotion to her family, she was always the one who held the power. She never forgot her position and was determined that it should not be passed on to Ferdinand.”

“Well, let us look at the facts,” said Henry. “She is dead and she has appointed her daughter Juana Queen Proprietor, and Castile is settled on her and Philip her husband.”

“One can be sure that the Archduke will take every advantage of the position.”

“She does say until the majority of her grandson Charles.”

“That is some time yet. He cannot be more than four years old.”

“The Lady Katharine is not such a good match as we had first thought,” mused the King.

“No, her position has changed considerably. It is a pity that she is betrothed to the Prince.”

Henry was thoughtful. “Oh,” he said, “there are loopholes. I saw to that. I have a feeling that that marriage may not take place. I agreed to the ceremony, yes . . . because the Sovereigns were getting restive and there was the dowry to be considered, but it must necessarily be some time before a marriage could take place and a great deal can happen in that time. See how the position has changed now with the death of Isabella.”

“My lord, what is to be done?”

“I have no doubt,” said the King, “that we shall put our heads together and discover how best to settle that matter. In the meantime I have decided that the Prince of Wales shall not go to Ludlow.”

His ministers looked at him in surprise. It was customary for the Princes of Wales to reside at Ludlow. The people of Wales expected it.

“I have decided,” went on the King, “that there is much that the Prince of Wales must learn and he will do that best at my side. I want him to learn the art of kingship. I think he will learn well enough . . . in the right environment.”

The ministers nodded.

“And the commitment to the Lady Katharine?”

“Of that more later.”

The King sent for his son. Young Henry was not very pleased with his father. He had greatly looked forward to setting up his own household at Ludlow and he had been curtly informed that he was not to go there; his father believed that he could be more profitably engaged at his side. This was all very well, but at Ludlow Henry could have played at being king; at his father’s side he was always of secondary importance and the King had a way of treating him as though he were still a boy—and was not always careful of his manner toward his son in the presence of others.

It seemed that the older he grew the more he chafed against the restraints of youth. He was nearly fourteen and two years had passed since his formal betrothal to Katharine of Aragon. He had been very interested in her naturally as she was his future wife, but he was not sure whether he was pleased about that or not. Sometimes he was, and sometimes he was not. He liked women very much. He talked about them incessantly with Charles Brandon and Lord Mountjoy. He had joined them in certain adventures—most illuminating and gratifying. There were many beautiful ladies at the Court and he liked to write verses about them and sometimes set them to music and strum them on his lute. All those about him declared he had a wonderful talent and he liked to think he had.

Well, he would be married very soon now—a year or two. Perhaps when he was fifteen. That would be an experience. He was not sure whether he wanted to marry Katharine or not. At times he did very much, when he thought of her poor and rather lonely, perhaps longing for the day when he would release her from her poverty and loneliness. He liked to think of coming to her rescue—true knight that he was—and in spite of the temptations of so many beautiful women—who were all eager to be honored by the Prince of Wales, he would marry her. “I gave you my promise,” he said in his fantasies about himself, “and I will remain steadfast to you.”

Therefore when he heard what proposition the King had to lay before him, he was astonished and completely taken off his guard.

“My son,” said the King, “you are aware of the change in Spanish affairs.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered the Prince.

“Ferdinand does not hold the same power since Queen Isabella died. When your brother married Katharine it was indeed the best of matches. Times change.”

The Prince listened intently. He knew that his father had behaved in a very parsimonious manner toward Katharine; he knew that she was always short of money. That was part of another of his fantasies. He had imagined himself showering riches on her at which she cried: “You are the most wonderful of beings. I am the luckiest Princess in the world and quite unworthy of your greatness.” He was rather glad therefore that she was in this position. It made his gesture all the more wonderful.

“It is fortunate,” went on the King, “that it was not in fact a true ceremony that was held in the Bishop’s house.”

“But . . . it was like a marriage ceremony. We signed our names.. . .”

“Henry, you must be able to adjust your thoughts. That is what being a good king means. If a marriage such as this one could bring no good to our country . . . and might bring harm . . . then the best thing possible is to repudiate it.”

“But how can we repudiate that which has in fact taken place, when there is evidence to prove it?”

“You have to disregard such sentiments if you are to keep the country prosperous and the crown on your head. This Spanish marriage is no longer necessary nor desirable to us.”

“But if it has already taken place.”

“It has not taken place. You are not married to the Lady Katharine and we are going to have another ceremony in which you repudiate that previous one.”

“My lord, it seems to me that in all honor . . .”

“What it seems to you, my son, is not important. She will understand for I believe her to be a sensible girl. Moreover she will know nothing of it . . . yet.”

“To repudiate a promise, my lord, and particularly one given so solemnly seems to me not to be in keeping with knightly honor.”

“Henry, you are obtuse. No more of this, you will obey my orders.”

“My lord . . .”

“Silence. Don’t show your childishness.”

Henry disliked his father at that moment, for he knew that he would have to obey. He would have to do as they wanted. It was a reminder of his youth.

“We will settle this matter without delay,” said the King.

“You mean there will not be a ceremony like that other . . .”

“Of course there will not be. This is a secret matter. The Bishop of Winchester awaits us below.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Henry sullenly.

“You will not have to learn your words. They will be handed to you. You will read them and then they will be signed in the presence of the Bishop.”

“I like it not . . .”

“It is not for you to like or dislike. You must make it clear now that you do not consider the contract with Katharine of Aragon valid and you will make a statement to this effect.”

Henry, his mouth tight and sullen, his little blue eyes veiled, followed his father down from the apartments to a room below the kitchens. There was no window in this room and Henry realized at once that the King was determined they should not be seen.

There were present Richard Bishop of Winchester, Giles Daubeney, Charles Somerset, Earl of Worcester, and the King’s secretary.

They were all men, the Prince noticed, who had served his father well and before he came to the throne. Therefore he would be sure of their loyalty.

“Are we ready?” said the King.

It was agreed that they were.

Henry was told to stand before the company and a paper was thrust into his hand.

“Read,” commanded the King.

Henry started: “before you reverend lord and father in Christ, Richard Lord Bishop of Winchester, I Henry, Prince of Wales . . . declare that while of tender years and being to all knowledge below the age of manhood contracted a de facto marriage with her most Serene Highness Katharine daughter of the King of Spain and although that contract, because of my minority, is in itself already invalid, imperfect and of no force or effect nevertheless . . . I being on the verge of manhood declare that I do not intend in any way to approve validate or ratify that pretended contract . . . Now in this present document induced by no force, trickery or prayer but willingly and freely and in no way compelled, I denounce the contract and dissent therefrom. . . .”

He went on reading and his heart was saying: but I was forced. I was told I must do this. It is not my fault that I am breaking vows . . .

He had come to the end. The paper lay on a table and under the King’s scrutiny they all signed after Henry had done so.

They came out into the sunshine. Young Henry was resentful. He did not feel that he had acted as a chivalrous knight.

Henry had lost a certain pleasure in himself. The perfect knight had broken his vows; he had acted in a way which the laws of chivalry would have condemned as debasing; and he had acted so because he had been afraid to do otherwise. He could not forget Katharine in her well-worn gowns looking to him, he fancied, with an appeal in her eyes. She had looked to him as her savior and he had repudiated her.

It was not the role in which he saw himself. Usually he could lead his mind away from thoughts of disloyalty to himself. But there was the evidence in very fact; he had signed his name to that paper indicating that he did not consider himself bound to Katharine.

It was policy. His father had insisted and he had to obey his father who was more than an ordinary father; he was the King. A true knight obeyed his king without question. No, not when the case was a dishonorable one. Then a good and true knight rebelled. He served God first, the King second. Whichever way Henry looked at it he came up against his conscience.

It was the first time in his life that he realized what a strong force that was with him. He wanted to be above all other men and recognized to be so. He had little patience with the saints. He wanted to be a man. He must be the superior every time—in stature, in looks, in skill both mental and physical. He must excel at the joust; he was always to be the victor; he must win every battle against his adversaries. He must possess the best qualities of all his most illustrious ancestors. He must tower above them all in every way.

He wanted people to admire him. To look up to him. To say: There is a king victorious always, never failing in war . . . in peace . . . in honor.

There was the rub. He had gone through what was tantamount to a marriage ceremony with Katharine; and now he had denied it; and he knew why. It was because her mother was dead and the Kingdom of Castile had not passed to Katharine’s father Ferdinand (which would have meant Katharine remained an important factor in policy making), but had gone to Isabella’s sister who had an ambitious husband. Therefore Katharine was no longer to be considered so the King had forced his son most cynically to repudiate her.

And I did it, thought Henry.

Katharine was never far from his thoughts. He was ashamed of his action and as it was against his policy ever to be in the wrong he began to look for excuses for his conduct. It was no use telling himself that his father had forced him to do it, because it destroyed his image of himself if he allowed himself to be forced. That was why the matter was so disturbing. There had to be a reason why he had done what he had and it had to be a good one. His conscience demanded that.

It came in due course.

It was Charles Brandon who found it for him—not that Charles knew it. Charles was a gossip and took great delight in gathering the secrets of those about him. He had always been particularly interested in Katharine not only because she was affianced to Henry and was destined to become the future Queen, but because she belonged to one of the most important Houses in Europe.

Now he talked a great deal about the death of Isabella and the difference this would make in Spain.

“They say the Princess Katharine is desolate. She and her mother were on the best of terms.”

Henry frowned; he remembered that Katharine had asked her mother to send for her, to take her back to Spain which meant of course that she preferred that to marrying him.

That had been unflattering; but it was not enough excuse for breaking his sworn promise to her. His conscience would not accept that—although he had tried hard to make it do so.

“And the Kingdom of Castile goes to Katharine’s sister . . . mad Juana, they call her.”

“Is she truly mad?”

“Mad indeed. There is madness in the family.”

Hope shone in Henry’s eyes, but this was dispelled immediately by Brandon’s light remark: “Well, is there not madness somewhere in most families?”

“It is a wonder,” said Henry, “that they allowed her to marry.”

“Who would not marry a mad woman for the sake of a crown?”

Henry shivered.

“Philip has her under control. They say he is extremely handsome.”

“Is he, do you think?”

“Oh yes. Undoubtedly so. Juana is possessively in love. She cannot bear him out of her sight.”

“She is a warm-hearted lady.”

“My dear Prince, she burns with passion,” Charles laughed. “I should like to meet her. Do you know the latest story about her? I have it on good authority and can swear to the truth of it. Philip indulges himself, you know. He is not the man to content himself with one woman . . . even if she had been a paragon of the virtues . . . which Juana is not.”

“She loves him passionately, you say?”

“Passionate possessive love becomes cloying . . . as no doubt you will learn one day, my Prince. There is no doubt that you are going to be the target of much tender passion.”

Henry glowed with pleasure at the prospect.

“But steer clear of women like Juana.”

“What is this story you have heard?”

“Oh it is about Philip’s mistress. She was very very beautiful with the longest most luxuriant golden hair ever seen in the land. Philip doted on her and Juana was furiously jealous. Well, Philip had to leave Court for a while. Juana then . . . remember she is the Queen in her own right and I’ll swear she has inherited something of her mother’s authoritative ways . . . well, she summoned the woman to her palace.”

“And the woman went?”

“It was impossible for her to do otherwise. How could she disobey the royal command?”

“And then?”

“Juana had her bound hand and foot, called in the barbers and had them cut off that beautiful golden hair. In fact they shaved her head. . . .”

Henry was aghast. “She did that. And Philip . . . what of Philip?”

“When he came back he was horrified. I think it was the end of that mistress. Hair takes a long time to grow and he is not a man to stand still, they say. But it did not endear his wife to him . . . and everyone who knows her says she is quite insane. . . .”

“And this is Katharine’s sister. . . .”

“Katharine is quite different. Juana is the only one to inherit the madness. There is nothing of the wild woman about Katharine. I hear she is very devout and spends a great deal of time on her knees. I even hear that she expressed a desire to give herself up to a life of prayer.”

“What when she marries?”

Brandon laughed aloud. “Alas, her poor husband! But I’ll swear if he is the man I believe him to be he will see that she gives up quite a bit of time to other activities.”

Henry laughed with Brandon but he was thinking: a life of prayer! How could a woman do her duty to her husband and the state by living like a nun? It would be a good excuse for not marrying at all.

His conscience liked the idea. He brooded on it. What Katharine had said—or what he had heard she had said—meant that the life she would prefer was that of a nun.

He had no intention of telling anyone what he was thinking. He did not want an avowal from Katharine that the stories circulated about her were untrue and that she was ready to be all that was expected of a wife when the time came.

Henry wanted to put it on paper that he had had a good reason for doing what he did. He wanted to be able to proclaim to the world that the marriage with Katharine of Aragon would not be good for the state. He had not repudiated her for any personal reasons and certainly not because he was afraid to stand up to his father for what was right.

Then the idea came to him. He would write to the Pope. He would tell no one. But his letter would be there on record if ever he was called on to answer for his action.

He made several drafts of the letter and finally produced one which he could send. In it he told Pope Julius that Katharine had made a vow dedicating herself to an austere life. She would fast, and give up her time to prayers and pilgrimages. He asked the Pope to forbid her to do this as such practices would injure her health and possibly affect her ability to bear children. He was deeply concerned about this as it would in time be his duty to get heirs for England; and if Katharine would not give up this way of life marriage would be impossible.

He waited in trepidation for the reply; but he was at peace with his conscience. He had had a very good reason for signing that document, which while it did not actually annul the ceremony through which he and Katharine had gone, it did give him a loophole to escape if necessary.

The Pope treated his letter with the utmost seriousness and replied that any vows Katharine had made which might affect the health of her body could be revoked by her husband.

The husband was master of the wife and the procreation of children was the very special blessing of matrimony and Henry had the Church’s full permission to restrain his wife and to prevent her from carrying out any vows she might have made which would endanger her ability to perform those functions, which were the duty of a wife.

Henry was delighted. Now if he should not wish—or not be allowed—to marry Katharine he had a very good excuse for not doing so. He could produce a copy of the letter he had sent to the Pope’s reply. He could say Katharine’s way of life had made marriage with her unsuitable and it was for this reason that he had signed the repudiation—not because his father had forced him to.

He became happy again.

But he had discovered his conscience and he knew that forever more it would be necessary to placate it.

The King was still looking for a wife and his eyes had turned to France. The Comte d’Angoulême had died leaving a widow with two children, Francçois and Marguerite. It seemed that the son Francçois had a chance of reaching the throne of France for he was the nephew of Louis the Twelfth. The widowed Comtesse was considered to be very beautiful and gifted and her daughter Marguerite, who was about a year younger than Henry, had a reputation for a beauty and intelligence, which equaled that of her mother.

So the King’s eyes had turned to this family.

Why not the mother for him and the daughter for Henry?

Young Henry was told by his father that emissaries had been sent to Angoulême to discover the state of affairs there. The King thought the match would be an ideal one for it did appear that the Spanish connection was becoming weaker every month.

The Prince was very interested in Marguerite and wanted to hear all that he could about her. He had decided that Katharine had ruined her health by her refusal to lead the life of an ordinary Court lady. He shut his eyes to the fact that she was too short of money to do so, and he refused to listen to those who hinted that something should be done about this. It was for her family to help her, he reasoned. The dowry . . . well that had not been paid and he had heard that a great part of the first instalment had been in jewelery which she had pawned.

He pretended to be rather shocked by that. For did the jewelery indeed belong to Katharine?

He was building up quite a little bank of excuses why he should not marry her.

And here was Marguerite—younger than he was, which was better than being five years older. She was very beautiful. He liked that. She was very clever. He liked that less. He did not want a wife who thought herself as clever as he was. Still Marguerite sounded most exciting.

He questioned one of the men who had gone to the Court of Angoulême because he wanted to hear a firsthand account of someone who had actually seen her.

“I would like you to tell me the absolute truth,” he said. “Hold nothing back. I shall take it ill if I find that you have given me too glowing a picture that was not true.”

“I would not dream of doing so, my lord,” was the answer. “But I can tell you that Marguerite of Angoulême is one of the most beautiful ladies I have ever seen. She is brilliantly clever. She writes poetry and enjoys the company of poets. She is the constant companion of her brother, the young Duc d’Angoulême.”

“And what of him?”

“He is handsome, gracious, sparkling, my lord.”

Henry frowned; he did not like other people to be too brilliant.

“They are indeed a most beautiful trio.”

“Trio?”

“The mother, the brother, and the sister. They are always together but the object of their adoration is Duc François.”

“He is younger than I.”

“Yes, my lord, by a few years. He loves his sister dearly and she loves him. She is probably the more cultivated of the two—very learned in Greek, Latin and Philosophy. It is clear that the Duchess hopes her son will be the King of France she calls him her king, her lord and her Caesar.”

Henry was envious. He would have enjoyed being so adored. He thought of his sister—another Margaret—who had pretended to be contemptuous of him. And there was certainly no adoration from his father; as for his mother, she had been kind and tender, but he could not imagine her calling him Caesar.

He began to feel mildly irritated with these perfect beings.

“And Marguerite, what does she call this wonder brother of hers?”

“Caesar indeed. All their hopes and dreams and love are centered on that boy. I wonder he has not more conceit of himself than he has . . . but that is great enough. His mother talks of nothing else but the wonders of this boy . . . nor does the sister. It seems that a short while ago he let loose a wild boar in the courtyard at Amboise, which set the palace guards to flight but François himself chased the boar up the apartments, killed it with his sword and sent it rolling down the great staircase to the courtyard. They speak of all he does as though they were the greatest deeds worthy of the Court of King Arthur. I tell you, my lord, what the mother and sister feel for François of Angoulême is sheer idolatry. They think there is no one in the world like him . . . nor ever will be.”

“I daresay Madame Marguerite is of the opinion that no man can match her brother.”

“That is so, my lord. It is the law at Angoulême.”

Indeed, was it! The more he heard of this Marguerite the less inclined he felt to take her.

He was rather glad when no more was heard of the possibility. It might be that wily old Louis the Twelfth had put a stop to it.

But it made Henry thoughtful. Katharine, meek, turning to prayer because she felt frustrated and may possibly have heard of that rather shameful repudiation of her, seemed rather attractive.

How grateful she would be if in spite of everything he married her. How different from flamboyant Marguerite. He imagined her coming to the Court. All the time she would be comparing him to this brother of hers. Caesar indeed! Oh yes, there was much to be said for meek and grateful women.

He began to think of Katharine somewhat romantically. He visualized himself going to her and saying: “They were against our marriage. When I was young they forced me to sign a paper. I did so, but I had no intention of breaking my promises. And here I am, Katharine, ready to rescue you and make you my ever-loving queen.”

She would never forget what he had done. She would realize that he was a very perfect knight whose honor prevailed through all vicissitudes.

She would be grateful to him for the rest of their lives.

His conscience was so happy that it was lying dormant.

I shall marry Katharine, he told himself, no matter what the opposition.

And he looked ahead into a misty future. It might well be that when the time came there would be no one to go against his wishes.

The future looked glorious and rosy. He would dream of Katharine and the chivalrous rescue.